Recovered from the Wayback Machine.
My Dad is a remarkably stubborn old fart. His surgery yesterday was I guess rather harrowing for all involved, but as my brother said, my Dad came out looking better than the surgical team who had to fight to keep Dad alive. Dad always did like to make trouble for the doctors.
Mike said he doesn’t look bad today all things considered. He now has a one foot long metal rod in his leg to provide stability. It’s a good thing he can’t fly anyway, because wouldn’t he set off the alarms now. Frankly, though, if he were questioned for being a possible terrorist, I think he’d be rather flattered about the whole thing. At his age and all.
He’s still in intensive care until tomorrow, as I guess the danger time for surgeries, especially for older people, is 1 1/2 to 2 days.
My roommate will be home today, and I’m heading over tomorrow to see Dad, have lunch with my brother.
I sometimes forget, sitting in the isolation of my room or out on my solitary hikes, that I have connections with people: family and friends. Tenuous threads that have a habit of getting caught up on life now and again, providing a good, swift yank as you march blithely along.
