Bed-Sheet Bliss?

In the shower, at four in the morning, he soaped himself and re-soaped himself - with an especially fragrant (yet manly scented) bar of soap that he had been saving for an especially intimate occasion. He wonders if he will ever again be up to bringing about bed-sheet bliss.

As for making a favorable impression on the nurses and doctors, would the second and third lathering in that early morning shower make any difference? Would the scent linger on just a bit longer after the previous day's epidermal debris was washed away? Would the liberally-applied mentholated zinc-oxide deodorant powder be overpowered by nervous emanations? Would it make any difference to the surgical team that had surely seen worse and smelled worse, by far? Still, he wanted to make a good impression, however that might be accomplished in one-size-fits-all hospital haberdashery.

He hadn't found it hard to sleep that night; all had been calm; his thoughts were bright.

At his departure for the hospital, the world in solemn stillness lay; the weather not remotely frightful. However, his well-rehearsed composure began to come undone as the taxi driver took a strange route and seemed thoroughly distracted, re-tuning the taxi's radio from an Islamic call to prayer to a Middle Eastern chart-topper. Did the call translate to mercy mild, with God and sinners reconciled? Where was Rudolph with his sleigh-guiding nose, when it was really needed? For global-positioning, some angels bending near the earth would be nice.

Let nothing you dismay, he told himself. After all, a hijacking and hostage-taking were highly unlikely. He had no ransomable value to anyone but his kids and his father-in-law - none of whom had been told of his imminent procedure or of the reason for it.

For the next few days, his daughter would still be occupying a chemistry lab, for additional academic laurels and student-aid credit. His son was away at an interscholastic hockey tournament. His father-in-law had suspicions; the FIL had made inquiries and intimations at Thanksgiving, but they had been parried, and parried again in the three weeks that followed.

His cover: He told the family that he was going to the city for a few days to pursue a consulting job. The presentation and follow-on interviews would keep him there for a few days. The story worked. He wished it was true.

His coverage: He wasn't at all clear as to what percentage of what expenses would be covered by the insurance he had managed to keep in place. He wondered if his condition would be judged pre-existing. He was counting the months and the days until he could apply for Medicare. It was the one time he wished he was older. Driver's license age threshold, drinking age threshold - none of those markers had mattered. Ahhh, but to be 65 - that would mean coverage to an extent he could not be guaranteed without Medicare.

He wanted to make and leave an impression of being composed and unruffled. For self-fulfilling finery, he tugged on neatly-pressed reverse-pleated Jos. A. Bank khakis and a freshly-laundered Brooks Brothers oxford-cloth button-down-collar shirt - both well worn, yet well preserved; made in the USA labels still readable.

He pulled on a days-of-yore Jacob Reed's Sons soft-as-cashmere V-neck sweater and a classic L. L. Bean barn coat. He had even polished his MBTs.

At the hospital, the serenely stark halls were decked with boughs of holly. The early morning had vestiges of the silent night.

After checking in, signing all manner of forms, and receiving his initial set of wrist bands, he looked about the waiting area, which had the appearance of a privileged-flyer pre-boarding lounge, sectioned off and cloistered from airport hubbub. The patient-"passengers" and traveling companions were, in his imagination, waiting for an early morning flight. Some were accompanied by duffel bags; some accompanied by attentive daughters and anxious sons; some situated with spouses or significant others. Without staring, he tried to figure out who might be the patient and who might be along for moral support.

Every so often, perhaps more so at that moment, he wondered why he was alone - why his life, his widower ways, karma, or whatever, had him sitting unaccompanied. Maybe it was just as well, given his circumstances. Maybe it was just as well, for the time being. Time, in those moments, seemed to stand still, even while a countdown clock signaled that "fast away the old year passes."

In the pre-surgery staging area, behind a curtain, he slipped out of his dress-to-impress attire and into hospital finery. His freshly-pressed trousers and shirt, along with the sweater and coat were stuffed into carefully-labeled pull-chord clear-plastic sacks. He had forgotten to take an eye-glass case, so he nestled the thin-framed bifocals into a sock; then tucked the enclosure into one of the MBTs.

He placed both sacks by the gurney, with care - in the hope that he would be returning to them; and to his own, real, underwear.