Kage Baker was a determined, disciplined writer. She could power through almost anything, and did – even dying of cancer had only a slowing effect right up to the day it killed her. Hers was an old Roman, votaress kind of inexorable progress: slogging on both grimly and joyously, utterly wrapped up in her goals.

Death sneaked up on her while she thought she was having a nap. I have long suspected he had to make an appointment, dress formally and send in his card before she consented to depart with him, besides. It would have taken even Death considerable effort to pry Kage from her chosen path. But she always did like tall, lean men …

I am not so tough nor strong; my virtues of perseverance are wired differently. In the last year, I’ve become susceptible to FOOs: fevers of unknown origin. They hit, my arms and legs ache fearfully for a day or two, I have several episodes of extreme fever and oceanic sweating, and they go away. In the meantime I feel like a jellyfish drying out on the beach.

My doctor says I don’t have malaria (I asked. I like gin and tonics, and it would be so much easier …) and that I am simply suffering from a common post-cancer debilitation. It’ll get better as I recover more fully. Drink lots of fluids, take aspirin and sleep.

Bleah. But that’s what I’m doing. More later, when I advance up the evolutionary ladder from cnidarians to, maybe, jawless fishes …

Poo on FOO!