Before Thanksgiving

      The Surgeon came to see me.  He marked my skin badly enough that I had to terminate a late-evening appointment.  I can’t show up like this. 

     The Surgeon’s in crisis.  The storm destroyed a property and various things are up in the air.  He’s working his ass off.  He is not a balanced individual with a healthy support network.  He’s emotionally isolated.  He’s a frantic, deranged rat in a wheel.  

      He is getting too thin.  I like slim men, but I’m telling you, he still has muscle on him, but he’s getting too thin.  I say, “You have to eat more, Surgeon.”  He says, “How much weight have you lost?”