(I started the New Year by composing a letter to myself that a website called FutureMe promises to deliver in ten years. Then this evening I went to see “Interstellar,” which involves a man leaving his family for decades to go explore the far reaches of space. And now I am glad I copied the text of my letter after I wrote it, and was able to paste it here, many hours later. Yes, this is probably cheating.)
It is January 1, 2015. In a few days you’ll find out if you are still growing melanoma in your lungs. And you will find out if you need any more drugs to treat it or if they’re just going to watch the tumors keep shrinking.
Maybe by the time you get this letter, the treatment for metastatic melanoma will be a kale enema. Or something you slip under your tongue like those homeopathic pellets.
Right now the boys are 8 and almost 5. Where you are, they are 18 and almost 15. How much scarier is that? Did Young J really grow to 6’5″ as forecasted? Is he still obsessed with boats? Is Young A still handsome and completely unpredictable? Did either of them pursue music? Do they still love to draw?
My main reason for writing this letter is to make sure you’re still alive to get it. This site lets you send things pretty far into the future but I’m setting it for ten years. You’ll be 53, and I sure as hell hope you found a job.