The whole thing is ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous. I can’t be dying. No way. It’s a preposterous idea. I’m just going to take a little nap here and when I wake up I’ll be all better.
There’s nothing wrong with me that a little nap won’t cure. Then I’ll get up and straighten up this room, put things to rights, sit in the chair . . . ah, actually, my back has become so deconditioned that I can only stand up for a few minutes.
Well, what the heck, I’ve done tons of exercises; I just need to buckle down, get back to work, and do a few more. Uh, no, the last time I did exercises what happened? Something bad happened, had to stop.
If the will, you know, the will—if the will could triumph then I, by golly, could get out of this bed, pack my gear, walk out of this hospital, go home and—go home and—. There is no home to go to. We’re breaking it up because I never will be fit to go there again.
How is this possible? How did it come to this? Blood sugar rising, medicine makes me sick, kidneys failing, deconditioned all over the place, eyes going, can’t reach the blankets to pull them up from the foot of the bed—you’re kidding me, right? This can’t be me. This has got to be one hell of a big mistake. Somebody, somewhere, has got this whole thing totally wrong.
And when Bob Dobrow ejected from his plane and was falling toward the earth under a closed parachute, I know exactly what his last thought was: “I’ll pull out of this; I always have.”
I always have recovered. That asthma attack when I was three, and again when I was five and turning black. The first suicide attempt when I was fourteen. The one in 1999 that put me on life support for a month. What was it my Health Care Proxy said? “She should be given every chance to recover. I’ve seen her go through bad times before and come back to have good times again.”
Damn straight, Skippy; I’m going with that one. I’ll be fine. Give me a couple days then we’ll get together for lunch somewhere. I haven’t been to the Dinosaur for barbeque in ages—want to meet there?