After surgery, few of my friends visit. I can understand why. I'm no longer a good conversationalist. My thoughts are now occupied with peanut butter and living inside the wall and munching wiring. I've already shorted out the toaster with my munching and my wife, who is given to long sad looks, responded with a crisp scolding.
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.
