Tuesday. Up at six with the alarm, to breakfast and the papers and back now at eight. The apartment manager knocked on the door this morning asking if I'd put the rent check into the basement slot on the 1st as I always do and I realized that I hadn't, that I'd totally forgotten about paying the rent. I'd moved money from one account to another in anticipation of paying, but then just didn't connect when the first of the month arrived. A fairly pure distillation of old guy forgetfulness, I'd think.

I really am getting along in years. Either that, or things such as paying your mortgage or rent for some reason have stopped causing any feelings of dread. That would be a good sign if I were sitting on a pile of money that will last forever in this aging business. But I don't. No one does, even those who do as, I suspect, this particular dread is coded into the genes. Billionaires worry too, poor dears.

So we head out for Stanford hospital in an hour to see what's what. My assumption is that whatever cause for alarm is generated by these kinds of things largely take place at the subconscious level. As a male you're supposed to grin and bear it, you hear that from day one, but there isn't anything much going on inside at the moment. Never somehow does when these things have come up in the past. Real bullets and bombs will get you going, I'd think - real time existential threats - but things like these are probably handled when you're asleep and come out in other less identifiable ways: sleeplessness (so for no more than the norm), rashes (no rashes yet), flubbing photographic events (endemic). But I prattle on again.

Later. Arrived at ten-thirty to find I needed to wait four hours rather than two hours between getting the injection and taking the test, the test itself lasting another forty-five minutes. OK. Four hours walking around the Stanford hospital campus. At least I'd brought a camera. Oh, and drink plenty of water, they said. The more, the better, as it makes the images better.

Finally on the table for the forty-five minutes advertised. OK. Wait for a moment while the doctors check out the images said the tech. OK. He came back saying they're running another three hundred sixty degree head scan so please wait in this small room until the scanner becomes available. OK.

Another forty-five minute scan, finally getting out and onto the road home well after five to sit in traffic. Well, maybe half the time to sit in commuter traffic. Whatever. Home just before seven. The doctor who took my information before getting the I.V. infusion mentioned the PSA tests I'd had every year really didn't react to cancer that spreads, so it was certainly possible it was there. Oh. OK. That second head scan. I wonder what that meant? He'd asked me if I'd had any dental work done in the last month before they decided on that second scan. What did that mean? In the scheme of things?

Nothing worth worrying about until Friday when I meet with the neurologist to get the news. I'd gotten a call earlier from Mr. S while wandering around the Stanford campus saying they wanted to move our get together in Rockridge at six to Thursday, as Mr. E had a dental thing come up he needed to work out this afternoon, so that's been taken care of. I'm home now convincing myself to get in my guitar practice. That and maybe sushi down the hill or something else in the way of comfort food.