DEAR KEVIN A. KLOCKENGA, CEO & MOST HIGH HOLY MUCKY-MUCK CEO OF HENRY MAYO NEWHALL HOSPITAL — First, Kevin, phew. I wish The Signal paid me by the word. After typing your name and title, I could buy a Slurpee. I’m writing you today on a very delicate and private matter. I’d like to ask you for your hospital’s hand in marriage. After my recent stay in ICU, except for some soupy oatmeal, I’m profoundly lovestruck.

I wish there were some outside forces to blame, an unripened 2-pound jalapeno eaten raw. Shark bite. But, alas, no. The fault was all mine. I was taken to emergency, midnight-ish, six minutes before my birthday, two weeks ago. I’ve been an expert diabetic the past 20-plus years, although, while I’m asking for favors, I’d prefer if you guys over there on McBean would refer to my stubbornness as, “Live-abetes.”

“Diabetes?” So dour. My blood sugar level was flirting with 500. Same as North Korean dictator Kim Jong Un. I seem to recall we’re supposed to be at 100. On the bright side, word got out and everyone on staff jumped into Hawaiian shirts and rushed down to take selfies with me because evidently 500 is only normal for Willie Wonka.

A couple years ago, I was visited by some 8-pound microbe, part-COVID, part zombie bite. One night, I was passed out on the floor, crawling toward my cellphone to call for an ambulance. I was light years beyond ill and entertained the notion that — this — might be — it. Sobering and clear, the things beyond........

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