The cell phone on the table buzzed and, stupidly, I picked it up. Of course, it was herself, Ms.Pigette, and her ever-changing and sometimes interesting collection of insults.

Where have you been boy? Someone said you were sick, but I guessed Elon Musk and his minions finally got to you and sent you to the sheriff’s office in Jackman.

Wrong-o-mondo, sister, I replied. I just got sick, and my pal Bill Haney convinced me to go to Miles in Damariscotta, and they whisked me to Maine Med. The medical chart tells me they saved my bacon, no offense intended, Ms P.

I used to joke about wanting a tattoo on my chest that said: “Do not resuscitate.” When you are in the emergency room and they stuff a tube down your throat, that alleged joke becomes damn serious when you realize you can almost hear musicians tuning the harps at the pearly gates.

So, I have been out of the loop. I don't know why the Secretary of Defense removed the name Enola Gay from the department’s website, not to mention the likes of Ira Hayes, Jackie Robinson, and the Navajo Code Talkers. Are they trying to discourage everyone from defending the nation?

But, Ms. Pigette, politics aside, having observed the health care system from a wiggly bed on the fourth floor, let me offer a thought or two on the puzzle — the very expensive puzzle — we call health care.

I suspect insurance companies run it all.

I watched very self-important doctors bark orders to robots and other computerized devices on wheels. Sometimes they even acknowledged the devices were operated by smiling women.

I marveled over female doctors who put up with their self-important colleagues. They seem to heal patients with their big brains, a soft touch, and a warm smile.

I saw squads of people assigned to poke and prod me with things that hurt.

I saw nurses multitask between patients using soothing words and even kinder touches, easing situations that Eli Lilly’s powerful painkillers couldn’t reach.

Best of all, I watched docs/nurses/specialists sit down and brainstorm complex ailments to discover the best way to treat us while remembering they were trying to heal people — real live humans — not just solve case #xxuyy in Room (here insert a number).

Meanwhile, I am profoundly grateful for my walking pals who shamed me each morning to hike, walk and trudge the Penny Lake preserve.

I can't tell you how much I love family members who have become my brains and keeper-trackers-of-stuff.

I guess this ailment is giving me the chance to miss the beginning of a most unique presidency. Well, so be it. We elected him. We are stuck with him.

But we did not elect this Muskperson, a strange bird who makes up his own rules and ignores the norms.

We all learned the rules that apply to us all, like gravity. We learned there are universal political rules, too.

For example, Social Security is the third rail of politics. If a pol touches SS or seems to threaten it, it could signal the end of a career. And, once disturbed, all the King’s horses and all the King’s men can never put said political career back together again.

The smiling doc and wonderful nurses, techs and aides tell me I am doing OK, Ms. P. I choose to believe them. And they are beeping at me – again.

So, Ms. Pigette, you are in charge of the politics for now. Your job is to stand your post on Route 27 and watch. Call me when you get a chance. We are all in for a very fine ride.

If you doubt me, ask Ruth Zardo, the mythical Canadian poet.

P.S., no flowers. Sometime this summer, we will share memories.