In the late summer of 1995, I started to feel really run down; out of breath, constantly wracked over by fits of coughing, etc. At the time, I thought I had been struck by some weird sort of bronchitis. As time went on, I got weaker and weaker. Suffering from both stupidity and stubbornness, a few months went by before I hauled my sorry ass to a doctor, but only after I had started coughing up blood.
In a way, the mystery of what was happening to me was intriguing. Here I was, at one point fairly healthy (although incredibly self-destructive), and the next moment thinking that motorized wheelchairs might be my future vehicle of choice. So much so, that I was telling myself that I would not make it until that time the next year. As weeks went by, I kept shortening what I thought would be my life span. First, I gave myself a year. Then, until my next birthday, then simply the winter, then Christmas. Finally, in mid-December of that year, I was given a week, max.
Well, here I am, about 6 and a half years later, in some of the best shape of my life. I live with the sweetest woman in the world; I have a job I really enjoy and a nice home environment. Sometimes, life really does work out.