It was about a month ago when all my troubles began. There I stood, in some formica armored cell which reeked of alcohol and vaguely of shit as well. I struggled to compress my joints and limbs as they nearly tore through the tissue-thin hospital gown the doctor’s had issued me. I didn’t feel much like sitting, so I just stood there with all the horrible scenarios the doctor might return with. Basically, a cocktail of bacteria had “set up camp” in an obscure locale of my body. Tissue had healed over the strain, creating an infection, which had risen to the surface, creating an abscess. I knew going in that day that there was a 50/50 chance that I might need surgery to deal with the situation.
So, there I was, ass hanging out and sucking on a peppermint, hoping it would settle my stomach. My eyes traced the office around me, drifting from the intestinal diagram on the wall, to the to jar of tongue depressors, to a stack of gauze pads, to the Purell pump by the sink, and finally to an oddly shaped manual sitting on a nearby surface. Glaringly yellow, the photo on the cover depicted a hopeful looking husband and wife in mid-discussion with a concerned physician. The title read, “Coping With Breast Cancer.” Suddenly, my problems seemed pretty miniscule.
My fortune as of late seems like it’s been charged with a negative cosmic current. My health had absorbed a sizable chunk of savings, and then, over the course of one week, the tip of my cat’s tail had been chopped off, my refrigerator died, and my house flooded. But still, at least I didn’t have breast cancer. All things eventually pass and restore to their prime condition. Not even physical discomfort seemed like such a big deal after that trip to the doctor. Afterall, it’s like the immortal Patrick Swayze said in the phenomenal American classic, "Road House," “pain don’t hurt.” Sadly, it was the big C got him.
I felt the need to share that since a handful of concerned people out there asked what the cryptic remarks pertaining to my health over the last months were all about. My blogs have also been incredibly sloppy, mainly due to the fact that when I’m writing them I’m nagged by tremendous physical pain. Nothing trounces your awareness of grammatical correctness like an open wound grating on your literal nerves. Anyway, thanks for all the well wishes. I’m still slowly healing, but the good news is that I’ll be totally fine. And please, excuse all my fuck ups during this period.