This weekend marks the anniversary of my car crash.

At least, that’s what I’m told. I still have no recollection of the crash or the following three months. A lot of people have been willing to fill me in. They’ve also helped remind me what I was doing right before the crash. For instance, I had a story at Children’s Medical Center in Dallas earlier this year. I asked the public relations guy if I had been there right before the crash because this picture was one of the last I had taken:

He said he did remember me being there and felt bad when he heard about the crash. He also explained that he recalled walking by me at some point and I was making Miss America laugh heartily about something. He apparently thought it was notable the unrealistic degree of confidence I was showing in that situation.

So even though I don’t remember the crash, I might start telling people that I was on my way to meet Miss America for a date. It didn’t work out because she thought I stood her up. That seems like a plausible reason to be in Wise County, right?!

To mark the anniversary, I’ve decided to celebrate by having, and pardon my use of complicated medical terminology, a de-limping surgery on my hip.

That’ll knock me out of work for a week, but after that, I’m assuming I’ll start waltzing all over town. That, I would add, would be a complication to the surgery because I couldn’t waltz before the crash.

I’ll still have the cane, though. That may become a fashion statement for me. I imagine walking down the street with a cane, wearing a white suit and stopping occasionally and resting the cane at my side. I’ll pull out a kerchief to wipe sweat from my brow and then sigh loudly. Sometimes I might say, “My, oh my” or “Goodness.” I’ll play it by ear.

Loyal Scaiaholics will recall the discussion about how I couldn’t figure out the year for quite some time, so cognitive therapists had to spend quite a bit of time with me. Now, I’ve started using the concept of cognitive therapy as an insult. If I’m talking to an associate who loses his train of thought, I might say, “Hey listen, if you need a cognitive therapist, I know a guy.”

But cognitive therapy was incredibly important, not just in getting me to remember what year it is, but also once I got out of the hospital and had the pleasure of dealing with insurance. I feel like anyone could use cognitive help in a situation like that.

Before the crash, I could boast a pretty strong credit rating. Now, my credit score is 3.

I’m thinking of starting my own insurance company. It seems like a money maker: you start with a marketing plan with a doctor frowning at an X-ray during the commercial, but then you just deny most claims as “medically unnecessary.”

Also, you pay some claims, but you wait a year. I got a check from JPS last week, for crying out loud, because the insurance paid out a claim that I had paid out of pocket after the crash.

Once again, thanks to everyone at Baylor Rehab and JPS for sticking with me when I was, sorry to again bog you down with medical terminology, whacked out of my gourd. This time, to add to the number of people I inconvenience, I’ll be at Presbyterian in Dallas.