2,925.19, to be precise
Oct. 16th, 2013 01:04 pmRecently, I was on the phone with my father; he's 87 now, and he's had a history of heart problems dating back to high school, when he once had an angina attack- which looks for all intents and purposes like a heart attack- right in front of me. Now, there's apparently some sort of problem with his- tricuspid valve? I wasn't focusing completely on the data at that point. At any rate: there is Something Wrong, and he's mulling over the thought of heart surgery, and whether, at close-to-90, he would want to spend a year or so recuperating. When we were done talking, I hung up; the universe seemed to fade into a full, muffled gray. I could- can- will- visit him, but this is far beyond chilling. When my brain stopped merely chittering to itself, I found myself thinking of how, in The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, we are told that every organism, in moments of deep distress, emits a signal which deliniates just how far from the place of its birth it currently is. Just now, per Mapquest, I am 2,925 miles from there; just now, it feels much, much more.