Bob Lane spent five days in St. Joseph Hospital, correcting a blocked intestine. Upon his release, fellow ex-news reporter Jim Erickson wrote the following poetry (with some slight editing):
Four out of five doctors recommend
The very best patient to attend
Is none other than R. J. Lane,
So cooperative, hardly a pain.
Nurses like Lane a hundred per cent.
They think he's somehow heaven-sent.
(In reality, his devilish soul
Dreams nurses dancing pole to pole.)
Lane had a week-long hospital run
After stomach issues had begun.
A tube was thrust inside his nose,
Something he never would have chose.
He desperately needed rehydration
So he could once again feel elation.
That would help end his hospital stay,
If his insides got a positive X-ray.
From his seventh-floor window he could see
Mile after mile, tree after tree:
Colorful leaves drifting to earth,
Making his view something of worth.
'Though he'd rather shout out cheers,
Lane's overcome instead by tears.
A changing moment in his life:
He vowed to rid himself of strife.
To show seriousness about his plan,
Lane shed mustache, beard: A new man.
No more coffee; ice water he'll drink,
Using his time to write and think.
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