Before you ask, yes, Bernard had a heart transplant, a suitable donor having been found, apparently from Baton Rouge. They wouldn’t tell me much about the donor, they get a little funny about that sort of thing.
If you have no idea what I’m talking about, you can learn what happened to Bernard HERE. I will get around to telling you about our maginificent new crossdressers in a moment, but first a little of what’s been happening in my life!
Naturally, Sylvester and I hurried through to see Bernard the moment he regained consciousness after the surgery, but we got held up by Sylvester wanting to have breakfast. He usually eats a full grilled breakfast at the start of the day.
“I have to get some meat inside me!” He protested.
I must say, I felt much the same way. I had cereal.
We hurried through to the ward from a nearby restaurant. As I walked into the private room I’d arranged for Bernard, at the hospital, I found him sitting in a floral gown, reading a Harlequin Romance novel. Bernard was more of a Sports Illustrated kind of guy, so I found this a little surprising.
I must say, from the moment I walked into the private room, I felt his energy had changed. I am very sensitive to such things. It’s as though I can feel something, right inside me. Perhaps you know the feeling.
“Oh, Bernard,” I said. “I am just happy there’s something deep inside you pulsating and throbbing away, pumping life through your veins.”
I am sure he blushed. I can’t think why.
Sylvester looked at Bernard and said in his gruff mechanics voice, “So, how you doin’, buddy?”
“I feel wonderful,” said Bernard. “I guess there must have been something wrong with my heart for quite a while.”
“What’s it like getting a new one?”
“Well, strictly speaking this one’s second hand.
Reconditioned. Some poor soul who died in a car crash… It feels magnificent. Praise the lord, I feel reborn.”
I looked at Sylvester, frowning. That sure as hell didn’t sound much like Bernard.
“It was extaordinary,” Bernard went on. “I had this strange experience during the operation. Like I was being drawn into the light. And I felt this powerful movement really deep inside me. In the core of who I am.”
“Yes,” nodded Sylvester. “I know what you mean. I’ve had that. It was probably gas.”
“Shut up,” I snapped at Sylvester.
“I feel,” and at that moment Bernard looked vacantly off into the distance as though deep in some private thought, “changed.”
“Changed?” I asked.
“Changed.” He said, seeming to savor the word.
I sensed I was talking to a very different person. I suppose surgery does change us, but this felt somehow different.
By the time we left the hospital Bernard’s face was buried once more deep inside his romance novel, a couple of bike magazines and a Sport Illustrated left untouched by his bedside. I must say it is all very odd.
I will keep you abreast of developments.