Now that was nice . . .

I just had my first shower since Thursday morning. No, not last Thursday. The Thursday before that. When I was still in Jordan. In the meantime, two very long flights with sloppy potty habits, spinal surgery, laying flat on my back for days on end, and physical therapy.

I’m told that after a few days without a shower I begin to channel Pat Riley. It’s another few days of riding the slippery downward slope before I land in Charles Manson’s lap. And after eleven days? Well, let’s just say you wouldn’t want to meet up with me in a dark alley, partial paralysis or not.

My walking ability continues to improve, albeit slowly. Cec tells me I’m making remarkable progress, but one of her many qualities is an unwavering positive outlook. Tomorrow the neurosurgeons take the 33 staples out of my back. We’ll see what they have to say.

I really did receive excellent care at the hospital in LA. The physical therapist assigned to me for my first jaunt out of bed was a questionable choice, however. She stood about 4’9” and couldn’t have weighed more than 85 pounds. All that stood between me and the hospital floor on that first journey was this young woman, tethered to my torso with a strap. Had I plunged toward earth, she would have been nothing more than the tail on a kite. The thought of ending up in a ridiculous heap on the floor with her was enough to keep me on my feet. Maybe that was the plan all along.