Thank you for sharing this so honestly Tosh. There’s something striking in the way you describe moving through fear and curiosity at the same time—how dread and desire coexist, even around a procedure most people want to avoid. That tension feels very human.
Your attention to the sensory and the situational—the cold basement, the tented space, the unexpected geography of the body—gives the experience a clarity that isn’t sentimental or dramatized, just awake. And the moment in the wheelchair, reframed through Godard, is especially moving: vulnerability turning cinematic, motion restoring a sense of authorship when control has otherwise been surrendered.
I’m also struck by the quiet intimacy of the medical staff’s kindness, and by Lun*na’s steady presence throughout. Those small human gestures—being pushed, being listened to, being put to sleep without resistance—seem to carry as much weight as the procedure itself.
The waiting afterward may be the hardest part, suspended between what has already happened and what hasn’t yet been named. I hope these days pass gently, and that January 6 brings clarity, and relief, and whatever strength is needed for what comes next.
I warmly second all of these perceptive comments, Richard. Tosh's writing somehow brings to the anxiety of these accounts a kind of lightness. Almost a trace of pleasure or satisfaction that flows through the writerly act of his observing. Goddard's wheelchair camera is so apt. Tosh is not passive, he acts in that chair and on that table. Always, seeing, painting, and framing.
Here is wishing you peace, Tosh--and successful distraction during the unique torment of the wait for a path report.
Thank you for sharing this so honestly Tosh. There’s something striking in the way you describe moving through fear and curiosity at the same time—how dread and desire coexist, even around a procedure most people want to avoid. That tension feels very human.
Your attention to the sensory and the situational—the cold basement, the tented space, the unexpected geography of the body—gives the experience a clarity that isn’t sentimental or dramatized, just awake. And the moment in the wheelchair, reframed through Godard, is especially moving: vulnerability turning cinematic, motion restoring a sense of authorship when control has otherwise been surrendered.
I’m also struck by the quiet intimacy of the medical staff’s kindness, and by Lun*na’s steady presence throughout. Those small human gestures—being pushed, being listened to, being put to sleep without resistance—seem to carry as much weight as the procedure itself.
The waiting afterward may be the hardest part, suspended between what has already happened and what hasn’t yet been named. I hope these days pass gently, and that January 6 brings clarity, and relief, and whatever strength is needed for what comes next.
I warmly second all of these perceptive comments, Richard. Tosh's writing somehow brings to the anxiety of these accounts a kind of lightness. Almost a trace of pleasure or satisfaction that flows through the writerly act of his observing. Goddard's wheelchair camera is so apt. Tosh is not passive, he acts in that chair and on that table. Always, seeing, painting, and framing.
Here is wishing you peace, Tosh--and successful distraction during the unique torment of the wait for a path report.
Thank you so much.
Sending love and good vibes, Tosh. I hate that word vibes but you know what I mean.
I wish you a speedy healing!❤️🩹
Sending healing hugs & much love!
Wishing you well, TB.
All of my heart is with you. Hoping for a good result
Fingers well crossed that they get to the bottom of it. Not of your groin. Of your malady!