[For context, see Letters to Old Bob #1, #2, #3, and #4]
April 4, 2020
Elderly Robert,
It’s been too long. Years, I know. I guess I just sort of forgot about you, which is too bad and a sign of the times, when old people are put out to pasture, or worse yet, sacrificed during global pandemics so that the rest of us can keep getting paid. I’m sure you recall the COVID-19, coronavirus thing back in 2020. I hope you recall it, anyway, and didn’t succumb to it, since you, you know, were diagnosed with leukemia and all that, just a couple of months before shit went to shit. Okay, I just put a lot on the table there, Bobbo. You see, this whole concept of “Old Bob” took a big hit when the doc told me, “You’ve got cancer.” Now I’m not confident there will be an Old Bob, and let me tell you, that uncertainty has thrown me for a loop. The future was always uncertain, of course, but now the odds have shifted significantly out of my favor.
“Chronic Lymphocytic Leukemia,” as you well know, is extremely “heterogeneous,” meaning it could take a horrific turn at any time, or not do much of anything for years, even decades. Throw in COVID-19 – a highly contagious novel virus that could wreak havoc on my compromised immune system – and I’m starting to feel like one of those little marbles bouncing around the edge of a roulette wheel. Who the fuck knows what hole I might slip in to, and how many chips might be on the table. So there you have it, venerable Bob. It’s difficult to keep you in focus right now, because “old” Bob might mean 49-year-old Bob, as in Me Bob, Now Bob. Could it be that, in the grand scheme of things, I AM Old Bob, I AM End-of-the-road Bob? In which case, I’m writing this not to my future self, but to my present self?
I’m not 100% sure, but I think today marks the 7th anniversary of my father’s death. He was 68. He too was diagnosed – a few years before he died – with CLL, but at the time he was already dying of congestive heart failure, and it is unclear whether or not his CLL contributed to his demise. You know this Old Bob, Now Bob, so I don’t need to explain the details. It is exceeding rare to have two members of the same family have this disease, very rare to get it in one’s 40s, and pretty damned rare to get it at all. We’re rare birds, Old Bob. You, me, and Dear Old Dad. And these are rare, strange times, as the entire species huddles in their homes hoping not be one of the unlucky bounces of the COVID-19 roulette wheel. We just might meet, you and I, a lot sooner than I expected. If so, let me just say, it’s been an interesting conversation, my friend.
