It’s all been a lot to process since the heart attack. There’s the usual noises of those around you who either mouth words politely or are genuinely concerned.

“How are you?”
“How are you feeling?”
and so on.

It’s reflexive. I’ve said the words before with the inflection at the end. Sometimes friendly and soft, sometimes measured and stern, mostly somewhere in between, tailored for the brain of the person I’m speaking to. I’ve had less problems with getting it wronger as I got older.

I got older. I’m not sure what that’s supposed to mean. In raw terms, it means that the fleshy bits of me are wearing out from this friction we call life. My mind has become a bit proud that it has withstood time better, but I know all the dumb things it has done in the past so I’m not all that impressed. In fact, some of the wear and tear on the body was because of dumb decisions the mind made. Let’s call it a wash. Even on my most open day, the my life is redacted and left to those who shared those days.

I’ve been leery about writing about what’s happened since I last documented the hospital stay. It’s good writing material, and I have been documenting it, but it’s best made public after the fact so I’m steering clear of it and – for obvious reasons – it has been occupying my mind.