From my hospital bed

So I am writing this morning from the inside looking out. Good but not quite well. Well but not quite great. Great but not yet good enough to break out of this joint.

It all began, as these things can, innocently. The moon was in the seventh house, or something like that, and we readied to go watch the sun kind of play hide and seek with us. Like they say, the best laid plans..

I announced I was going to the bathroom. Only my bottom failed to receive the message, stuffed up tighter than Mike Pence and Mother at a nudist colony. So I sent my crew out minus one and took steps to correct the error of my ways.

After several medical aids failed to remedy my inconvenient truth, I headed to the hospital around the corner. Hoping and believing in a quick fix.

However, evening turned to overnight and midday of the following day brought no relief, despite having been inflicted with more uncomfortable attempted aids to resolution than I would suggest even Mr. Trump should have to withstand in such a short period. Well, maybe not more in his case because he definitely wakens each morning full of it.

And, after several interesting efforts by the surgeon to remove the offending material without the aid of surgery, I found myself listening to the anesthesiologist telling me to have a good sleep.

The time since I returned to my hospital room has been filled with gadgets attached to me to assist in my recovery, with periodic indignities thrown in for good measure. At my age any inhibitions regarding others seeing what were once private parts but are now open to the public have, much like Elvis, left the building.

I hope to earn my diploma and graduate from here in a day or two. If not good as new, at least good enough. And, in this universe, that is more than good enough for me.