Thank You, Mistress Fate.

On September 16, between the hours of five and seven pm, I was walking on a beach, its exact location is a mystery to me, but Aruba is the most likely culprit.

The sand was… well, sand, but I never lost my footing. The sun was blistering hot but welcoming. The waves were meeting the shore in the epitome of harmonic balance. The gulls did their thing above, squawking like Republicans in front of a television camera.

And that’s where my memory ends – with one glaring exception which I will recount in a moment. But truthfully, the location is irrelevant. All that truly matters is this irrefutable fact: On September 16, between the hours of five and seven pm, I was lying on an operating table at the Greater Niagara General Hospital. A surgical team was repairing my broken body, specifically my shattered left hip.

The hip joint, known in medical circles as the acetabulofemoral joint (art. coxae), is the joint between the head of the femur and acetabulum of the pelvis. Its primary function is to support the weight of the body in both static (that’s standing to us laypeople) and dynamic (walking or running) postures. The hip joints have very important roles in retaining balance, and for maintaining the pelvic inclination angle, without which we’d all be… I believe the medical term is “screwed”.

Let’s get back to me and the result of my ineptitude while carrying a case of dog food and a bag of flyers, shall we?

The surgeon made an incision over the hip, through the layers of bruised tissue through which he removed the diseased and damaged bone and cartilage, leaving only the healthy bone behind. He then implanted a replacement socket into the pelvic bone after which he inserted a metal stem made of titanium (apparently Canadian health care, as awesome as it is, won’t cover the cost of adamantium replacement parts) into the top of the thighbone, which was then topped with a replacement ball.

Total hip replacement surgery with anatomical acetabular prosthesis outline diagram. Labeled educational medical operation process description with new artificial bone structure vector illustration.

I’ll give you a second to stop cringing. All good? Then we’ll continue.

By now you’re no doubt attempting to reconcile the two conflicting accounts of my whereabouts on September 16, between the hours of five and seven pm. I know I would if I was in your place. However, I’m in my place, and so there is no conflict. For you see, the second I regained consciousness in GNGH’s recovery ward I knew exactly what had happened – though I was as mystified as you’re about to be. Then again, I spent the next two hours pulling an Uma Thurman from Kill Bill Volume One (trying to shake the effects of the anesthesia and move my left foot) so there was plenty of time to analyze the situation.

Here is what I concluded: My damaged body was in a GNGH operating room. Conversely, my soul, the spirit or immaterial part of a human being, the seat of human personality, intellect, will, and emotions, regarded as an entity that survives the body after death, was on a beach somewhere in the universe.

Sounds kinda scary, doesn’t it?

And of course, it raises all sorts of questions:

• Was I hallucinating as a result of some really powerful anesthesia?
• Did my mind create its own reality as a coping mechanism?
• Am I making this shit up?
• Has The Hook finally snapped?
• And if so, who won the pool?

I’ll let you, my gentle readers, debate those queries among yourselves. But in case you’re wondering if I was frightened in any way, worry not, my friends. For you see, as some of you have no doubt realized by now…

I wasn’t alone on that beach.

Far from it. In fact, that beach was exactly where I needed to be. It was a place I wished I’d visited years ago, the year 2017, specifically. But Mistress Fate obviously concluded the time wasn’t right back then, that my need wasn’t great enough. Fortunately, she extended her mercy to this lost soul that evening.

And so, The Hook and Rockin’ Ronnie

(you just knew it, didn’t you?)

were reunited at last on the blissful sands of Limbo Beach.

The precise details of our conversation remain beyond my reach, sort of like trying to hold a fistful of sand; you can see it, but you can’t control it.

But my fallen brother told me everything was going to be okay.

And it was.

There’s nothing more to say, nothing of significance at least.

I love you, brother.

Thank you for being there when I needed you the most, even when the boundaries of space and time stood in the way. I’ve spent five years regretting not being able to save you, but you saved me.

I miss you – every damn day, Ronnie, every damn day.

(Man, typing through tears royally sucks.)

See you in the trenches and the Halls of Limbo, kids…