Just saw an elderly, wrinkled man dressed in a track suit painfully get out of his late-model sports car. He hobbled, with obvious unilateral weakness, to the other side of his car. He then emptied an entire trash bag full of cigarette and cigar butts into the dumpster, winced as he closed the passenger door of his car, then hobbled around to lower himself slowly and painfully into the driver’s seat. I said hello to him and he answered, precipitating a monstrous, hacking coughing fit. He then backed his car out, with that hands on steering wheel every two inches until it’s turned motion, and sped off at fifteen mph.
Sometimes I wish I could turn off the medical training in my head and just see the world like everybody else does.
I’ve been told that I can’t.
I’ve been told I should write about it.