The really, really cute neurosurgeon (the one wearing heels) (O.K., O.K., so I have a little crush on my neurosurgeon. What about it?) She said the brain injury was healing remarkably well, surprisingly well. Hematoma down 50%. No need for more brain tests. No need to drill and drain. No need to see me again. I admit to mixed feelings on that one. I did not dodge a bullet. I dodged a nuclear bomb. Six months to normal I'm told. Assured. Maybe all those push-ups finally paid off. Uh, wait a minute. I didn't know I was normal when I was normal, so what are we looking at here? The "normal" normal or a New Normal? Do I really want to go back to the same old thing? And, if it's new, how can it be normal? This "new normal" business is like calling a used car pre-owned, pretending it isn't what it really is.
"Mendacity", rails Big Daddy in Tennessee Williams', Cat On A Hot Tin Roof. "Mendacity!"
Lying there all those hours and days and nights, tended to and cared for by nurses, aides, technicians, cleaning staff, physical therapists, EMT's, kitchen workers, maintenance workers, clericals, and, yes, of course, doctors, too - more of them persons of color than not, so many immigrants or children of immigrants. Isn't it ironic that those very people - the ones we don't want as neighbors - those very people will be the ones caring for us at the time of our death?
The care was great. The food was hot. I'm getting better faster. I can almost remember my name and where I live.This crush I have on my neurosurgeon is not enough for me to make a special appointment to drain the blood from my brain, which we all agreed was unnecessary, anyway. Some balance issues but physical therapist teaching me how to train the muscles in my feet, so if I fall, I fall forward not backward. Neat trick. I keep forgetting where I left my cane, but I still remember the names of my children (at least, I did this morning), do not drool, and do not lurch when I walk. Wave when you go by.
More to come.
I hope.
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