From Two Tonys (Letter 13)
Two Tonys - A whacker of men and Mafia associate serving multiple life sentences for murders and violent crimes. Left bodies from Tucson to Alaska, but claims all his victims "had it coming." Diagnosed with liver cancer, and is fighting to prolong his life.
Hey English Cuz,
What can I say? “I’m sorry” has to be getting old to you, so I won’t even go there. I’ve been getting your mail, books, plus good moral-support letters.
First, allow me to write you with congratulations on your good turn of events in your literary career. This is great. No one can say that you don’t deserve this. I personally observed your hours and days working in your cage of a cell while many around you were busy whacking their puds or spreading drama with a mix of hate and envy. You were busy hunched over at your little metal slab of a desk in a heat-infested cell working your bald head off, with your eyes on the prize and the spoils that come with it. Cocktail parties. Limos. European baronesses, countesses. Dare we even dream of the ultimate? Tea with Her majesty! Yes, we do dare to. This is how railroads, tunnels, Great Walls of China are built, with one man’s dream. Yes, my friend, dream on. Don’t let it die. I’ll bet on you every time your name’s on the card. “You go, Limey boy, you go.” Please keep me posted, and I’ll start to keep up on my writing. I was just down, bro. But I’ve got some real good news at this end for me to share with you and our blog readers.
As you might be aware, I was told in December 08, I had terminal cancer and given an estimate of 3-6 months to live. This was done by a civilian oncologist who was 90 fuckin’ years old, and under an advisory position contract with the Department of Corrections. I was issued chemo, which I knew from my 9th grade education was a killer worse than cancer. Anyway, I quit the chemo, and I truly believe that’s why I’m still alive. This Dr. didn’t want me to quit, and told me if I did I had 90 days to live. Fuck it! I told him 90 days without that shit is better than a year on it. I quit, and I’m still standing. I went from 200 lbs to 140 lbs, but I’m feeling pretty good.
Now in over a year as his patient, I saw the guy once in person. That was at a hospital back in 08. The rest of my so-called exams were from a matchbox office on prison grounds staring into a 16” TV screen with a nurse next to me to poke where the good Dr. told her to. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for any help I get, and the truth is after my wicked past, any help is probably too much. But I’ll still take it. So now I’m on this morphine twice a day, and I stay pretty doped up. It’s a good pain fighter and seems to do the job (for now).
About 2 months ago, my Dr, the old man, along with St Mary’s Hospital had their contracts not renewed, and I got moved down here to Lewis Complex. You know the place we met, when I came out of the hole to a rock-star greeting, and you were mesmerized by my welcoming committee. Speaking of holes, I just got out of one. (But that’s another story. Later on I’ll write you about it.)
Getting back to the story I started. So now I have no oncologist, even though I didn’t really have one back then. The old Dr. was just pissing on my head, laddie, telling me it was drops from a soft summer rain. So I’m up here in Lewis, and early one morning they come and chain me up, put me in the back of a new Ford with two guards, and tell me I’m going to see a doctor. They drive me in style, radio playing, comfortable back seat, good scenery. I’m doing it. We pull up to a new building in Casa Grande about 100 miles from here. It’s a medical lab. 21st century, and it is modern. The 3 of us are shown a nice exam room, and after 10 minutes a real nice Asian Dr. comes and introduces himself to me, shakes my hand and examines me as best he could. Then he proceeds to explain to me that we’re all different. The old Dr. should never have told me that shit at any rate. He ordered all new blood work. Cat scans. Etc. He explained that they were now under contract with D.O.C, and he’s my oncologist. This is great. He explained that after my new tests are compete, him and the surgeons discuss the results, and they may do a treatment called T.A.C.E. It stands for Transcatheter Arterial Chemoembolization. They run a tube up through my thigh to my liver, pump chemo, then take the tube out. Bingo, lots of bad cancer cells die and perhaps I live a little longer. Time will tell. I’ll be sure to keep you posted. I’m so excited.
Love to you and your family and all good blokes and birds across the seas.
Click here to read Letter 12.
Two Tonys is dying, and really appreciates your comments.
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Shaun P. Attwood