I had withdrawn, into my bed, under my covers, with only old reruns of The West Wing to keep my mind slightly occupied. It seemed to me that all that I’d absorbed physically and medically over the past 18 months–hell, over the past 27 years–had finally welded me to my bed, to a place where I could process it.
On the days I call myself a writer, I invent stories.
Thailand, Thailand. I clung to it like it was salvation.
“You can’t have kids, right?,” they asked me. “Because of the lupus, right? Or is it because of the cancer? Or is it the medicine?”