A nice guy who fell early this morning playing racquetball at the YMCA. He dislocated his left thumb and had a pretty impressive palmar laceration at the joint.
I spent quite a while chatting with him while I sewed up the laceration -- one of the true pleasures of my job. He was a very athletic guy, we both belong to the same Y, and we even knew a few people in common socially. In fact, his wife, also at the bedside, was vaguely related to one of my partners. We talked about the different sports we enjoy, and how the skiing and snow had been this year up at the pass. We talked about my work, and his work, and his experiences in the military and in the war.
Not in Iraq, but in the Philippines, in 1944. He was 85 years old.
Damn. Still skiing and playing racquetball at 85. I marveled at that fact, and he shrugged it off, "What do you expect from an old Marine?"
Talk about winning the lottery, or, as Matt once put it, "Doing the long slow victory dance in the end zone of life."