It began as a normal day – feed the dog, let him poop in the backyard, and my day began.
Nothing unusual, but suddenly, out of nowhere, I started to wheeze. Soon after it became increasingly more difficult to breathe. I called my brother Lorenzo with whom I’ve gotten closer as we’ve gotten older. It was a no-brainer.
We discussed the options, and Crouse Prompt Care was the closest and, if something were really wrong, they’d zip me through a tunnel to Crouse Hospital. So, he took my dog-hair-filled-car and me and off we went up the hill.
The professionals examined me, giving me the option of either being admitted or going home. My brother and I chose being admitted.
As they whisked me through the tunnel it was getting harder and harder to take a simple breath of air. From that moment on Sept. 2, I was given Diprivan, AKA “Milk of Amnesia,” for several days. They identified two pneumonias, which were two of the most difficult to treat. My face swelled, and my little sister Tami ran from the intensive care unit.
When asked about my prognosis, the doctor pointed upwards towards the sky, and it was clear to my mother and extended family from Maine to Alabama to Detroit and back to Syracuse that they may have to plan a funeral.
But on Sept. 11 I turned a critical corner and slowly awakened. What happened was testimony of what God, love and prayer can do. There was a daisy chain of Aunt Mary, Uncle “Sunny,” my cousins Harold, Jaquiline and others that prayed for me. My Aunt Mary prayed so hard it hurt.
I started the month wanting to write something prolific and profound about Michael Jackson. Little did I know that both I and Michael Jackson had something in common after all.
We both took Diprivan. The difference is, I’m around to talk about it.