Note: See posts every day since Feb 17.

I have one more story to tell from that brilliantly orchestrated day. And it’s not my story, but the doc’s story.

I had finally been admitted into Emergency, with a room of my own. Pretty soon, the doc walked in. Probably somewhere in his 60s.

As he silently and gently manipulated my wrist, I asked if he had ever broken a bone.

“Yes, multiple fractures,” he responded, while turning from me to pick up an instrument.

“WHAT??! Car crash?”

”Plane crash.”

“Small plane?’

“Large. Though I am, and was then, a pilot. You’ve probably heard of it. Sioux City, July, 1989. I was with three friends and we were in the back of the plane, high-fivin’ each other for having gotten on the flight from Denver at the last minute.”

If I wasn’t still pecking with one finger I’d give more of his story. Let me just say here that his fractures occurred, not when the plane crash landed but afterwards, as he and others in the back desperately clawed their way to escape the sudden smoke and ended up falling out from high up, piling on top of each other.

Afterwards, when he called his fiance´from the hospital to tell her why he hadn’t come that day to celebrate her birthday she was furious, and broke up with him.

“What a BITCH!” I erupted.

“That’s what my father said! And he told me, wait a week and you’ll be glad. And yes, I was glad.”

Then suddenly, “But why am I going on about me?”

“Why not?” I replied.