Where have I been lately? In my head, but not at my writing desk. Take last Friday for example. A day at the hospital: reported at 6:30 a.m., in deeply drug-induced dreamland (kinda like Hollywood, only the scalpels aren’t out for your back) by 7, in surgery I’ll fortunately never remember some four and a half hours following.
Released, at last, at 4 in the afternoon, my doting wife and I step gingerly into a serendipitously pleasant day-after-Spring day. “Let’s walk,” I say. Jean asks if I’m sure. We’re in midtown Manhattan—I don’t need Affordable Health Care to field this one: “If it’s too much, we’ll grab a taxi.” Done.