10 August—Seven years ago today, Jeffrey Epstein’s body was discovered in his cell in NYC’s Metropolitan Correctional Center. It’s doubtful it was a DIY job.

So yesterday’s disquisition elicited a number of comments, questions, and suggestions. Comments ranged from “Great column today” to “why dont you get a life and leave President Trump alone.” A few questions wondered what had happened to me and several asked what the hell is an electric bra? And two readers suggested replacing the national days panel with something like the Heil Mein Führer! one.

It was gratifying that no one regretted my not having died. No one who wrote in, anyway. Suffice to say for now that it’s not all that easy to find ready, willing, and able butts like Todd Blanche to have fun with every day. But it’s something to consider.

It happened that age and its concomitants surprised me—although they shouldn’t have. Back in the day I’d think nothing of carrying 100-pound bags of horse feed and was—and am—critical of busybodies like OSHA for banning them. A fortnight ago, a 50-pound bag of dog food was a challenge.

Of late, I’d had to climb stairs slowly, I’d often found it hard—even impossible at times—to take deep breaths, and I’d gained weight in spite of 1,500 daily calories at the most. Last weekend, however, after mowing the meadow with the Hustler, I split some wood with a sledge and wedge with no problem. (I’ve never used an hydraulic splitter.)

Monday morning, a week ago, I felt so weak, I asked my son to take me to the walk-in clinic in the former CBT building in downtown Torrington. I had to be wheeled in. Breathing got harder. Ambulance called to take me to the Charlotte Hungerford Hospital. Breathing even harder. I began to panic. Wheeled into Charlotte ER. More panicky panic.

Next thing I remember, I woke up with a tube down my throat, my arms tied down, and no way to communicate, since my voice was disabled by the ventilator tube. Talk about panic and despair. I don’t know how long I panicked and despaired before a team came in to ease the tube out of my throat, unbind my arms, and welcome me to the intensive care unit of St. Vincent’s Medical Center in Bridgeport.

It was Tuesday morning. I had been in an induced coma for a day. My son later told me that the emergency room physician at the Charlotte had told him I was an hour away from death (give or take, of course) when I was knocked out and put on life support.

Because I could not stop for Death—He kindly stopped for me. Yeah, right, Emily . . .