Four weeks ago, a blood clot in my left leg landed me in the hospital, attended by a constant stream of doctors, nurses, and lab technicians. The clot was extensive and alarmingly close to a main circulatory branch, where fragments could break off to enter my lungs or heart. Surgery was contemplated.

Thanks to the healing grace of God and the capable work of that platoon of attendants, I got better. They discharged me by the end of the week, armed with prescriptions and orders, to continue recovery at home…then at the office.

A friend phoned me the second day back to commend the progress I was making. “That must’ve been quite an experience,” he said.

“It reminded me of my age and mortality.”

He laughed. “I’m reminded of that every morning when I get out of bed.”

“Well, I haven’t been paying attention,” I confessed.