Twelve days ago, during an hour and a fifteen minutes in surgry, my hip joint and part of my femur were removed and replaced with titanium versions. I’ve had four rehab sessions, and I’m transitioning from a walker to a cane. I’m deeply astounded and grateful about all this–astounded that this happened all so quickly, from diagnosis to kind-of-walking, and grateful that it can even be done. I lost a lot of blood, which left me with little energy and, for some reason, absolutely no desire to procure it directly from other humans. Instead, I’m taking a lot of iron. I had to try several kinds before finding one that didn’t make me sick.
I have a story to write, a manuscript to go over soon, and the novel I’ve been bursting to write for years. Much of it is done, but I’m sure that a lot of what I’ve written will need rewriting. So I’ll wake it from its long sleep and ask what it has been dreaming. I’m hoping the characters have been injected with antic restlessness and a willingness to commit reckless, entertaining acts. Maybe they’ve done all that, and they’re ready to recount wild tales.