And Sometimes Y

 186.

I decide to act. I make the conscious decision (although made in a drug enhanced state of semi-comatose) to serve my highest calling. I am a warrior. I will not go meekly into that murky twilight. I pledge to give it my best, my absolute best shot.

Often I have lectured on the importance of knowing, with brutally honesty, the starting point. We are we? Are we lost? Are we weak? Do we fully understand and commit to the motivation behind the need for this choice in the moment of truth? What needs to be assessed? Are our limitations body-based, stemming from lack of information or skills, or of a feeble spirit? Do we, can we, will we take the crucial first step in the direction of our goals and then commit to the continuation of the steps, and this is the crux of the equation, NO MATTER WHAT?

That is the deal-breaker that keeps 90% from their goals. Something happens. The slope increases, the temperature drops the bad guys start using automatic weapons and ignore conventional rules of engagement. Shit, as they say, happens. And that nine of ten give up and go home. I cannot stress this concept enough. No matter what means no mater what. In my case it implies the reality that I have spent the last eight months in a hospital bed induced into a state of comatose. A state I wish to leave. My consciousness has had sufficient recovery time to access the homeostasis and make this a voluntary decision. I need to rally the corporal and chaplain, the troops of body and spirit, and get back in the game. Posthaste.

I open my eyes and allow for focus and chroma adjustment. I hear the sixty-cycle hum generated by the heating-air conditioning apparatus in discordant harmony with the life support system I am temporarily dependent upon. I test my tactile perception with thumbs and index fingers, alarmed at the left-right imbalance. I sniff the atmosphere and detect the unmistakable odor of lysol and fear. It reminds me of jellied gasoline, napalm. There is a person asleep on the tiny couch to my right and I turn my head in the attempt to identify the snoring sentinel. I test my vocal capabilities to announce my intentions but all I can muster is a crude slur of vowels,

"Aeiou."

The sleeping dog lies.

"Aiioouuu."

Movement. Truth.

Louder this time, with inflection on the third syllable, like perhaps an Italian code, "Aeiiiiiiiou?"

Sitting now in the shallow darkness I can see Davis look at me with a questioning angle of head, as if he is trying to break the code and provide the proper response. I need him back on my team and despite our sometimes tumultuous history, he needs to be the conduit between my current pathetic state of non-being and a functioning tooth on the team's cog. He rises and covers the five steps with ninja-like grace ending with a whisper to me at bedside.

"And sometimes why."