Friday, January 16, 2004


I had a brief encounter with a squirrel this the middle of a pounding rainstorm.

I was leaving the hospital and rushing to my car when this squirrel came dashing directly toward me in the opposite direction.

We both stopped.

The squirrel evidently was sizing me up and considering the threat I might pose compared to the prospects of staying in the middle of the parking lot and drowning.

I was simply standing in the rain staring at a squirrel.

I'd prefer it if no one make any judgement about the most intelligent being involved in this little interlude.

Suddenly, as if by mutual agreement, I dodged right and and the squirrel dodged left.

Our paths differed but we shared the desire for drier ground.

I don't want to dwell on it, but I suspect the squirrel achieved that goal before me.

I left the hospital without talking with Amy's surgeon who had still not made his morning rounds. Normally he zips through around 7 a.m. while I'm at work, so I don't get a chance to speak with him and must instead get a recap from Amy, who has been on morphine all week. This hasn't always resulted in the most satisfying synopsis of her situation.

The surgeon hadn't made his rounds this morning by the time I broke away from the office so I was hoping to catch him and get perhaps a more cogent prognosis.

I got to Amy's room in plenty of time, and then promptly fell asleep in the ever so comfortable hospital room lounge chair that I've now become attached to in more ways than I care to imagine.

It didn't matter. The doctor didn't show.

Eventually I woke up, and realized I had to leave.

Of course, the surgeon called Amy at almost the exact same time that I was having my moment with that squirrel. The Doc apologized and said he was delayed, because the plumber he was waiting for at his house didn't show up.

For some reason I see a certain irony in that.

The good news is that Amy has voluntarily started weaning herself off the morphine. That's a critical step. They don't let you leave the hospital if you're jonsin' for what the poets called sweet morpheus and the junkies call Mister Blue.

I'm optimistic that we will be able to wave Mister Blue good bye and that will give me the green light to spring Amy from the hospital over the weekend.

That's assuming nothing squirrelly the surgeon's toilet getting clogged.