“Sunlit Moss”

I abandoned the idea of driving myself to the hospital as I had when the mentally ill son of a minister driving around Berkeley and shooting women, had fired two bullets into my left wrist and two others into my neck. I had been thirty-four years old then, nearly 20 year younger and with no previous concussion.

Three decades of marriage to a surgeon and my experience working as a medical technologist in a blood bank had taught me much about recognizing your limits.

On hearing the woman speak the words, “ … husband … I’m going to call him,” I had thought