Recently when I was in a well-appointed but lonely hospital room, there was entirely too much time spent alone. I could neither read New York Magazine nor the classic “Devil’s Dictionary”. My incisions and various apparati did, however, allow me to over-process my family’s dysfunctional legacy, and stare at the different digital readings, mesmerized by the most minute of changes in blood pressure, pulse, and measures of states and symptoms (I know not what!).
I blame my preoccupations on the morphine and the highly-monitored and late night smidgeons of Fentanyl.
One such wee hour, after two full days without so much as a catnap or doze, I started expressing gratitude to the Universe for anything that would remain in my life … post both respirator and cracked sternum. Take for example my favorite television programs. My beloved “Walking Dead” and the others would likely not premiere a new season until I was fully recuperated. Oh, how I miss those zany zombies.
Riveting visions of walkers, in hordes, popped in and out of my imagination. Would our cast ever get out of zombie-ridden Georgia? Is it possible that Newt Gingrich, Hulk Hogan, or Raven Symone might have a guest “turn” after falling victim to this most crazed of SciFi apocalypses.
What would Jon and I do if hordes of these non-creatures invade Marklewood? Would Jon and I lose the fight? Would we become some amusing luncheon? I stopped to ponder that question. Now that I have a pacemaker, LVad, cable, and stents stitched into my body cavity, would I then be “crunchy” to Sparky’s “creamy”? Thank the gods of AMC kindly allowed me a summer filled with jiffs and meditations. I am certain that my ponderances will build towards some bizarre twists and tales.
Dunno. Perhaps it was the morphine after all.
(Image: “The Map of Zombies” by Jason Thompson, 2013.)