I was having a so-so day Thursday when I get a call from the Brown Bomber. He's been in a nursing home for ten years after having a stroke while in jail. And now he has prostate cancer.
"The doctor says he's going to cut my balls off," he told me. There was sadness in his voice. But no fear.
Not many of you know him. Nor should you. He's a former brother-in-law, someone I once used and hung out with. Even after his sister and I parted ways.
Once in a while he calls to thank me for money I send each month. But some in his family object. They say I'm not helping him. That I shouldn't send him anything. They say he buys cigarettes, pot, and alcohol with it. On and on.
But I don't care. At 70+ years, half his body frozen, living in a wheel chair, I'm not going to convince him of anything. The word recovery has never crossed his lips. He's been a tough guy who always lived his own way.
Plus, when he calls I'm reminded that I don't have many bad days at all.
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