This time next week, all being well, I should be at the base camp of the route to recovery. Not being one who can leave a pun languishing, I wrote the following catheter-in-situ poem when the operation was first scheduled. Back soon.
I’m hors de combat, side-lined, indisposed,
about to pass a day with eyelids closed,
whilst teams of surgeons saw and sow and graft
and demonstrate their wondrous healing craft.
I’m in their hands and so with hand on heart,
my cardio-thoracic period will start.
Perhaps I should have stayed with 5 a day.
That’s pills of course, not fruit, I stuff away.
A cornet’s plangent, melancholy note
sounds in my inner ear, sticks in my throat.
That’s natural (a call of Nature, Bertie?),
but I digress. Quick, back to keyboard QWERTY.
Here’s to successful op. If not, I’m toast.
They’ll do their best and this won’t be Last Post!