Monday

A better night last night: Mick slept only an hour or two at a time, and again there was the sweaty waking up, but he slept more than the night before, in large part because he knew to take his pain meds. This morning we took a walk east, crossing First Avenue and turning around just short of Sutton Place—a round-trip journey of a little better than three cross-town blocks. Previously in these pages, Mick’s bearing has been likened to that of the Sun King or POTUS, but today we hit on the best comparison. With his newly perfect posture and new height, and his cane, and his hope-he-doesn’t-change-his-mind-before-you-guys-get-to-see-it ‘stache, he looks like somebody in the Ascot scene from My Fair Lady, promenading. Now I just call him Lord Smedley.

Midday Mick’s mother, Susan, stopped by, and was understandably amazed by his condition. He’s so mobile and so cheerful it takes a look at his back incision to remind you what he’s been through. A little later there was a visit from a physical therapist, a compact, intense, and focused guy named Erlano. He said Mickey wouldn’t be eligible for physical therapy for another six weeks, when he could stretch. Mick said aww, c’mon, I want some now. Erlano said he would see what he could arrange. Most importantly, for the first time since leaving the hospital, this afternoon Mick had a conversation with Dr. Kuflik, the orthopedic surgeon, who answered a lot of questions. Mick will see him later this week or early the next.

Later there was an hour-long nap, of which your blogger approved enthusiastically. Around six Mickey persuaded our beloved next-door neighbor, Libby, to stop in for just a few minutes.

The surgery was a week ago today. Wednesday one of the doctors said “I guess you’ll be watching the Super Bowl from here.” How wrong he was (though as it happens Mick didn’t watch the Super Bowl from home, either. There was an I Love Lucy marathon.) It’s supposed to snow tomorrow. I mention this only because I don’t know what kind of weatherproof shoes we’ll be able to squeeze those poor swollen feet into.