About ten days ago, Peter finally got his pandemic-delayed hernia operation.  It required the usual preparations, even though it was only minor day surgery.  And, of course, it required someone to take him there and bring him back home, supposedly after a couple of hours.

The hospital was forty-five minutes away, and we had to be there at 7:45 in the morning.  No problem.

But, when we got there, I was told that I couldn’t go into the hospital because I had not been tested for Covid-19.  Fortunately, I had my book and my phone. I went off to park the car in the designated lot.  I phoned a friend and we talked for about an hour. When the excitement of that wore off, I walked around the parking lot for a bit of exercise.  Then I read the paper.  Then I walked around the parking lot again.  Then I picked up my book and started reading, expecting a call from the doctor at any moment to tell me “we’re bringing him down”. But it didn’t happen.

After a while I began to worry—not about Peter, but about my bladder. Some more time passed and I realized worrying wasn’t good enough anymore.  Fingers crossed, I stepped through the hospital door, and shouted to a woman behind a desk, “Can I possibly use a restroom?”  “Of course”, she said.  “There’s one just around the corner.”

Peter’s surgery went well.  They had kept him longer because he had been given general anesthesia.  He said that everyone and everything about the hospital, from the intake to the juice and cookies after he woke up, was perfect.

Not clear who was the “patient” one that morning.