11 days ago was the last time I have been outside and even had the privilege to go for a car ride. I had just returned home from the hospital, hopped up on all kinds of meds my body has never felt before, never been through surgery in my life, as my 44-year old body slinked out of the minivan with new crutches, entire leg in a brace, not permitted to bend the newly re-wired knee and torn patellar tendon for 3 months. Helped from the car, to the steps, I breathed heavily as the meds forced a migraine and I just needed to get in the house, in the dark, to lay down and pass out. Before I could get in, a neighbor walking by said a most perspective filled comment, as he observed my struggle getting up to my house. “Hey!  Looks like you’re in pain and suffering with that leg injury!” he said. I tried to play it off, “I’m sure it will be fine, my first surgery!  Tore my leg up pretty bad,” I said. He returned with, “Well, you know what would have been worse?”  “What?” I asked. “Well, you could have burned to