Doomsday dawned like an epiphany, with particular luminosity. Sunlight radiated across grassy fields without malice, and the whole morning was dappled and symmetrically constructed, as if following the blueprint of perfect architecture.
Nature without flaw. There seemed to be no perception of looming menace. All was right with the world. So we were persuaded by a pristine sky of indescribable hue to venture forth from our home, albeit with caution, and attend our grandkids’ soccer games.
It was a leap of faith. But we proceeded forward ready to retreat to safety at the slightest inaudible ripple of soft plosives in the air…or an Elvis sighting, whichever came first. Both would be authentic harbingers of bad karma. We resembled criminals on a “perp” walk, furtive, evasive, covert. We tested the atmosphere by flicking our tongues, snakelike, for signs of impending catastrophe.
With each tentative step, we were emboldened, until, with nostrils flared, we drove our car to the soccer field, determined that if we were going to be destroyed, we’d go down cheering!
Actually, we did experience the anticipated Rapture. All our grandkids won their soccer games. We were euphoric…and ready for translation.
What could possibly have gone wrong? This apocalyptic prediction had been forecast for months.
Who didn’t get the memo?
Who was the Great Skeptic?
After all, this prophecy was based on sound Biblical calculation. But the earth did not move under my feet, and the sky did not come tumbling down. There was no perceptible shift in the planet’s tectonic plates. I don’t get it.
I do not want to appear doubtful, but could there have been the slightest mathematical mistake? Perhaps a misapplication of the Pythagorean Principle, or faulty logarithms, causing the sum from the abacus to be shy a couple of foot pounds of pressure per second per second? Or could it have been a simple misinterpretation of Nostradamus’ final quatrain? I hate when that happens.
Go figure. But maybe we’d all be well advised to pay less heed to broadcasters with questionable credentials and more attention to other numbers…numbers we can rely on.
For example, some of our favorite calculations are the lab values that allow the Huntsman techs to hang a bulging bag of Gemcitabene like a bloated bladder from a metal tree to penetrate Dennis’ port directly into his lungs. Now we’re talkin’ Rapture.
Unlike Oprah’s 283 favorite things, my favorite thing of the week was the number 35 – Dennis’ tumor marker. For those more accustomed to basketball statistics than CA 19-9 calculations, that is well within the realm of normal.
I have decided I really don’t have time for the world to end right now. There are too many important appointments on my day planner agenda. Next week we go to Houston to consult with Dr. Wolff at M. D. Anderson. Dennis will have more scans done. Then our family will spend a week in California on the beaches and at Disneyland, where “It’s A Small World After All” is relentlessly, mercilessly, sadistically, piped to the furthest corner of the Magic Kingdom. In a perfect world, it would be blasted without interruption into the “Camping” ground of whoever “Herolded” this absurd rumor.
In addition, my schedule calls for completion of my correspondence course in quantum physics, and I simply must finish my thesis on the String Theory of the Universe. I’m just too dang busy to be obliterated at the moment.
We did, however, receive the glorious news that there was an “invisible judgment,” lest any of us succumb to the temptation to doubt. But the REAL date for the REAL apocalypse has been pushed back to October 21st. Good. That ought to give me time to complete my tasks. I can’t wait.
I LOVE DOOMSDAY!