Read this first:
Summertime (Part I of II)

This is the first year when the excitement of another school year ending, of my summer break beginning, isn’t there. I can no longer section the calendar year based on my school status, like which semester I’m in, which makes each day flow into the next like a continuum. The last day of spring has turned into the first day of summer without me even realizing it. Maybe even because of that lack of separation, time seems to go faster.

When I hear Summertime or Boys of Summer, or even How Bizarre, I can’t help but smile. The music must trigger neural pathways in my brain that lead to happiness. The same thing happens when I think of summer activities of my youth, like when Big Easy came up with his rapper name Da Bones, or when I played tennis with Zeke and his parents. “Not in my house!” his dad said every time he spiked the ball.

I won’t be riding my bike around Infincuralier’s hilly yard, or swimming in PepperoniNip’s pool at the houses neither of them live at anymore. Age has caught up with me, at least a little bit, as I search for a job (if anyone knows of environmental or energy analyst positions in Virginia or DC, please let me know).

In January I saw one of my surgeons for my annual checkup. He had forgotten whether he took part in my surgery. “Of course you did,” I said. Dr. Phil was a fellow at the time and has probably done hundreds of surgeries since. I was saddened that he forgot. He’s one of my favorite doctors and I like to think I’m one of his favorite patients. It’s a testament to how far I’ve come. It’s been so long since I’ve had cancer that I’m becoming less classified as a cancer survivor and more as a young adult.

I’ve always had an extraordinary episodic memory, which makes me more prone to miss the old times and probably think of them as better than they actually were. As an example, I still remember the first time I saw a trailer for Independence Day. It was on Mother’s Day, after eating dinner at Romano’s Macaroni Grill and before seeing Broken Arrow. I ordered a pepperoni pizza (what a shocker) and loved the movie (what a shocker). I saw Independence Day while on vacation at Disney World. On the way to our auditorium, located on the far right, we passed a poster for High School High.

My memory is one reason I have not gotten my book published. I remember so many details, maybe even more than normal because of the heightened mental awareness cancer provides. I remember, and therefore to me the details are important. But most people will see them as pointless. The problem is I have trouble deciphering which are important and which aren’t, so I write them all down.

My book is beginning to lose its relevance. I’m no longer twenty-one looking back on cancer like it was yesterday. The way the story was written three years ago, just like my yearning for a summer of old, doesn’t agree with my current age. Even after 13 drafts and an estimated 1,500 hours working on it, some parts are still juvenile. If I can’t get it published soon I may have to go the disgraceful route of self-publishing. I can always rewrite the story, the next time under the tutelage of my friend, author of The Woman Who Never Cooked.

I think I’ll go listen to some Fresh Prince and Don Henley.