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The doctors call constantly. Or, I should say, their assistants call and ask when I'll return for the rest of the procedure. My wife ferries a cell phone to me outside in the yard, as I now spend hours concealed in the ivy.
In a high-pitched rapid voice, I inform the doctor's assistants that I feel used, a pawn of the health insurance agencies, since my post-op treatments will require decades of expensive medications and operations. All the pre-op love bombs and encouragement I received from TikTok are meaningless now.
My wife grows distant. She spends hours in the garage watching YouTube videos, then building something long and wooden with steel coils and a large metal bar.
I can't be tricked. I'm more cunning than ever. But if peanut butter is placed on this device, I'll go it.
