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Shook hands with a hospital co-worker. Gave my wife a pen as she signed over her car’s pink slip to a relative of that co-worker. Then grabbed my jaw from the floor when we learned that my wife’s former car is now being driven by a member of a Hmong family my wife came to know as a Head Start teacher more than a decade ago in southeast Fresno. A warm moment in Fresno County, a small family of a million people.
Sell a car, buy a car. The auto dealer joked that my hand seemed to shake as I jotted the last digits on a personal check, my gateway to a car that has “hands free” and 610 pages of whiz-bang, gotta-learn-a-ton gadgetry.
As I drove off, absorbing new car smell, a September rain dappled Fresno. I found an electronic pointer in my hands at Fresno Heart & Surgical Hospital where – for folks who eschewed the live nighttime offerings of the New York Giants vs. Dallas Cowboys, and Bill Clinton's rhetoric – I spent an hour discussing healthcare reform and fielding very incisive questions from members of a project managers association.
The hectic week concluded with my left hand in a gauze compression bandage. For an intriguingly ucky 30 minutes, my favorite general practitioner drove a porcupine quill (aka syringe) into a golf-ball-sized ganglion cyst near my thumb and drained me, hopefully, dry.
I begin a new week, surprised that my hand doesn't look like a mashed tomato next week, hoping it will be serviceable enough to grapple with politicians, quick turns in rush hour and whatever else is coming next.