How could I not? Here’s Kipper giving me the diagnosis I asked him for 10 years ago. “Hey buddy,” he says, “let’s just go in here.” The banging stops and I meet Kipper in the control area. He disappears into the control booth and I am slid under the banging scanner. A slightly warming feeling as the iodine spreads.
“Just add a little contrast,” he instructs the technician. He has already done blood work and notices a slightly high marker, a dubious blood score on a panel, and on a hunch asks Westside Medical Imaging, while they are examining a couple of other areas, to shoot an isotope into me to highlight and take a look at the pancreas. He specializes in preventative medicine, and I rather reluctantly go through these checks because, while I quite like being alive, as the son of a nurse, I have an inbred fear of hospitals. “You may only have three weeks.”įlash forward 10 years to 2019 and my same friend Kipper is taking me to a variety of tests at imaging facilities. “Pancreatic cancer,” said Kipper without hesitation. “What is the quickest, surest, and most sudden cause of death?” I asked. He gave me the skinny during a ball game at Dodger Stadium. Still, in the end, Fred was only a writer.įor my plot to work I needed to kill my character off quickly, and as part of my research, I asked David Kipper, my doctor friend, the quickest way to die. Yet though he was kind and no one politer, The rich and the famous must also die too.īut though I loved Freddie and I’m his PR It makes us feel better that no matter who
It makes us feel better that it isn’t us. When a world-famous star falls under a bus
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