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I
had
to
play
five
pieces
:
a
Shostakovich
concerto
,
two
Bach
suites
,
all
Tchaikovsky
’
s
Pezzo
capriccioso
,
which
was
next
to
impossible
,
and
a
movement
from
Ennio
Morricone
’
s
The
Mission
,
a
fun
but
risky
choice
because
Yo
-
Yo
Ma
had
covered
this
and
everyone
would
compare
.
I
walked
out
with
my
legs
wobbly
and
my
underarms
wet
with
sweat
.
But
my
endorphins
were
surging
and
that
,
combined
with
the
huge
sense
of
relief
,
left
me
totally
giddy
.
"
Shall
we
see
the
town
?
"
Gramps
asked
,
his
lips
twitching
into
a
smile
.
"
Definitely
!
"
We
did
all
the
things
Gran
had
promised
we
would
do
.
Gramps
took
me
to
high
tea
and
shopping
,
although
for
dinner
,
we
skipped
out
on
the
reservations
Gran
had
made
at
some
fancy
place
on
Fisherman
’
s
Wharf
and
instead
wandered
into
Chinatown
,
looking
for
the
restaurant
with
the
longest
line
of
people
waiting
outside
,
and
ate
there
.
When
we
got
back
home
,
Gramps
dropped
me
off
and
enveloped
me
in
a
hug
.
Normally
,
he
was
a
handshaker
,
maybe
a
back
-
patter
on
really
special
occasions
.
His
hug
was
strong
and
tight
,
and
I
knew
it
was
his
way
of
telling
me
that
he
’
d
had
a
wonderful
time
.
"
Me
,
too
,
Gramps
,
"
I
whispered
.
They
just
moved
me
out
of
the
recovery
room
into
the
trauma
intensive
-
care
unit
,
or
ICU
.
It
’
s
a
horseshoe
-
shaped
room
with
about
a
dozen
beds
and
a
cadre
of
nurses
,
who
constantly
bustle
around
,
reading
the
computer
printouts
that
churn
out
from
the
feet
of
our
beds
recording
our
vital
signs
.
In
the
middle
of
the
room
are
more
computers
and
a
big
desk
,
where
another
nurse
sits
.
I
have
two
nurses
who
check
in
on
me
,
along
with
the
endless
round
of
doctors
.
One
is
a
taciturn
doughy
man
with
blond
hair
and
a
mustache
,
who
I
don
’
t
much
like
.
And
the
other
is
a
woman
with
skin
so
black
it
’
s
blue
and
a
lilt
in
her
voice
.
She
calls
me
"
sweetheart
"
and
perpetually
straightens
the
blankets
around
me
,
even
though
it
’
s
not
like
I
’
m
kicking
them
off
.
There
are
so
many
tubes
attached
to
me
that
I
cannot
count
them
all
:
one
down
my
throat
breathing
for
me
;
one
down
my
nose
,
keeping
my
stomach
empty
;
one
in
my
vein
,
hydrating
me
;
one
in
my
bladder
,
peeing
for
me
;
several
on
my
chest
,
recording
my
heartbeat
;
another
on
my
finger
,
recording
my
pulse
.
The
ventilator
that
’
s
doing
my
breathing
has
a
soothing
rhythm
like
a
metronome
,
in
,
out
,
in
,
out
.
No
one
,
aside
from
the
doctors
and
nurses
and
a
social
worker
,
has
been
in
to
see
me
.
It
’
s
the
social
worker
who
speaks
to
Gran
and
Gramps
in
hushed
sympathetic
tones
.
She
tells
them
that
I
am
in
"
grave
"
condition
.
I
’
m
not
entirely
sure
what
that
means
—
grave
.
On
TV
,
patients
are
always
critical
,
or
stable
.
Grave
sounds
bad
.
Grave
is
where
you
go
when
things
don
’
t
work
out
here
.
