Here’s what happened: I woke up; nothing hurt, at least not much; but I woke up.
This morning I counted up the number of surgery scars on my body. Eleven in all. Dan says I’m done now with surgeries. I believe him … he’s never lied to me — ever. We made a pact. I’ll have no more surgeries and he’ll drop putts like Tiger Woods. The bargain is good for me, perhaps unachievable for Dan.
I was instructed to remove my bandaging today — 72 hours after the time of my surgery. Dan made me wait until the stroke of noon. Then we took scissors and all the good wishes we could muster and cut open layers of bandages that had held my fingers still and filled with anticipation for three days.
It looks good!
I’m swollen and bruised. My skin is stretched tight and thin as onion paper. Still, it looks good.
The doctor says I can do what I want as long as it doesn’t hurt. “If it hurts,” he intones, “don’t do it.”
I won’t type long. It pinches.
Still, on the occasion of the eleventh opening of Auburn McCanta, I woke up … it didn’t hurt much … but I woke up.