The last time I saw Paul, he had cotton in his ears. But the most striking element was Paul’s raven hair—usually impeccably coifed and hiding his baldness. But here his shiny head was exposed. No makeup to adorn his 56 year old face. He was crumbling before my eyes.

 He had been diagnosed with inoperable colon cancer and living with his parents in Venture County. His mother Marylin was in the throes of Alzheimer’s. An unfortunate blessing, not realizing her son was terminally ill. I had been friends with Paul for forty years. He’s the first man I experimented with. After his diagnosis, he got placed in a psych observation unit because he told me, “Gordon I’ve been a bad boy.” In reference to contemplating suicide. A life long advocate of supplements, witches praying for his health, and any alternative treatment—all had backfired. I imagined his head looping-Why me? How did I end up like this with cancer spreading like gangrene throughout my body. If I need to cry or have self-pity, I remember Paul.