…with, on the distaff end, a terminal disease that has lately announced itself—it’s a rare but usually lethal form of cancer that typically waits to announce its symptoms until it has accomplished most of its mischief prior to surfacing—and which will likely be consuming most of my energies and attention going forward, leaving little for an online presence.

Victims of the condition have been known to survive, with treatment, for as long as five years, but these are outliers: we are probably looking at something closer to five months.

We’d hoped for “False alarm!” were prepared to accept “This will be pretty rugged for the next year while we make this thing go away”; had not anticipated Door Number Three, behind which terms like “palliative treatment” and “hospice care” are being bandied about.

My wife, hospitalized since Saturday (and feeling much better following the draining of 2.5 liters of “ascites” from her abdomen, although the cavity appears to be filling up anew), is treating her condition and likely outcome (“it represents an advanced stage of cancer with a poor prognosis,” says one online source) with equanimity, and I am attempting in affect to match her stoicism. I’ve notified family members and warned them that communiqués are likely best conducted via text or email, because I have no confidence that I can keep it together voice-to-voice without dissolving into unmanly sobs.

This private precinct is as far as I’m prepared to acknowledge these things online, and I’d appreciate that no one mention it on social media.