It's not that we think we are immortal.
But I think most of us kind of figure we'll live long enough to see our team resplendid on top of the league.
Not next season, not the one after, nor even the one after that. But someday. When the rich Arabs, Russians and Yanks have departed. When the title should once again be between us, Villa and Arsenal - the way it was, a long, long time ago. Nice geography as well.
So when I got those blood results it hit home. Is this the end? Is life that short?
Kind of stiffens the senses, much like a Cattemole goal. You ask yourself, where did could come from? Never saw that coming.
After three long days it proved false. But yet, there's a lingering effect. A good one, truth be told.
We all try to live for the moment, at least when we think about it. But most times we either live in the past or the future. What we did in 64, 73, 77 and so on. What we might do next season when MON buys all those will-be-wizards.
But for a few days I thought I was going to die.
Apart from my wife - the best of a tough breed, being Russian and all - and my kids, I thought of Sunderland. It, as you will understand, is tied up with my family: all South Shields and Boldon buggers. We were all Geordies and all Sunderland supporters. Stood firm with my cousin in Bath Lane in 79. Some folk might remember.
But that's all maudlin shit.
Have a good time on Sunday. In the end the result doesn't matter a fuck. It's just a number.
Belly up to the bar, as my old Dad used to say.
And stand where you belong. If that doesn't work out? Well, remind yourself at least you stood. And never, ever, alone.
(Our Canadian Correspondent)