Greg took a walk in the hall yesterday. They hooked him up to a portable oxygen tank and Teresa (a proud PICU member of Team Greg) busted him out of his B Ward prison for a glorious fifteen-minute stroll around deck three. He even came to visit Jenn and I (although I wasn't home when he came knocking).So. This is what a miracle looks like.
In other news, the men's Wimbledon final was also on Sunday afternoon. A group of us were in the lounge watching when it started to pour rain outside. Not exactly a surprise, given that we are in the throes of rainy season. But as the wind picked up, the satellite feed stuttered and snapped to black, leaving ten or so very disgruntled tennis-watchers who had been rather interested in the 5-5 match.
What happened next was classic Mercy Ships. We gathered around a computer, logged onto Wimbledon.com and proceeded to 'watch' the remainder of that match. We stood shoulder to shoulder, cheering on our favoured players and promising ever greater feats of bravery (beard shaving and such) should our man take the day. First, the serve speed showed on the screen. Seconds later, either Federer's or Nadal's score would update itself, followed by shouts and groans from the collected group, which gained curious onlookers until the final point. Nadal carried the match amidst cheers and catcalls from close to thirty-odd people squinting at tiny print on a computer screen. And none of us really thought it was strange.
We talk about the real world quite a bit around here. I have no idea what it looks like anymore.
