Wednesday, September 1, 2010
My new friend is back from the hospital, where he apparently was hooked up to IVs of prescription-strength affection.
When I walked into his room, he was standing up, on his way to the maildrop. With one hand on his walker, he held out his other arm and smiled. He hugged me for a good long time and kissed me on the cheek. He looked amazingly healthy for a man who’d nearly interrupted Bingo with a visit by the local EMTs.
“You gave us quite a scare,” I told him.
He doesn’t remember much about the incident that landed him in the hospital. But he does remember that I called 911, and that I called him at the hospital to check on him.
“I’ve got a lot of friends all over, but they kind of dissolved,” he said. He kissed my cheek again.
He had not had a heart attack, as he’d feared, but an aneurism had ruptured in his stomach—also, he said, potentially fatal.
“If you hadn’t called, I might have died,” he said. “Fast response is critical.”
He’d heard that some people think I will be “fired” for my breach of 911-dialing protocol. He said he’d stand up for me, to anyone. And then he told me he loved me—“but in a platonic way, of course,” he added.
He said he still gets lightheaded from time to time, and his regimen of medicine is in flux, but he wants to be up and walking around—and living.
“I know the end is coming quickly for me,” he said. “And then I’ll see you in heaven.”
But for now, he simply said thanks. And then he kissed my hand.
My new friend is back from the hospital, where he apparently was hooked up to IVs of prescription-strength affection.
When I walked into his room, he was standing up, on his way to the maildrop. With one hand on his walker, he held out his other arm and smiled. He hugged me for a good long time and kissed me on the cheek. He looked amazingly healthy for a man who’d nearly interrupted Bingo with a visit by the local EMTs.
“You gave us quite a scare,” I told him.
He doesn’t remember much about the incident that landed him in the hospital. But he does remember that I called 911, and that I called him at the hospital to check on him.
“I’ve got a lot of friends all over, but they kind of dissolved,” he said. He kissed my cheek again.
He had not had a heart attack, as he’d feared, but an aneurism had ruptured in his stomach—also, he said, potentially fatal.
“If you hadn’t called, I might have died,” he said. “Fast response is critical.”
He’d heard that some people think I will be “fired” for my breach of 911-dialing protocol. He said he’d stand up for me, to anyone. And then he told me he loved me—“but in a platonic way, of course,” he added.
He said he still gets lightheaded from time to time, and his regimen of medicine is in flux, but he wants to be up and walking around—and living.
“I know the end is coming quickly for me,” he said. “And then I’ll see you in heaven.”
But for now, he simply said thanks. And then he kissed my hand.
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