So Biden has prostate cancer, evidently of a particularly aggressive variety. I didn’t predict it would happen, but I wasn’t all that surprised when it did. He is in his 80s, on borrowed time by most yardsticks.

Of course, a simple “that’s too bad” was not going to be enough, not in today’s political climate. After some perfunctory well-wishing, people on the right launched into how this was part of a larger conspiracy. Surely, White House insiders knew about the diagnosis early on and inexplicably felt the need to continue deceiving the public even after Biden dropped out of the presidential race. When Don Jr. tore himself away from his current eight ball to chime in, he skipped any pretense of decency and immediately pointed out that Jill Biden’s PhD in Education made her doctor enough to know that Joe’s butt clit had taken the train to Tumortown.

Some good came out of this news cycle. There was nothing in it to restore my faith in humanity. It didn’t lower it either, not that that’s possible. The good was that I learned something.

It turns out doctors stop PSA-screening patients at the age of 70. The reason for this is simple. The kind of prostate cancer Joe Biden has is pretty rare. For most people, it takes a long time to kill you. By the time you are in your 70s, it is already late to the party and something else is going to do you in first.

But what? I don’t know; pick one. There are plenty of other ways to die, including other cancers, COPD, heart disease, stroke, diabetes, and Alzheimer’s. With all that other shit waiting in the wings, it is silly to keep worrying about how many times you have to get up in the middle of the night to pee.

So if my luck holds, I have that to look forward to in a little over seven years. It is a small victory but an important one. Starting at the age of 50, there has been a growing list of health concerns I need to worry about. I am in reasonably good health despite my unhealthy habits, but that has not prevented me from requiring blood pressure monitoring, periodic metabolic blood panels, and the occasional colonoscopy.

And then there’s my sleep issue, how I flop around like Linda Blair when I’m having a bad dream. It only takes a few Google searches and a predilection for hypochondria for me to convince myself that neurological decline is just around the corner. I have mentioned this in my writing before and it has been on my radar for the last six years.

So far, I have been in no rush to get tested for this kind of parasomnia. With a diagnosis comes a high likelihood that my brains will eventually turn into tapioca. What medical science does not provide is an answer of what to do about it. Unlike most medical conditions, early detection provides no benefit.

As I live my life in blissful denial, it is heartening to know that possible prostate cancer will be one more thing I won’t have to worry about. If I live long enough, I am sure that others will follow. There may even come a day when I can relax and say, “What isn’t going to kill me?” When that happens, I think I’ll celebrate the occasion by taking up smoking again. After all, I’ve earned it.