"You have a very beautiful ceiling here", said the cheerful man with the thick black valise -- "are you artists?". My doctor had arrived, Trotsky-style wire rims on his shiny plump face. His outfit had been carefully assembled. The wide wale cords, argyle v-neck, tightly checked jacket, and camel flat cap in tans with accents of rose blended post-Habsburg delicacy with late-evening early autumn travelling professional practicality.
He retrodicted the work on my meniscus (the bit player in a show where the ACL had been the hero) on the basis of the vast exoskeleton on my leg, and gave me leave to loosen it when awake; examined the level of swelling on my foot and calf, explained its source, and pronounced it unproblematic; suggested I continuously wiggle my toes to keep the pumps running; assured me that the freshly-noticed hideous bruise on my left hand was not the result of the hideous "it" spreading to novel sites but rather most likely of the IV (the pinprick in the middle contributed evidence); complimented Jess on the subtly flowing curve of the cushions raising my leg above my heart; and exchanged a bit of flattery (sartorial/interior); in the span of five minutes.
I am pleased to announce that I do not expect to suffer a battery of rotting diseases, resulting in multiple amputations; nor will I undergo a heart attack in the near future; nor will it be necessary to return to Birchmount and Finch to re-attach a graft which has pulled away. Instead, I will sleep with a limpid consciousness.
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