A decade ago, my gallbladder turned gangrenous. I did not know this at the time. My fever spiked, pain sent me into a fetal position, keeping me in bed for a week. Two days after it eased, in a heatwave, like the one we are sweating through, Atticus and I hiked the Doubleheads. Two days later, we climbed Crescent Mountain. In forty-eight hours, I doubled over and was back in bed. On the fifth day, realizing death was calling, I dialed 911.
I crawled on all fours out to the front porch to wait for the ambulance. They were a good crew. Kind to both me and Atticus. We were transported to Memorial Hospital, where a friend came and retrieved Atticus.
I went under, and they moved me from the emergency room. A doctor gave me an injection to jar me back. Hair pulled, cheeks slapped, sternum painfully rubbed.
The doctor later told me, “I knew we had a fighting chance after your first words.”
He reported I spoke in a strained and molasses-slow voice. “All…of…the…nurses here…are so kind…and beaut…
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