The art of letter writing is dead, and it makes me sad. Whenever I read history or biography, I think of the loss to mankind and to history of all of the letters we never exchange — emails aren’t the same. And even still, it is likely that only Hillary Clinton’s emails will be kept.
Greeting cards are few and far between too. I used to love to spend time searching stores for just the right one with just the right message. Today, though, good ones are hard to find, and it just never seems that I can get to one of the three stores left in the continental U.S. that sells good ones when I need one.
Thank you cards too. I once read that the key to George H.W. Bush’s success was that he always sent thank you notes. But nobody ever sends those any more.
Or so I thought. But today I go this in the mail:
A thank you card from the hospital where I let them shove tools up my butt. Inside it thanks me for letting me have them abuse my body. (Or something like that.) Not something you hear of every day.
You see, on Wednesday, I had my annual tuneup, a sigmoidoscopy, performed in the hospital so that Dr. C can check out the plumbing. They aren’t really so bad, and they give me good drugs so I’m asleep and wake up refreshed. I usually feel quite good afterwards in fact.
This time I felt even better, though. Because my doctor told me that she thinks I’m in remission! That means no active disease! Whoo-hoo. Even without a poop transplant or drinking worm larvae. Cool.