Diego Didn’t Let Me Die. 💉

Diego just told me it will be three to four weeks recovery for my abdominal surgery.

Two more days in this hospital because stomachs and gallbladders rot in my paternal lineage. Sometimes you get both your grandfather’s eyes and his stomach. Three gifts of the Magi!

Diego, short, young, attaches the tube to the I.V bag, “I hope you have good insurance and someone to care of you.”

I think of something to say but can only vibrate a “Mmmmmm,” sound.

Diego takes the back of my left hand and rubs my veins. He rubs the veins on my inner wrist. He then slaps my skin. I lay back into the bed that readjusts with air every time I move and I begin to fall asleep as he repeats this process of rubbing and slapping on my right hand and arm,

“You have very small veins. I don’t want to hurt you. Can I go in the vein in your forehead?”

His deadpan delivery gives me strength to open one eye for confirmation.

He is so serious looking.

“Do you mean… my Julia Roberts forehead vein?”

“Yes.”

I recall a recent photo of me smiling with a giant vein in my forehead. I thought, whoa, just like Julia Roberts.

“Would you use the butterfly needle?”

“I wouldn’t need to.” Diego says, pausing in front of me with the IV needle, waiting for me to say something.

“How many times have you done this.”

“Once.”

“Did it go as planned?”

“Yes. Are you ready?”

“OH MY GOD, DIEGO, STOP! IM FREAKING OUT! YOU’RE GOING TO PUT IT IN MY JULIA ROBERTS VEIN?”

Diego laughs and takes my left wrist back.

“I’ll get the inner wrist.”

I get a text from a friend, inviting me and my daughter to recover with her on vacation next week.

I tell Diego.

“What a good friend.”

“Very. We leave Monday, March Eleventh.”

“Dream about it during your surgery.”

“If I live, I’ll write about you, Diego, right before I leave on the recovery trip.”