My neighbor died

Nobody liked her. She was harsh and demanding and was estranged from her children. I heard from another neighbor that she never saw one of her grandchildren, even though they didn't live far away. 
I never had a problem with her but unlike the couple across the street—whom she had doing so much for her in her last years it became practically a part-time job for them, complete with a nasty boss, incomplete with no pay—she never demanded anything of me, perhaps because I have enough of my own health issues going on.
She came to visit a year and a half ago, after I broke my shoulder. She gave me expensive food, some of it I didn't even know what it was. One thing I haven't even opened because of that (see photo).

Some kind of pâté, I think.

A doctor at a good hospital, she was originally from India. I traveled there for a couple of months in 1990, and from what I saw then, I can imagine how hard she must have had to work to get her degree and succeed in America, how uncompromising she had to be. And being a dark-skinned, short woman in the Sixties and Seventies, when her practice got going, would have been like trench warfare without the trench. 
Not everything about someone's past can serve to exonerate them from things they do in the present, but in her case, I cut her some slack. I'm sorry she didn't patch things up with her kids. I hope she felt good about what she did with her life. Her Christian faith was very strong, and I hope it gave her much comfort toward the end.

Mine eyes

Yesterday, I had an appointment with a doctor who I'm hoping will be able to zap the cancer out of my prostate gland. I've had a degree of cancer there for awhile now but I've been putting the sarcoma and the broken shoulder ahead of it.
Often these days, when seeing doctors you meet with a resident first. The resident takes some information and tells you things the doctor will tell you before going out and telling the doctor what you just told the resident. There's some redundancy there, of course, but that's probably for the best.

The resident was a woman. That's a surprise; not many women go into treating men for prostate issues. After I told her about my various problems and poor odds of survival she asked my if I was coping with it all. I shrugged and said yes. She looked genuinely concerned and a little doubtful of my answer. I didn't think anything of this until I got home and looked in the mirror.
The psoriasis around my eyes has flared up lately. I've been putting the prescription medicine I got last year on it when it first emerged as a problem for a few days but it hasn't calmed the condition much yet. Red and baggy. I looked like I'd been crying all day, and I'm guessing that's what the resident thought. That was sweet of her.

I'll be an amputee in 24 days

Is that word, "amputee," all right? Or is it like "lame" or "cripple"? I have no idea. Maybe I should be saying "one who has lost a limb" instead, but I'm one of those who tries to use fewer words rather than more. Oh well. When it's about you, you can say what you want. A few years ago I volunteered for an organization for the blind and all the blind people I knew there called themselves blind.
The wait at the cancer center yesterday was a long one, over two hours, and I'm a smart phone hold out, so I didn't have a screen to stare at like nearly everyone else does these days. So I sat up straight, closed my eyes and meditated for a bit.
Even though I knew the final test results would be bad, only confirming with lab results what the doctors and I already knew, there's always that little ray of hope you have that they'll come into the examining room with embarrassed smiles, smacking their foreheads and saying they goofed, that everything's fine, now get the heck out of here and back to your life!

A jetliner heads west on an East Coast winter evening.

That, of course, did not happen. My right leg will be amputated on February 26. My doctor said he could do it the nineteenth, but I demurred. The more time I have to mentally prepare, the better.
Here's the oddest thing about yesterday. I was certain that morning that when I got home after getting the news firmed up I'd pour myself a stiff drink. But I didn't. In fact, I didn't even have the seven-ounce beer with dinner I usually do. I also didn't take the anti-anxiety medication I've been taking for a few weeks, and I slept fairly well. 
I can speculate why this is true—knowing and accepting reduces stress, and all that—but really, I don't know why I feel this way. Your guess is as good as mine.

A Complete and Total Loser Rule - 3

Minimize perfume, jewelry and other adornment. Try to be visually and olfactorily neutral. Let your words and actions be what counts.