Yeah, it is indeed later since that post-op nap, that was just as efficient as the anesthesia had been because I woke up feeling great, free of the temporarily-altered state, and hungry. Hungry.
It worked out well because it was a delightful veggie curry, some more curried cauliflower (give it a chance), a spinach salad, and that now-famous banana-peanut butter-something sweet besides the raisins-oatmeal thing as an appetizer and dessert. It is so delightful to begin and end with dessert.
After dinner, it was The Darkest Hour here with my friends but watched across space-time with the entire new world. It is the best movie since Wind River that I have seen. No critique here, none possible, and no review. Not on a blog.
Without a critique or a review, this command must suffice:
Watch it. Take it at face value, and it is worth every moment. Take it as a metaphor, the metaphor perhaps, and you may almost die as I did, in full sight of friends, me on the edge of that comfortable seat where I have been before with fine, finer, and finest folks a few times. Here’s to hoping for more of that, btw.
Well, it is almost too late to call it today still, so I shall begin sleep today, (yikes didn’t make it I see), prescribed much earlier by Dr. Lee and all the other team who helped cut me and mend me, and by that one nurse who cracked me up before the cutting. She is a 40-year career nurse, of indeterminate age, who seemed all business—until the curtains were drawn and no one but I could hear her, not that she’d care, I think. Not after 40 years of nursing. And then it was business sure, all of it. But not all business. Of course, it is the business of such nurses to put the patient at ease . . . but I was already into it by this point.
She knew of Evelyn Waugh, and she said that before I’d come, she mused to her co-workers, wondering if I might be related to him. She told me that she got blank stares from all of them so she just wrote them off. My stare was immediately into her eyes and I smiled, as I said I did not know, but writing is a thing I do, so perhaps there is a genetic trickle down. No claims of excellence there, you understand. I write, but it’s just coverage in a blog . . . okay, and more than . . . too.
So we shared tales as I told her that I am not at all embarrassed (no open-backed gown pun intended) so just do what you must, I told her, and she said, along with a nice looking guy who’s been in for 5 years, that they’d preserve every shred of my dignity; it is part of their charge to do so. I said, if you happen to find any dignity, do please preserve it, and may I take it with me at no charge? Yes, and keep the change.
From there it was one story after another until the scene faded to black. At one point she was telling about a time she thought she maybe was being followed in NW Portland, but then suddenly (in real time) she was called away
For fifteen minutes she was away and then it was “5 Years” shaving me, and then “Nurse A” who gave me permission to call her goddess, countess, or whatever I wanted because I’d be speechless anyway and would not actually be aware. Ha. And then it was Dr. K, the drug dealer, and next Dr. Lee, the cutter.
So, fifteen minutes later, “40 Years” pops back in and begins at the precise point in the same sentence and finishes her story. It took me a full half-word, I admit, to realize that she was
there, but I dearly loved that there was no loss at all. And I got to hear all of the story, to the end. Of that one anyway.
There are more stories, and it is never too late to live every one of them . . .