It all began rather innocently; at least that’s how I saw it in my befuddled brain. I had a blister on my foot which, for some reason, was taking its own sweet time healing.
I screamed, “Brian, you are having a stroke. I am going to call 911.” He argued with me and told me not to call: “Do not call 911!” he kept repeating over and over.
I have gardened for over the past twenty years and thought nothing could surprise me anymore but one chilly April evening that came to a halt with a knock at the back door.
I lay on the shoulder of the highway, vomiting until there was nothing left, trying to find some combination of limb and trunk and head that took away the pain.
