You often see invalids like me wearing baseball caps when we're out in public; the brims pulled tightly around our foreheads, shielding our weary eyes from glimpsing the reflection of our anxious faces in any mirrored surface we pass by.
Concealed beneath such carefree hats, disguised as athletic men, we hope that perhaps Death will not recognize us the next time he comes knocking. Then again, maybe we just think of them as security blankets for our skulls, convalescent crash helmets providing protection from whatever else the world might suddenly decide to drop upon our heads. I wear mine in bed sometimes, simply because I forget to take it off.
There is also the sad, pathetic desire to look like a regular guy again, which, somehow, a baseball cap instantly bestows. This desire is particularly strong in anyone who's been wearing nothing but a pastel smock and an intravenous drip for the past three weeks. After all, a baseball cap suggests the sort of strapping fellow who wins cheeseburger eating competitions while drinking bourbon out of the bottle, not some puny heart patient nervously reading the nutritional information on s container of low-fat apricot yogurt. Which example of manhood would you rather represent?
Alas, I'm sure this baseball cap doesn't fool anybody. My shuffling gait, stooped shoulders and hanging head betray me for the fragile weakling that I am. If there were dunes of beach sand on the Emergency Room floor, then I'm sure even the hip-replacement patients would kick it in my face. Maybe I should switch to a huge sombrero instead, and pretend I'm just taking a well-deserved siesta all the time.
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