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The mention of his home state seemed to perk up the president. Once again he reached for the clipboard and wrote, “Send me to L.A. where I can see the air I’m breathing.”

A seemingly endless series of doctors and nurses came by the president’s bed. Soon Reagan wrote another note to Mize: “If I had this much attention in Hollywood I’d have stayed there.”

A bit later, he wrote that he felt “like I’ve done a remake of Lost Weekend,” referring to the Oscar-winning film about an alcoholic who goes on a bender and loses all sense of time.

Mize chuckled. She was surprised that Reagan was able to joke with her so soon after his surgery; still, he sometimes seemed confused.

“Do you know where you are?” she asked him.

He shook his head.

“You are in the GW recovery room,” she said, adding that it was early in the morning of March 31.

“I thought it was still afternoon,” he wrote back.

A little after two a.m., Mize noticed a perturbed look on Reagan’s face. Suspecting that he was feeling anxious about something, she tried to lighten the mood. “What, do you think your wife is holding dinner or something?”

“No,” he wrote, “I’m not really hungry for some reason.”

Then, on the same sheet of paper, he wrote: “What does the future hold?”

Mize wasn’t quite sure what he meant, nor did she know how to answer. As she thought about how to respond, Reagan scribbled, “Will I be able to do ranch work, ride, etc.?”

“Sure,” Mize told him. “Give yourself three months and you’ll be able to do those things again.”

“How long in the hospital?” he wrote a minute or two later.

“Three weeks,” Mize said.

By this point, Reagan’s oxygen levels were acceptable and his lungs were working more efficiently. Mize and the other nurses thought he could breathe on his own; so did the doctors who were monitoring his care. At three a.m., they removed the breathing tube. Then, as Reagan caught his breath, they waited by his bedside—they all wanted to hear the president’s first words.

When Reagan finally cleared his throat and spoke in a hoarse voice, he was characteristically jaunty. “What was that guy’s beef?” he quipped.

For the next forty minutes, the president held court, telling stories and jokes. Everyone was amused by his performance and amazed at his stamina.

After his audience filtered away, it was just Reagan, Mize, and Joanne Bell, who continued to monitor Reagan’s vital signs and make notes on his chart. The president and Mize chatted back and forth for a while, talking about everything from his work schedule to his advisors. As they spoke, Mize realized that Reagan didn’t seem to hear everything she was saying; he also seemed to be trying to read her lips. When she asked whether he was hard of hearing, Reagan said he was, in his right ear. “But I’m too vain to wear a hearing aid,” he told her.

At one point, referring to the White House, the president asked who was “running the show.”

Mize intuitively understood that she should avoid mentioning the controversy about Alexander Haig’s news conference, which was already getting a lot of attention. Instead, she answered, “The vice president caught a plane back to Washington.” She felt foolish for making it sound as if Bush had hopped on an American Airlines flight; then, feeling even sillier, she said, “In situations like this the vice president is in charge.”

But the question led Mize to wonder whether Reagan’s many duties as president were on his mind. Gently, she said, “I bet you are pretty anxious with everything you have to do.”

No, not really, Reagan said. He told her he had a great routine: he walked to the office before nine and was home in the residence by five or five-thirty. He ate dinner and often watched a movie with his wife, then went to bed. “I have three guys who mostly run things for me,” he said modestly.

As the hour passed four a.m., Joanne Bell became increasingly frustrated. She knew the president needed to rest, and she wanted him to stop talking to Marisa Mize and everyone