A selection from
by William Martin
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this is page 172
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as I walked back toward the house to lock
up, I broke into racking sobs of an intensity
greater than any I could ever remember. I knew
enough about grieving to recognize that I may
have been repressing something that needed to
come out, so I decided to let it run for as long as it
wanted to. Inside the house, I leaned on the
couch, fully involved but also fascinated by what
was going on. After about a minute, perhaps a little
less, the storm cleared as suddenly as it had
appeared. I washed my face, took another drink
of apple juice (the only nourishment I was
allowed all day other than clear broth), climbed
into the pickup and drove to Houston, happily
listening to the Oilers all the way.
Around 4:30 that afternoon. Rex came by to
take me to the hospital. Though I felt fine and
was traveling light, he insisted on carrying my
bags. We checked in at the reception desk, which
looked far more like that of a luxury hotel than of
a hospital, then made our way to the urology
ward on the fifth floor, which looked far more like
a hospital than a luxury hotel. The first person to
check on me after I settled into the room was an
anesthesiologist whom Rex recognized as the
brother of a friend of his from law school. After
recalling when and where they had met, the
doctor got down to business. As he looked at my
end of page 172
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