I'm a lousy patient. I finally had to shut down and take two weeks of vacation to see if that will work to stop the incessant infections that are coming because of a compromised immune system.
In just 10 days, an abnormal result showed an autoimmune disease might be eating my salivary glands; strep throat came next; and then I had pain so excruciating that I went to the ER thinking my kidney stones were back.
It was a really odd and random attack below the belt, as my long-suffering wife accurately said. Officially it’s called “Epididymo-Orchitis” which is like “testiticulitis.” I made up my own term pronounced “oh-my-goddess that-really-hurt-us.”
I started this website resting flat on my back in bed with a laptop and high doses of meds. I hurt so badly I couldn’t sit in a chair and cranked out 1,000 words an hour on the novel I’m planning.
I never tried writing this way. Maybe I have moved into a new class with Hunter Thompson and Ernest Hemingway, writers who deluded themselves into thinking they did better with their own forms of heavy medication.
Thompson’s “gonzo journalism” was fueled by drugs. Hemingway’s problem was booze. Neither had happy endings.
I promise that my blogs won’t repeatedly sound like the old folks’ home where everyone spends the day comparing illnesses.
In a way, this page is my third book, a virtual and public account of the next chapter of my life. My story is not over.