We'll have to miss our 50th high school anniversary. For those of you who are new, the Mystery Woman and I were high school and college sweethearts. We re-connected after nearly 50 years and have been really looking forward to seeing old friends from that hormone-driven era.
Instead, I have a date with the surgeon. Again.
This will mark the fifth surgery in about as many years. All told, I have counted 18 scars on my body where doctors have earned their car payments by poking holes in my chest and slicing me into geezer hunks. Along they way, they have saved me from colon cancer, a heart attack, and terminal vanity. Wish they could find a cure for poor judgment.
Communications will be hit and miss for a while. I have a hernia operation next week. Next fall, I get to go under the knife again to replace the battery in my pacemaker/defibrillator. No joke.
Conditioning from more than a decade of bicycle riding, I'm convinced, has helped me rebound from each trip to the hospital. Ironically, my heart attack hit when I was riding a bike on a beautiful country road a few miles outside Dripping Springs. Had I been a civilian still on the couch, I would have died that day.
But frankly, I'm getting a little weary of all this. Plus, I worry about the odds going up for catching that terrible hospital virus that consumes you from the inside. Recent research shows one in twenty get tagged.
I think I'm a pretty good patient. However, my kids have a different view. For one thing, I like and trust nurses. More than doctors. My mother was a nurse and my daughter was a nurse. But I am really weary of having to come back each time from the rigors involved. Each rally takes energy I would rather devote to other endeavors.
Sure. It beats the alternative. Most days.
Life’s a pretty good play. But the Third Act needs work.
-- Truman Capote