The Week That Was

There are times when memories will blaze across our consciousness in much the same way that the sudden flash of a camera will reveal details which had remained hitherto unseen. It could be something one has just read, a smell in the air, a bit of music, perhaps even the way the breeze feels on your face.

There are many triggers, I had one just the other day, it might have been a comment here or over on Facebook, but a long dormant memory was triggered, and it gave me pause.

It was winter in Vermont, in the early 1970s. I was in far northern Vermont this particular night, I won't bore you with the details of why, suffice to say I was there, a stone's throw from the border with Canada sitting in a hospital waiting room.

Waiting.

Across the dimly-lit space there was a small group of people. I cannot remember how many, I do remember someone coming out of the depths of the hospital and going over to them. Heads drooped, sobs were heard. I could guess why. I didn't know any details but I've seen such things in the years since. Someone, a loved one, had slipped the bonds and gone forward to, who knows?

We have our faiths, or lack thereof, which try to explain what lies beyond. But until we get there, we don't, we can't, "know." All we know is that those left behind must learn to deal with the loss of a loved one. We don't truly mourn the dead, we mourn their absence, we mourn our existence without them.

Hospitals.

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So this is a new thing, a new series maybe. For me this has been an eventful, somewhat physically painful week. I am only just now returning to an even keel. Still lots of holes, I'm a bit down by the bow with a discernible list to port, but I'm alive. I've been repaired and hopefully most of my parts have significant mileage left on them.

While I'd like to be around a lot longer, one never knows. So live life to the fullest I guess (however one defines "fullest" for one's self) and don't sweat the small stuff. Leastways, that works for me. (The Missus Herself worries about everything, no detail is too small, no item is unimportant. She's got this. Which is why I don't worry, she's got it covered, drives her nuts it does. "How can you NOT worry about that?" she will query. My answer is often, "I don't know, I just don't. I do what I can, when I can. If I can't? Oh well.")

So.

Recovery from surgery is a process. Do what the doctor says, do exactly what the nurses say and, barring complications, you will heal. I am healing. It gets better every day, I'm not at 100% and that's annoying, but I'm patient because "what else can I do, but wait." Patience has never been one of my strong suits.

(Source)

It was an odd week, a lot of rack time, a lot of meds consumed. I am sorely tempted to post a photo of the surgical repair site, but I'll spare you that. As I told Tuna the other day, "I now have a hard point on my belly where I can mount ordnance."

Though how the Hell I could deliver that ordnance using the hardware which came standard with this 1950s era body I don't know. I do know that I possess no organic flight capability. Well, perhaps I should say that I have no way of controlling flight. I fall with the best of them, I just have very little say as to path or as to landing. Gravity gets the most votes.

S0 this is the opening post of what may (or may not) be a weekly thing. Might be semi-sporadic at best, it might evolve into something interesting. Or not. I do what I can, and that's all I can do.