In My Time of Dying

It’s just another song…

He flinched with his grandson’s fear of the needle seeking crimson flow. A bout of Diverticulitis threw an 8 hour delay into vacation, but not life. I sat with my Dad at the Villages Regional Hospital for extended coverage of “I knew her best” coming from our presidential contenders over the assassination of Benazir Bhutto, interrupted regularly by the other “important” story of the day which could have been reported with a simple scrolling message:

I sat, paced and pondered the day away while Kyle spent it watching movies with my Dad and Caroline’s long-time friend, Anita. Many concerned faces filled my view of the ER expressway. I imagine many trips to the Villages hospital are one way and the hasty, nervous voices of loved ones explaining symptoms were subtitled with hope for a reprieve back home. Fortunately for Dad, there was no blockage or infection, so he got a ticket for the 7:30 home.

With a nod to “Reservoir Dogs,” a film he’ll likely never see, Kyle has dubbed Dad “Mr. Grey” for the trip, although I think his nickname more closely resembles a Boston mobster he looks like: “Whitey.” Oh, and “Mr. Young” didn’t leave me out of the naming game. I’m “Mr. Old.” Thanks, my boy.

“Mr. Old.” With less than 10 months to a half a “C-note,” I’m not digging it. Tonight Dad asked if I’ve given any thought to living here, um, later. “I try not to think about it,” was my reply.

“Though the course may change sometimes
Rivers always reach the sea”

“Ten Years Gone” – Led Zeppelin from Physical Graffiti

After we completed the red tape obstacle course, the staid woman at the desk said “stay healthy,” and three generations walked out, one better than the others. With the deadline for making resolutions we’ll break a few days away, that woman’s advice is the leader in the Villages clubhouse.