What’s really going on with Rick Wayne?

TALK host Rick Wayne has always been an open book on matters others dare not mention in public.

Whatever else may be said about us “as a people,” let no man call us unpredictable. I cannot recall a time when I’ve been off island that my absence did not provoke rumors, some absolutely outrageous. It has not been enough to say my more or less annual vacations in the US and the UK were related to my rejuvenation: either I had undertaken in my absence high-priced remedies for my thinning hair or treatments to stave off age-associated lines in my forehead. The last time a trip abroad made local headlines, at any rate in the underground media, the story was that I had gone with Kenny Anthony and his entourage to China. Our most famous press prognosticator even supplied his listeners with my itinerary. The same trusted clairvoyant also convinced Saint Lucians that Sir John had died at a Martinique clinic three weeks before his actual demise at Tapion. Actually, Mae and I were at the time a long way from Beijing. We had gone to Sin City to see Celine Dion (and we all know whatever happens in Vegas stays in Vegas!)
And now there seems to be great concern (yeah right!) at home that my current sojourn in the US has nothing at all to do with rest and recuperation and everything to do with my imminent death from cancer. Rest easy, my Saint Lucian friends and frenemies, the news is not nearly as bad as that. Not yet, anyway. (Did the rumor in exaggerated form spring from a source where confidentiality is naturally expected?) But before we get to the verifiable truth, permit me to remind you for the millionth time that contrary to popular belief I have never considered myself a superman, despite that in all my 73 years—yes, you read that right!—I have never been hospitalized, never even been in serious need of a doctor. Truth be told, I have always avoided doctors’ clinics and hospitals like the plague. Which, come to think about it, could be the real reason I managed to stay healthy for this long.
It is no secret that I’ve been a practicing advocate of healthful living from age eleven, when I first took up bodybuilding. And despite my proud record, I’ve always known all good things must end, that inevitably the time would come for me, as it came for countless trillions since Adam and Eve, as certainly it will come for you, dear reader . . . Yes, I’ve known, especially in the last three years or so, that I was nearer the exit lounge (as my friend Everiste JnMarie says) than the arrivals entrance. Maybe that’s why I have lately become more and more interested in the afterlife, about which it seems no one really knows anything for certain—never mind their pronouncements that are nothing but voodoo, including how things work in that realm of no return. Not for nothing does my earlier mentioned specially endowed friend refer to it as “the spirit world!” But that’s for another show, I promise, and you can take to the bank.
The real story: This past January I learned from my doctor that my PSA level had risen inexplicably and that I should further investigate the disturbing leap. Further tests indicated my prostate was under attack by the Big C but such attack was at an early stage. On my doctor’s advice I sought other opinions overseas that have confirmed the earlier diagnosis.
Right away, those who know well my phobias will be asking: Gosh, Rick, how did you feel? How did the news hit you? Dear conceivably concerned reader, you don’t know the half of it. But I promise to devote much time to the subject when I return home to pick up where I left off. Oh, but now you’re asking how much time I’ve got left. Let me answer this way: The UFOs and the PDIs (Perpetual Defenders of the Indefensible) will have to suffer my observations for some time yet. I will say this: my doctor in Saint Lucia said, when I asked him what would happen if I simply let the disease take its course rather than take up one of his recommended options: “You would have clinical problems [whatever the hell that meant] in five years or so!” See? And that’s the worst-case scenario. My American specialist, on the other hand, assures me my particular problem is “imminently curable.” Indeed, he repeated the assurance three times! So there.
I am encouraged by the fact that two very good friends, one at home, the other in the States, underwent the same treatment I’m due to have in a few days and have good reason to recommend it. They missed not a single day’s work, although there were for two weeks or so “too many visits to the urinal.” The  procedure involves no slicing whatsoever. Rather, there will be some implants placed in my prostate and five weeks of follow-up radiation therapy. Afterward, my doctor has assured me, I’ll have to “find something else to die from!”
By the way, as you can tell by my STAR contributions, I’ve not stopped working since I left home three weeks ago—and I’ve had no reason to change my lifestyle. I ask that my friends (including you, Claudius, like it or not!) wish me well. As for my frenemies, hey you have your uses, whether or not you know it.
I almost forgot to mention: I am also feverishly completing another book specially for the American market. You bet I’m busy!

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