This is my plays last scene, here heaven
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In a surreal moment in the play, Vivian Bearing, an accomplished professor of
This is my plays last scene, here heavens appoint
My pilgrimages last mile; and my race
Idly, yet quickly runne, hath this last pace,
My spans last inch, my minutes last point,
And gluttonous death will instantly unjoynt
My body, 'and soul
John Donne. 1609. I have always particularly liked that poem. In the abstract. Now I find the image of "my minute's last point" a little too, shall we say, pointed.
I don't mean to complain, but I am becoming very sick. Very, very sick. Ultimately sick, as it were.
In everything I have done, I have been steadfast, resolute- some would say in the extreme. Now, as you can see, I am distinguishing myself in illness.
I have survived eight treatments of Hexamethophosphacil and Vinplatin at the full dose, ladies and gentlemen. I have broken the record. I have become something of a celebrity. Kelekian and Jason are simply delighted. I think they forsee celebrity status for themselves upon the appearance of the journal article they will no doubt write about me.
But I flatter myself. The article will not be about me, it will be about my ovaries. It will be about my ovaries. It will be about my peritoneal cavity, which, despite their best intentions, is now crawling with cancer.
What we have come to think of as me is, in fact, just the specimen jar, just the dust jacket, just the white piece of paper that bears the little black marks.
My next line is supposed to be something like this:
"It is such a relief to get back to my room after those infernal tests." This is hardly true. It would be a relief to be a cheerleader on her way to Daytona Beach for Spring Break.
To get back to my room after those infernal test is just the next thing that happens.