Weeks Later

It's been several weeks since I limped through the front door, joyous at the thought of being at home. Beside beloved Alison, who'd sat at my bed- side during the worst of my recuperation, I was met by Ella, our dachshund, wagging her tail so vigorously her rump threatened to fall off. Rommy, the Russian blue, silently mouthing a meow, and Sadie, the tortoise-shell delight made up a welcoming trio. Yes, I was alive and home, eleven kilograms lighter, hardly ate the hospital food, for want of another word. Recalling the surgeons words, '15% you'll have a stroke, 5% you'll die during the operation.' And if I don't have it' I asked. 'You'll die', the surgeon said. 'I'm in your hands, ' I replied - cognizant of the ramifications. And you want to know something? It's good to be home!