Anchor Struck

The average lifespan of an American male is 76.1 years. It’s 80 years for a Canadian male. So I beat the point spread in my birth nation, with three years to go north of the 49th. Despite the country, I’m in the age range that constantly reminds us old farts that we are, truth be known, old.

My most recent reminder of note came ten days ago as Jude and I started to walk the dogs. I suddenly became short of breath. We returned to the house, where even walking to the bathroom winded me. The next day Jude took me to the doctor, who sent me to hospital for a chest X-ray. My left lung had collapsed. I was patched up straightaway, but had to wait several hours in Emerg until a room opened up.

I use the term “room” loosely in that hospital rooms generally have a bathroom, TV, window and a wall with a door that opens into a hallway. My “room” would have none of that. It was an alcove for charging various machines. The walls of the alcove had a strip of electrical plug-ins, 62 I counted. The staff was thoughtful enough to provide a screen and a bedside table.

It didn’t matter much. I didn’t need much privacy because I slept most of the three days. Dietary found me, with mixed blessings. I didn’t have my reading glasses. One afternoon I opened my skeptical self up to the universe and it seemed as if the cosmos has a bemused smile and a benign indifference for us. But that could have been the Dilaudid talking. Or, as a nurse told me, “the good stuff”.