So for the last week I’ve been suffering from what I’ve called post-Mo*Con SARS, some upper respiratory thing that has my breathing down to 50% and has my doctor and wife on my case about bed rest (or rather my not knowing the definition of such). I keep trying to explain to them that, as a writer, I lead what many could describe as a sedentary lifestyle, low on exertion.

Today, the literary diva herself, Chesya Burke, breaks me off a phone call and we have the following conversation:

Chesya: Are you breathing any better?
Me: Aw, was that a note of concern in your voice?
Chesya: No. I don’t have anything to gain from your death. You’re worth more to me alive than dead right now. I can’t say the same for Sally.

It … it just brings a tear to your eye, doesn’t it?

I’m no fan of going to the doctor (not the least of which is due to things like “the catheter incident”), but I have another round of pulmonary tests this week. With any luck, I may have a story less traumatic than the mammogram one to tell.

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