This, as the poet said, has been my winter of discontent.
First, I’m minding my own business trying to recover from heart valve replacement surgery and somehow 1.6 liters of fluid finds its way into my right lung. So the docs run a tap in and drain it. Overheard during the procedure: “I think we need another bottle.” Who knew one flabby little lung could hold almost two liters of anything?
Then, my sister Eileen loses her epic battle with multiple myeloma and we go to the wonderful send-off planned by her daughters and most of us get sick with either flu or cold. Me, I get a cold AND pneumonia, so it’s off to the hospital for a day and a half getting pumped up with antibiotics and steroids and breathing treatments with stuff that made me feel like I could get up and jog home without benefit of auto. Which, just let me say, is not a normal feeling for me. I don’t jog. I don’t even think about jogging. That was some stuff, let me tell you.
So now I’m home, finally just finished with all the hands-full of pills I’ve been taking and I manage to crack a filling while eating popcorn during an afternoon showing of Peter Jackson’s The Hobbit.
None of this has been fatal for me, which is good, I guess since I’ve got a lot to do this month here at home and down at the museum. Which leads me to my final conclusion that it’s always something…