Rosen why not now

Very poorly. I get the feeling that some people who were very poorly, died. Or sitting in the waiting area at an airport. I think of a train journey to a summer camping holiday when I was eight years old, with the land one side and the sea on the other.

So I bring my hand up to my face and put it under my cheek. I sleep well that night. I can hear a metal purr from the other side, then a bubbling syrup. He coughs. More bubbling.

It must be coming up from his chest. The metal purr must be sucking it up. A light is on behind the curtains over there. The nurse tells him to keep still.

I stagger. I broke the rule that said I had to stay. I crossed back over the water, I dodged the guard dog, I came out. I wander about. I left some things down there. It took bits of me as prisoner: an ear and an eye. The ear is listening.

The eye is the lookout. They ask me to walk across the room. They ask me to push my legs against their hands. One of them asks me what are my long-term objectives. I stop and think. What are my long-term objectives? Do I have long-term objectives? Should I have long-term objectives? I would like to write a book about a French dog called Gaston le Dog.

I say that I would like to be able to walk to the Jewish deli on the corner and wheel the shopping back in our trolley. The physio smiles. She writes it down in her book. It feels like a long-term objective. Anything else? Live for a bit more? I am who I was. This is not me.

This is me. I am now the person who had Covid: the thing that came in March. I am now the person who disappeared in April and May. I am now the person who peers into the mirror hoping his left eye will see what the right eye sees, catching a glimpse of the blackness of the big pupil looking back at me in hope. I am now the person who hears the telephonic trebly sound through the hearing aid in his left ear that makes the sound of a kettle boiling into scream.

Fact is, Allen looked little better than Rosen until just last season so… chill. Recent headlines have highlighted that once again. On Tuesday, Rosen, the No. A team threw in the towel on Rosen… again. Along with the Cards, the Miami Dolphins did, too.

The 49ers were letting battle for a backup spot on their roster. Actually, the Niners were letting him fight for the third QB spot, not even the main backup. Rosen failed to even make the first round of cuts in the Bay Area as he was released on Tuesday. That round of cuts in the NFL is the first of three that will occur this offseason. Of course, that now brings us to Allen. He was told to take some painkillers. A few days later, he was rushed to intensive care with Covid, and spent most of his time there in an induced coma.

He pulled through. I joined my brothers on bear hunts through the woods. Before Covid, these stories were what Rosen, now 75, was most famous and universally adored for. He holds up his hospital diary to show me the handwritten entries from doctors and nurses. His early versions of Rosen have hollowed eye sockets and gaunt cheekbones; they stare vacantly from hospital beds and out of windows. But it makes sense as you read his faltering, pieced-together thoughts.

You have to find something to do to deal with it. Why did I go on visiting schools?