The deep pleasure we always take in our ravine rambles has been diluted enormously for me. I find it difficult to engage as I normally do, to fully appreciate our surroundings, since I am temporarily unaccompanied by my husband to whom I can always point out things that I notice, when he's with me, sharing the landscape experience. In his absence I grieve silently even though I know this is a temporary situation. As he progresses in his recovery from that critical surgery he will slowly regain his strength, energy and stamina. In the meanwhile, we both must have patience.

Yesterday he felt well enough early in the day to feel enthusiastic about the wonderful sunny day with its mild temperature, and he wanted to go for a lengthier-than-normal stroll. So we walked down the street, leaving the puppies at home, and though I remonstrated now and again that we'd gone far enough under the circumstances, he urged that we continue. We walked too far for his endurance. We did rest awhile on a bench at a little parkette located off the street next to our own, but our return home was a lethargic affair. After which he found it difficult to recover that good feeling. Leaving him feeling anything but good for the remainder of the day.

He is finally eating well, though not as much as I would like, to regain his muscle mass and energy levels as his body heals itself in its gradual fashion. I come across people we are acquainted with on my daily walks in the ravine with our two puppies, and since they're not accustomed to seeing me without my husband by my side, I'm obliged to satisfy their curiosity, and am met with an incredulous response, everyone seemingly finding it difficult to believe that the man who has always been so vigorous and healthy had to undergo such a critical surgery.

When he is recovered, returned to his normal self, they can marvel anew at the capacity of a healthy man of eighty years to return to an optimum state of health and well-being.