Jack of Harts

I nearly died a month ago. My appendix burst. It burst big. I blew a 1.5 centimeter hole in the side of an organ that is only 2 centimeters thick. I have been healthy my entire life. I have never needed doctors to live. I have never had illnesses bad enough to go to the hospital. But that one hole in one organ nearly ended my life at the age of 41. Do not pass Go. Do not collect 200 dollars. I would be dead if I had not won life’s lottery. I was born in the United States of America. When two-thirds of Earth’s population lives in India and China, I was born in the American Midwest. I live in Rochester, Minnesota, home of the Mayo Clinic. People travel from every corner of the globe to get the healthcare that is a five-minute drive for me. I am not bitter that Obamacare took my insurance away, or that people are making every effort to destroy the best healthcare system on the planet. I am thankful that the doctors at Mayo continue to save lives every day. Including mine. I am thankful that the number 41 will not measure the sum total of my life. I am thankful that I get to look to the number 42 and beyond for the answers to life’s greatest questions.