DO YOU KNOW WHAT I
KEEP TRYING TO SAY?
Everything seemed out of order : another bunch of
line-dancing Texans sitting down for a 'day-after-Christmas'
luncheon and not knowing what to eat. I figured the name
alone, Sacco's Pizza, would have given them a line-jumping
clue. The same girl I often see there was waiting on them. As
most often, she had her kid in tow, underfoot, gentle, just
having day-fun on Christmas day-one.
-
Ever since my hospital stay - just up the block - my friends
had been here three or four times. This was probably my second.
It's the same place I kept my pre-op death watch that evil night
before surgery. I never eat much, a slice or two, at most; but the
others always rave about something or other: specials or extra
dishes. Every hear of a pear salad? No neither have I, but the
goodly wife loves it.
-
Today, I was sort of released from all that angst and guilt.
The accursed operation was over, but I was still afraid of
anything that could occur, occurring. Watch what food I eat,
kill the alcohol, no processed crap over-heavy with sodium
and its whammo of crud. What do I eat, rice, one kernal at
a time?
-
Ha, ha, I laughed to myself. When I got to my appointment,
I said, 'Doc, if all this was genetic and just caught me in
its trap, what difference does it matter about my diet,
which wasn't the problem at all?' He smiled, sagely, and
said, 'Yes, well, you're right as right can be on that count,
and I applaud your thinking, but with all the meds now
and the balances we're trying to keep, for the next month,
at least, eat wisely, and keep it safe.'
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