The old hymn says:”First the blade and then the ear, then the full corn shall appear.” Well, in a similar (but not the absolute best) analogical vein: “First the surgery, then recovery, then rehab, then discharge.”

On my first full day in rehab from hip replacement, I was up in a walker. There were wheels in the front, and tennis balls had been placed over the back legs’ ends for smooth gliding. Concerning these tennis balls, a strange idea passed through my head. I thought that after the walker comes off of the assembly line, some guy just past the assembly line’s robots cuts open the tennis balls and cups them onto the walker’s rear legs (my son Jeremy told me that such is not the case).

Not long into my hospital stay, I realized I was the center of attention, living like a king (sort of), despite tell-tale signs of sutures and bandage (although Henry VIII’s gouty lower limbs were often bandaged). In my castle; though, the court soothsayer had been replaced with true magic: medical science!

Everyone was dedicating their lives (well, at least part of their working lives) to me, as people of earlier days had devoted their lives to despots of old (and some modern-day despots, against whom our country had fought ONE world war, then a Second).

On my right wrist (“right” and “wrist,” another example English’s difficulty for foreigners) were several paper bracelets, one with a bar code, meaning “me.” When the nurse scanned it using her portable scanner, I found myself regretting having left my Food Lion MVP card at home (no telling how many deals I missed out on). Another paper bracelet, in big letters, read “Fall Hazard,” resulting in my feeling as if I were a rock slide on the Blue Ridge Parkway.

During my first couple hospital nights, and not since the days of my very early youth had the moving of my bowels been so enthusiastically praised, and by people (nurses) with a sincerity seemingly as great as that of Lorraine Williams (my mother).

I received flowers and a plush bee from my daughter Rachel, as well as a “Get Well” balloon and a couple of Minions from my daughter-in-law Rose. The helium balloon served to provide a sort of visibility to the air-conditioned currents in my room. The flowers, being very close to my bedside, gave me the opportunity for tactile sensation, so I put forth my fingers to experience the creamy smoothness of petals and the tougher consistency of the leaves.

Nurses and attendants moved stealthily throughout the night, emptying urinals and bringing fresh ice water. Less stealth was employed in the taking of vitals; but stealth completely disappeared when time came for the taking of blood.

Each nurse and attendant, though trained according to the standards and knowledge expected of them, had their own particular nuances (as people do) in their views of this life. Here they were, working together to preserve other “views of life,” temporarily bedridden, and of equal worth, in this more “desperate” republican government.

The physical therapy staff were nice, but sufficiently demanding, something greatly needed by me.

One physical therapist was named Lydia, and she seemed to truly enjoy my singing of the old Groucho Marx song “Lydia the Tattooed Lady,” (although her co-worker Shane said words to the effect that of all the Lydias in the world, this one would have the least inclination to partake of the tattoo artist’s art).

Some visitors received a song from me, and my doctor, of Irish extraction, received an Irish song in “my best John McCormack.”

On the bulletin board of the occupational therapy room, there was a home-made poster of a Tyrannosaurus Rex using “grabbers” in its “grabby” little hands, making complete sense to me. That terrible creature could have truly benefited from their use.

On the day before my discharge, a take-home walker and take-home elevated “potty chair” were brought to my room. I had already been given a “sock horse” and ribbed socks. My accumulated “haul” caused me to reflect on the fact that many a contestant on “Let’s Make a Deal” and “The Price is Right” has gone home with less.

Then, my old “taking-stuff-off-of-the-temporarily-unwatched-hotel-supply-cart” mentality kicked in (as I’ve said before in similar instances, the Germans would dispense with the hyphens, and this would become one word). It occurred to me that my room had one too many soap dispensers, but I said to myself: “Nahhh, better not!”

Seeing the elevated commode, I immediately thought (for some reason) of the composer Ippolitov-Ivanov’s “Procession of the Sardar,” although this “sedan” seems greatly beneath a Sardar’s station in life.

To me, the “slop jar” part of the potty chair resembles a home-made ice cream freezer, minus the crank.

But looking at my new walker, I did notice that someone at the walker factory had forgotten to cup the tennis balls onto its rear legs.

At no time, did I experience any trouble with drainage from my surgical wound, so you can’t call me a “leaker.”

I was discharged on August 5th, my late father’s (Bernard Williams) birthday. It was a just-by-chance line-up of month and day, but it made me think back to 1960 when I was at Rowan Memorial with a fever of 105 degrees. I awoke one night in the wee hours, looked over and saw my father sitting in a chair.

He was bent over in either prayer or sleep, and now I wonder, if such a thing could actually be possible, whether it may have been both.