The American Spectator

Special Report

Old Ironsides Redux

By Lawrence Henry on 8.22.08 @ 12:07AM

(Page 2 of 2)

For me, I think of "no more." In one of the most disturbing pieces of news from my transplant coordinator, she hinted that my donor perhaps would not work out, that, in effect, I would be untransplantable.

I can have an even worse day than the one I had last week. Sunday found me in the hospital with a bad dose of peritonitis. It will mean at least a three-week further delay in the transplant process, and may spell "no more" to the entire undertaking.

WE NOW GET AS FAR AS THE FIRST HALF of the last stanza:

Oh, better that her shattered hulk
Should sink beneath the wave;
Her thunders shook the mighty deep,
And there should be her grave;
Nail to the mast her holy flag,
Set every threadbare sail,
And give her to the god of storms,
The lightning and the gale!

We deal with "shattered" and "hulk," words that apply as well to me as to the old ship. In the midst of all this trouble, I most fear that I will fall. In the shower, stepping down into the garage, getting into my car. I tread very carefully.

For this season, a suntan disguises a lot. My skin takes color quickly. "You look good," people say to me.

"What does 'shattered' mean?" I ask Joe.

"Uhh...big?"

"Broken into pieces," I say. "What does 'hulk' mean?"

"Uhh...I don't know."

"A shell," I say. "What's left after all the pieces inside are broken."

An old friend of mine wrote me a wonderful letter, referring to a couple of my columns. "I want you to have a 'successful' transplant, regain your health and stamina, and be prepared to raise hell with a vigorous voice."

Funny. When I flew back from Los Angeles, the plane took a more or less straight route from L.A. to Chicago. On that entire stretch, through the clear sky, looking down from my window seat, I saw...nothing. Demographers say that 80 percent of us live within 50 miles of a coast. I can believe it.

I am less in the mood to raise hell than to get away from its earthly manifestations. Oh, that there were some gale into which I could step with sail ripping in the wind. Oh, Lord, deliver me.

Letter to the Editor

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