On Three

 191.

Hank, as he introduces himself to me, sheepishly slips on his shoes, ties the waxed laces and shuffles the six steps that separate us. He stands next to the motorized and wired bed that has been my home for eight months and looks at me with a face of fascination. I read his look as "yesterday you talked and now you want to walk?'

I take charge of the situation, waiving any formalities and all precautions.

"First we need to pull these wires and carefully move the harness out of the way. Then we lower the port side guard rail, and lastly you give me a hand swinging my legs over the side. From there I just need you to stabilize the test run."

"Run?" he snorts, "I am not even sure I should allow you to do this without medical approval and now you want to RUN before you walk?"

"I use the term loosely Hank, it might be more a two-step than a tarantella. And don't worry about medical approval, the sooner I am able to walk out of this joint the happier they'll all be."

He smirks and shrugs, indicating a willingness to follow orders despite their area being an arguable shade of gray.

"Let's do this."

Recognizing the value and big-picture importance of the next few minutes, I draw a deep breath and commit to objectivity. As they say in screenwriter circles, the moment of truth is at hand. I am a little concerned and a lot worried. What-if's circle my consciousness like buzzards over a downed calf.

There is a muffled knock at the door and without waiting for a reply the young Neurologist walks in. In less than the time it takes to recognize a traffic light's descent from amber to red, she access the situation, its intent and the associated danger.

Most, perhaps all, would ask something along the lines of, 'What are you doing'?, 'Stop this instant', or even the more contemporary and emphatic 'wtf?'

She does none of the above, choosing instead to, without hesitation, offer assistance.

If there was any residue of doubt regarding my decision and determination to discover, she has effectively removed it.

I am now flanked by Hank and the Neurologist. The former well over six feet and two large and the latter a tiny maybe five-four and a buck and change. The imbalance is so obvious that we take a timeout to reconsider and realign.

"Let's try front and rear," The Neurologist suggests in the same voice she used just yesterday in her stunning closing oratory of hope.

We both agree and make the on-site change.

I take another deep breath and use my best quarterback command voice to call the audible, "Ready?"

"On three."