12:19 P.M.

           Therearealotofthingswrongwithme.

           Apparently,Ihaveacollapsedlung.Arupturedspleen.Internalbleedingofunknownorigin.Andmostserious,thecontusionsonmybrain.I’vealsogotbrokenribs.Abrasionsonmylegs,whichwillrequireskingrafts;andonmyface,whichwillrequirecosmeticsurgery—but,asthedoctorsnote,thatisonlyifIamlucky.

           Rightnow,insurgery,thedoctorshavetoremovemyspleen,insertanewtubetodrainmycollapsedlung,andstanchwhateverelsemightbecausingtheinternalbleeding.Thereisn’talottheycandoformybrain.

           "We’lljustwaitandsee,"oneofthesurgeonssays,lookingattheCATscanofmyhead."Inthemeantime,calldowntothebloodbank.IneedtwounitsofOnegandkeeptwounitsahead."

           Onegative.Mybloodtype.Ihadnoidea.It’snotlikeit’ssomethingI’veeverhadtothinkaboutbefore.I’veneverbeeninthehospitalunlessyoucountthetimeIwenttotheemergencyroomafterIcutmyankleonsomebrokenglass.Ididn’tevenneedstitchesthen,justatetanusshot.

           Intheoperatingroom,thedoctorsaredebatingwhatmusictoplay,justlikewewereinthecarthismorning.Oneguywantsjazz.Anotherwantsrock.Theanesthesiologist,whostandsnearmyhead,requestsclassical.Irootforher,andIfeellikethatmusthelpbecausesomeonepopsonaWagnerCD,althoughIdon’tknowthattherousing"RideoftheValkyries"iswhatIhadinmind.I’dhopedforsomethingalittlelighter.FourSeasons,perhaps.