My father and mother arrived on Sunday to drop off the paper at the hospital. My father was obviously excited. “I found a place that sells it for $6 instead of $10,” he said with pride. The $10 Canadian price of the NY Times vexed and mystified him on a very deep level. I knew the place where he’d gotten such a discount: the dimly lit convenience mart on Davie Street that had about a hundred hookahs in the front window, all decorated with dazzling sprays of rhinestones. I told him the store had been closed the year before for selling black market handguns. “Who cares if they sell monkey…
That’s right, folks—I’m still here. My still here-ness is something that apparently continues to impress a fairly large portion of the medical community here in the Vancouver, BC area. Every few days I’ll arrive for a routine follow-up exam, as one must do in the aftermath of a thing like this. I’ve probably seen 45 different doctors or so in the last four months. When I see a doctor for the first time, he’ll spend a few minutes paging through my records in a formal, doctorly fashion. Then he’ll usually say, “You know, you’re lucky to be alive.” You are lucky to be alive. I never know how I’m supposed to respond…