It’s 6:45 am. I’m running on empty, yet raring to go.
The nurses are no longer urging me to at least try to get some sleep. Perhaps later.
Right now I might just indulge myself and order a mid-century, farmer’s breakfast: two fried eggs, sausage, grits, rye toast with cream cheese, and an iced coffee. Yes, the hospital permits such decadent items, on the rare “pre-transplant” occasion.
Then, for the rest of the day, I’ll just feel as though I’m living within the context of a Fifth Dimension songbook.
Of course, I may struggle to stay awake for tonight’s Downton Abbey finale.