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Settling down to write a column after a week of deep-sea fishing is no easy feat. My mind keeps tripping back to reeling in giant mahi, snapper, barracuda, and shark in the company of like-minded individuals and various cigars and bourbon.
Fourteen months ago, almost to the day, my physical condition could be charitably described as . . . a hot mess, E. Coli blood sepsis, strep pneumonia, acute kidney failure, cardiac arrest, pre-existing type-two diabetes, severe neuropathy, muscle atrophy and the dreaded disorder commonly known as "sausage fingers."
Last week we were two chapters into a blow-by-blow chronicle of the vicious distemper that slammed yours truly out of the blue a year ago and effectively knocked my (expletive deleted) in the dirt.
Last week, at the request of my tens of readers, I began a blow-by-blow account of the heinous distemper that ambushed me last December and landed me in a hospital bed in one medical facility or another for ONE SOLID YEAR. And I'm still stuck in one today. For now.
"It's a good thing you can write," my wife told me one afternoon while she repaired some plumbing under the kitchen sink.