There's something I need to get off my chest.

The new "New Yorker" came in, with what I'm sure they thought was a poignant cover, of a soldier in the trenches, guns all around, jets streaking overhead, and the only spot of color in the drab brown landscape was the Valentine's card in his hand.

It's supposed to evoke a lot of feelings, I know. Well, it certainly evoked one for me:

I hate Valentine's Day.

I frelling hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate that holiday.

I think it was a bad idea when it was founded, way back when, and I think that the commercialism that has sprung up over the years makes it a thousand times worse. Everywhere you go, you see signs saying, "guys! If you love your sweethearts, you must buy them lavish gifts!" "Have you told your lady love you love her? Preferably by spending lots of money on her?" "Hey! Give us your money and show your special lady that she's special!"

The message between the lines: if you're not in that category of people with a special someone, you don't exist.

Between Groundhog Day and Valentine's Day, I know the feeling of being a forgotten minority. And there isn't even a National Association for the Advancement of Depressed Single Guys to complain to. I mean it's bad enough to have the holiday in the first place, but do they have to be so in-yo-face about it?

Did I mention that I hate Valentine's Day?

Close entry.

There is no way to avoid distraction.

I tend to get these medical updates second- or third-hand. Or sometimes just from overhearing.

Dad's having surgery at the end of the month. Malignancy in the prostate, so he's having it removed. And they say it's a normal procedure, well-understood, not much to go wrong ... but still. My father. Is being cut open. And parts of him are gonna be taken out.

And then he comes home this evening and gets on the phone with his doctor ... and they're talking mini-strokes. As in, brain mechanics going awry. Apparently he saw some dark spots in his vision or something and ...

I mean, right at the moment it looks like he's okay. Nothing bad happening. But ... he's past 70. He's like one of the elder statesmen at his university. And ...

...I can remember pounding at the chests of people younger than him. People whose time had run out. In ten years of ambulance duty ... I must have dealt with dozens of people who were either nearly out of time, or who were already gone.

Three came back. One doesn't count because she was a narc OD case that popped back before her heart stopped. One doesn't count because he ended up dying anyway in the hospital, so all we did was buy him a little time that he wasn't in a position to utilize for anything anyway. One came back. Most of the way. I think.

I got laughed at for wearing a uniform with a "CPR SAVE" bar on it, but I was proud of that fact. Well, they weren't laughing at us for the save bar, they were laughing at me and my crew for wearing the uniform on duty at all. Said we looked like Nazis or something.

Gr. Rambling.

The point being ... I think ... that that one guy was a lot younger than my dad. Definitely under 70. Maybe under 60. Meaning ...

...I hope Dad's luck holds.

And in ten days I turn ... How scary is it to look and wonder if you've seen more days go by than you've got left?

How scary is it to look and wonder if your life is half over?