This was edited April 2014 from its original first published as part of my February 2009 letter.
[This paragraph was part of a longer, silly rant full of incriminating evidence that lead me to propose, in jest, that I wasn’t ‘a man’ anymore.]
Getting sick. As manly as Sarcoidosis may sound, it’s hardly a macho disease. It makes me lethargic, makes breathing difficult during physical exertion, and triggers muscle pains that force me to lay down for relief. In other words, it makes me wimpy. Blech! I’m embarrassed just reading that sentence. Where’s the exploding organs? Where’s the appendages falling off or being eaten away from the inside? Where’s the cutting edge surgical team being assembled to perform invasive surgery in hopes of preventing further spread of the disease? And what about drugs? Where’s the highly addictive prescription narcotics with the novel length symptom list needed to fight the disease? What do I get? A couple of puffers I suck on twice a day. Good grief. I might as well have hot flashes and tender nipples! Sarcoidosis diagnosis. Yuck. It even rhymes. Is Dr. Seuss my physician?