Now that I'm getting stronger, I am recalling some of the more interesting incidents that occurred when I was in the hospital.
The night before my surgery, my room suddenly was filled with six doctors. Five of them were the surgical team to discuss the operation and what to expect following it. Then they left and the remaining doctor, the hospitalist, who coordinated all my treatment, pulled up a chair by my bed.
My first thought was "Oh, oh! This doesn't look good." It wasn't. He told me that he had to inform me of my options and that my decisions should take into account that the end result would most likely remain the same. I remember asking how long and how he danced around the question while I pressed for an honest answer.
Then I had what I call my Rodney Dangerfield moment. I kept thinking "Today I had good news and bad news. The good news is I won't get dementia. The bad news is I won't live long enough." I think you would call that sick humor.
In looking back, I wonder if the hospitalist had another motive; one that would make me mad enough to say "Oh, yeah? I'll prove you wrong, Mister!" Because that is the attitude I've had since his visit that night. Thanks, Dr. Kovachev.