THE SUFFERINGS OF SAINT HOLIDAY - PART 13 - OR THE POET GROWS OLD

Saint Holiday takes a short break from painting the bathroom for the Lovely One and comes to her as she watches a Netflix video in the office.

St. Holiday: Did anyone call for me?
The Lovely One: No.
St. H: Not even my kids?
TLO: No one.
St. H: How about your kids; did they call?
TLO: No one called for you.
St. H: Did someone call for you?
TLO: Why?
St. H: Well, I'd like to know if they asked about my condition.
TLO: What, your laziness?
St. H: No! What the radiologist discovered. You know, my symptoms.
TLO: No one called.
St. H: I thought you mentioned the radiologist's report on Facebook.
TLO: I did.
St. H: And no one called after that?
TLO: Don't you have painting to do?
St. H: I've got to wait for the primer to dry.
TLO: You could start on the other bathroom in the meantime.
St. H: It's all about sequence, my dear. All things must be done in their proper order. Sequence; that's the word.
TLO: No; the word is consequence. And that's what you'll face if you don't get something done around here.
St. H: Wait. I need to find out something first.
TLO: What now? Can't you see I'm watching a movie?
St. H: Yes, sweetie. I need to know what you wrote on Facebook about my condition.
TLO: Go read it.
St. H: I don't have an account. Too many people wanted to befriend me when I had an account, so I cancelled it.
TLO: And now you complain because no one calls you?
St. H: Babe, please, have mercy on my rotten soul. Just tell me what you wrote on Facebook about me, and I'll go back to my labors.
TLO: If I must.
St. H: So, did you tell them about my pulmonary nodule?
TLO: Yes.
St. H: Did you mention that it is well-marginated?
TLO: Yes; but I don't know what that means.
St. H: Neither do I, but it sounds severe; it sounds emphatic, wouldn't you agree?
TLO: I don't know. It could be a positive thing. I mean, would anyone want a pulmonary nodule that is badly-marginated?
St. H: Then there may be a chance for me?
TLO: Not in your case.
St. H: Oh. Did you happen to give the dimensions of my well-marginated, pulmonary nodule?
TLO: Of course; just like you told me. 1 centimeter by 8 millimeters.
St. H: How big is that, anyway?
TLO: Huge. You must be in great pain.
St. H: Always. Who, who will ever know my anguish?
TLO: Who can take the sunshine and dip it in a dream?
St. H: You mock me. I'm just a poor ploughboy in a parking lot, and you mock me. Where is the radiologist's report?
TLO: There, under my Coke.
St. H: Let me read it. What does this mean? My aorta is ectatic? Does he mean ecstatic? Ectatic, what's that? Did you write that on Facebook?
TLO: No.
St. H: You left that part off?! Maybe that's why the kids aren't calling. Nobody cares about a well-marginated, pulmonary nodule that may or may not be malignant. But an ectatic aorta! That's getting to the heart of me. How could you leave that out?
TLO: Well, I'm sorry. I did make mention of the osteopenia and the dextroscoliosis, if that's any comfort to you.
St. H: Yeah, that should have been enough to draw some interest. Did you also reference the degenerative changes to my spine?
TLO: I'm sure I did.
St. H: Wait; what's this? "The heart and pulmonary hila are otherwise unremarkable." Unremarkable? Why does he have to insult me?
TLO: That's not an insult. It just means there's nothing wrong with them.
St. H: Well, we know that can't be true. My remarkable heart is broken. What is left to live for?
TLO: You need to finish painting the house for one thing.
St. H: I wanted to climb the Seven Summits before I die, but now I must honestly confront my dustbin destiny. I guess I could become a clown and make balloon animals for five year olds in the last weeks of my miserable life. It's either that or recover Jerusalem from the infidels and establish myself as king.
TLO: Either one sounds promising to me. Look, Mahatma Holiday, have some hope.
St. H: Once I had hope. I caught up with him after a chase, tackled him to the ground, and held him with my knee on the small of his back. I tied his wrists together and put him through the third degree. As it turned out, hope had jumped the border and was in the country illegally. I had to let him go. I haven't seen him since.
TLO: I guess I can't expect you to lift yourself up by pulling your own hair. No, I'll have to pull it for you.
St. H: Oww!
TLO: That's nothing. If you don't get the painting done, I'll send you off to a labor camp.
St. H: I was just preparing to rise to the occasion, but the indifference of the world has weighed me down.
TLO: Perhaps, future generations will have the good taste to appreciate you more than your contemporaries.
St. H: Maybe. But today, I'm just a chalk outline of myself on a dirty asphalt road with a pothole where my butt would be.
TLO: Always with the melodrama.
St. H: Well, here I am in Deathcon 2, and nobody cares. I try to get a little sympathy in this world, but it's like trying to sell pork sandwiches to Jewish vegetarians.
TLO: What do you expect from your kids, anyway?
St. H: They could at least help me pick out a good nursing home, where I won't get diaper rash and where I can play with clay in a supportive environment.
TLO: I thought you were He-Ra, Prince of Power.
St. H: No, I'm like an old, dusty, flickering fluorescent in a rusty fixture. My body is betraying me, and I'm trapped in a life of stoic endurance. I'm gettin' woiser and woiser all da time.
TLO: Look, you should rejoice in the present, for tomorrow will be the future.
St. H: How wise of you. Wait! Your eyes! A reason to go on living! O rapture! O joy! A tremor of pleasure!
TLO: The terrorists have won. Could you please get back to work on the bathroom and let me watch my movie in peace!
St. H: I will, but first I have to balance my blood sugar.
TLO: You'd better leave my chocolate alone.
St. H: Is there anything I can get for you, my love?
TLO: Maid service would be good.