I've already written about the 170 heartbeat.
I don't want to write about it anymore.
I just want my surgery.
This morning I finally told them, "I'll never eat again if you'll just fix me."
The lady who spent forty-five minutes listening to my heart finally smiled and said she thought I was probably dehydrated when my heart rate shot to 170.
No shit.
I've been told not to drink anything.
Except, apparently, the illegal milk I drank this morning...
...along with the illegal bacon, eggs, grits, and biscuit that someone kindly served to the guy who wasn't supposed to eat.
Meanwhile, everyone around me has been wonderful.
They're caring.
They're trying.
They're doing their best.
Too bad they're humans.
Charley stopped by this morning to pick up my keys and debit card. He and a buddy are going to rescue my three-wheel scooter from where it still sits after my crash. He stood there watching the morning chaos unfold, rolled his eyes, shook his head, and probably left wondering how any hospital ever functions.
While the heart technician listened to my chest, we talked.
I told her about a job I had years ago as a paratransit supervisor in Kent, Washington. I remember knocking on the door of a man who was a hundred years old. He answered the door himself, walked out to my van under his own power, and all he wanted was a ride to his bingo game.
I've never forgotten him.
Because that's all I really want.
I want to be able to walk again.
I want to ride my trike again.
I want to go to Walmart because I feel like it.
I want to point my camera at another sunrise.
I want the ordinary days back.
And if life wants to surprise me one more time...
Maybe I'd like to fall in love with a sweet woman again.
Not because I need someone to take care of me.
Just because life is better when there's someone to smile at across the table.
So fix the ankle.
Everything else can wait.
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