One day this past week I showed up at hospital for a procedure. "Procedure" is a euphemism for any number of things that might be done to you. After a noneventful check-in with a pleasant lady on the other side of the computer, I presented myself to the surgical area. Here I was turned over to a nurse who either a) does not like men, or 2) does not like her job.
Among other things, the above tag was affixed to my arm. My first thought was, "What the..." then it occured to me that perhaps they fastened this on all elderly people just on general principle. But that can't be right. Because a bat in broad daylight could look at me and tell that I am a geezer.
There will be no further detail, except that when I arrived in the OR, the doctor said, "There is a risk of..."
And I am going, "Lalalalalalala... I can't hear you... lalala." And she said, "Knock him out."
The next thing I knew, I was awake and back in my room where BBBH said, "You can get dressed; you're ready to go." An attendant wheeled in a chair, got me seated therein and took me to the front entryway, where spouse had driven up in the car. I swung into the passenger seat and she drove us home. Now, I opened the door, stepped out, stood more or less erect and took a step; and I was teetering, and reeling, and wobbling, and slowly grasping the meaning of "fall risk."
But I didn't fall.
Forty-eight hours later, doctor called. She said biopsy negative, and I am dancing around, well, like an old geezer. But I didn't fall.