Anchor Struck

My patched lung blew out again after a few day home despite Jude’s loving care. I had to go back in hospital for a week. I’m home again repatched and on light duty until I see a pulmonologist. I asked my doctor to quantify light duty. He told me not to lift anything over five pounds. This morning, out of an abundance of caution, I asked Jude to empty our bedside commode. She weighed our overnight output at 4.2 pounds. So now I, and you, know.

Mind you, this particular experience isn’t particularly life-threatening, but it’s enough to scare the shit out of a 77-year-old guy. The cumulative effect of a lifetime of bruises, cuts, sprains, breaks, surgeries and a clogged prostate in Rapid City, South Dakota, I suppose. The bright side is a heightened appreciation of every breath I take.

Speaking of 77-year-old men: Donald Trump. I will watch his booking tonight with glee but more so sadness since I believe that every day he breathes keeps the U.S. further from healing. I thought January 6th would be an historic turnaround point, but now I think there may be an event ahead even worse.

Watching the GOP debate last night was disheartening. Loudness and brashness was greatly valued over any glimmer of rational discourse. Vivat Ramaswamy was judged the winner by many pundits, but I found him the most offensive (although I do like the term “ramaswamymania”). He eagerly pandered to the rabid right wing audience. In doing so, like calling climate change a hoax, he gave any opponent a great sound bite should he have to tack to the centre in the general election. Amateur.