Contemplating A Diagnosis Years pass like channel clicks; 4, 5, 9, 11 -- add cable and she's middle-aged, still able to do most of what she did in the moist days, yet there is not the same impetus. She feels she cheated somehow -- some thing, living so long. Now it's about making peace, preparing. Her life grows with a new kitten, a fig on one ovary, a peach on the other. She never liked fruit -- not as much fun as pizza. She eats it now, to hell with the waistline, the sexy, that useless word love. Click the channel -- CIN 1, 2, 3 or 4; what level invasion? Waiting, waiting as she scarfs down pepperoni and swishes a feather in the air, pondering how so many lessons have gone unlearned, and the important poems she will write if she knows time is short. She hasn't grown much since her insides were pink, but this, this might be just the thing. The cat follows her around like a life sentence, and she wonders where she erred so as she eyes her empty bankbook and fingers her one good ring. If this turns out bad, she will have to find some decent affairs to get in order, 'cause leaving a kitten and a bunch of words is really just too sad.