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Hurricane Leg Approaching

Thirty years ago today, I became an uncounted casualty of the last hurricane to disturb the Massachusetts coast. It was a blood and guts event, as an airborne pane of glass found the middle of my right calf in mid-flight and nearly did me in.

I was given Last Rites, now called Annointing of the Sick (better messaging, according to a team of Vatican communications professionals), and was nearly pronounced dead. The Pope came to my bedside, declaring me a saint. There is now a hospital wing named after me because during my recovery I entertained sick children by popping wheelies on my wheelchair while juggling stethoscopes.

Some of the aforementioned isn't true, but what is true is that my favored right calf was sliced pretty much in half, and if it weren't for the efforts of drunk street people on Harvard Ave in Allston, I might not have survived. (In truth, the drunks just watched; other passersby helped).

Tourniquet in place, I followed that godforsaken hurricane (named Bob, not Leg) right up into Canada and gave it a piece of my mind, cussing it out while I bled all over the north country.

Hurricane Bob is now dead and gone, but I'm still limping along. How ya like me now?! 

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