“You’re not going to kill me, are you?”
“No sir, we’ll take good care of you.”
I shouted: “We’ll take good care of you!”
“Good. How many of these have you done?”
“At least two,” I shouted jokingly. “No, seriously, I’ve been doing lots of these since 1991. I honestly have no idea how many I have done.”
He smiled as he peered from behind the bed linens with warm, welcoming eyes. I could see his relatively thin chest and quietly wondered how large his vessel might be to accommodate the pacing lead.
“You better do a good job, you know I’d like to get home soon, not sure how much longer my caretaker’s going to want to feed the cat, and I have to make sure the company’s doing well.”
“If all goes well, from my standpoint you should be able to head home tomorrow.”
“Good. Now let’s get this done.”
And so, relucatantly, we did. What choice did I have? Gratefully, all went well.
In retrospect, this really isn’t much of a story …
… until you realize he was 101 years old.