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Plans were made for Cathy and me to hit a number of comic-cons around the country that summer of 2012 as sort of a celebratory book tour. The tour started at Wizard Con in Philadelphia and ended there as well. Between the con in Philly and the next stop on the tour, I visited my urological oncologist at the UNC Cancer Hospital in Chapel Hill where we found that, after eight years, my prostate cancer had returned. The tour was canceled, and plans were made for me to decamp to Chapel Hill for almost two months of radiation treatments. I was fortunately able to secure a room at SECU Family House at UNC Hospitals, which was sort of a Ronald McDonald House for adults, and, for the next seven and a half weeks, followed the same daily routine. I’d get up every weekday to catch the bus to the UNC Cancer Hospital where I’d get my radiation treatment. From there, I’d take another bus to the UNC fitness facility where I would work out until late morning, after which I’d grab a bus back to SECU Family House. Following a much-needed nap, I’d set up shop in the residence’s great room and spend the remainder of the day writing. There was really nothing else for me to do there. The tall, white rockers on the long porch that fronted the home looked inviting until you stepped out into the near 100°F {OK? Or should we drop the “F”?} heat. Even on the occasional temperate days, the conversation with the other patients on the porch would invariably drift to the subject of cancer—yours, theirs, or someone else who had recently died of cancer. Since writing has always been my anodyne and escape from the cares of the world, it was no problem, in fact almost necessary, to stay inside in the air-conditioning (let’s just call it what it is down south—refrigeration) and live inside my own head. The great room itself was a pleasant place to write. [Fig. 3] It was remarkably unoccupied most of the time, except for occasional visits from a service dog and his trainer. This would always give rise to a few fellow residents drifting in to be comforted by the dog. One afternoon there were no takers for the dog’s services, and the trainer and I sat in awkward silence for a while. Finally, an invitation was proffered by the trainer, and, not particularly wanting to break the writing thread I was exploring at the moment, I jokingly asked, “Does he bite?” Probably shouldn’t have done that. I’m sure I offended the trainer, and who knows what I did to the dog. I was never invited again.
From The Complete Funky Winkerbean Volume 14
I began to think of my situation in Chapel Hill as an odd writer’s retreat, although one accompanied by southern hospitality. From the hospital to the residence and everywhere in between, I was met with nothing but graciousness. On the weekends I would breakfast at the residence, and one Saturday morning I opened the communal refrigerator to find that the milk I’d picked up on the way back from the fitness center hadn’t survived its baking in the heat during the trip home. I decided to substitute water on my cereal instead. A visiting family at the next table had whipped up some pancakes and sausages, and when they saw me sitting there with my Cheerios and water, invited me over to share in their feast. Graciousness. SECU Family House was where I would write the final year of this volume.