“I hate Sunday evenings.”
“Why?”
“It’s the beginning of another cycle…”
“What do you mean?”
“Well…every Sunday evening, I’m reminded that this is the last week of my life.”
“What!?”
“Well, look at me…on Monday morning, I go to work…I work the whole week, doing nothing of particular importance, waiting for the weekend. On the weekend, I mow the lawn, clean the house, and on Sunday, I watch football on television and dread the coming day…it’s all the same…it might as well be the same week, repeated over and over. And so it’ll go, until I have a heart attack and die. This is, for all intents and purposes, the last week of my life.”
“Damn, you’re pessimistic…what if you live to retirement age?”
“Well, then I’ve got two weeks left: the first working, then dreading the coming work week; the second sitting in a chair watching television, reading, and waiting for death. I’ve got at most, two weeks to live.”
“How depressing…”
“Yes, but if you think about it, now your brain tumor doesn’t seem so unfair, does it? I mean think about it: you’ve got six months to live! You can do anything. Go skydiving, quit your job, spend all your money…the healthy people are the unlucky ones.” And with that, the oncologist left the examination room.
