Let me get the whining and complaining out of the way.

The last couple of days of last week, I noticed I was feeling wired. And Friday evening I discovered why. I went to the bathroom to urinate and thought I was going to die. Immediately I knew it was a prostate infection. Fortunately, I did not panic. Well, at least not too much. And I knew I has some urogesic pills from the last time I had problems.

(If you're just dying to know what causes these problems, look for my entry of 09/02/01 at journal - 2001-0902 - sun 2030. Be warned that it contains explicit medical info that not all will want to read.)

With a combination of various pills, I made it through the night, and scampered off to the clinic Saturday morning. There was only one other person in the waiting room, so I thought things would move along quickly. The lady had a terrible cough that sent shutters through me just to hear it. Then very quickly about a dozen people appeared within minutes of each other. And several were obviously very ill. I held my breath and tried to squeeze myself as close to the wall as possible. Alas that I did not have a can of Lysol to spray around me.

Finally, I was called back. The semi-sullen nurse took down the particulars and said they would need a urine sample. We walked down the hall, and she pointed to a restroom. I provided the necessary fluid and slipped back to the examining room. After about ten minute, a different nurse stuck her head in the door, and said, "Is that your cup of green urine in the bathroom?"

Obviously I should have asked about labeling the cup. Opppps! Of course, the semi-sullen nurse should have given me better directions.

The doc appeared, at last, told me my urine sample was horrible. Then left to look for drug samples. And finally I got to leave. I paid the fee, held my breath and darted through the coughs and wheezes in the waiting room.

So I've spend the bank holiday feeling wretched. One of the very nasty side effects of the infection is nausea. Which I could definitely do without. Enough! Enough! Enough!

I started re-reading Lawrence Sander's "The Tenth Commandment." One of my favorite novels. I also plucked his "The Sixth Commandment" off my shelf. Also one of my favorites. There are so many delicious moments in both that I always get a kick out of them.

There are these wondeful askew characters. And the heroes are a tad off but highly competent. And the sense of place can't be beat.

I talked briefly with my mother this evening. For several years, her neighbors have baby-sat two small boys who have become her friends. She found out yesterday evening that the older had been killed; he would have been ten this week. He was out on his parent's property on his four-wheeler. My initial thought was that he was tossed from his four-wheeler. But mother said she was told that the boy and the four-wheeler were found at different locations. But she was unable to tell me if he was the victim of a shooting.

As I sat here, I was thinking about how oddly easy it was to type these words. It seems as though it should have been much harder. The boy is living. The boy is dead. Is that how it's said?

PAX!