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Some of you may have heard by now that I got hit with a serious case of necrotising fasciitis (more luridly known as “flesh-eating disease”) late last week. I’m told I was a few hours away from being dead. Now, several morphine drips and debridements and blood-pressure crashes and pulmonary edemas later, I have a crater the approximate size and shape of Australia carved out of my right calf. I can also sit up for short periods and type brief notes like this one. I am, however, still in the hospital, and will not be leaving this place any time soon — and the hospital does not have internet connectivity (because after all, why any of us trapped in the institutional confines of East General ever want to catch a glimpse of the outside world?). So I can’t actually interact with any of you in real time. I am writing this from my hospital bed; Caitlin will take the laptop back home and post via the home network. This is the extent of my connectivity. The good news is, I’m not dead, and the necrotising bugs have been scraped out of me as far as anyone can tell. |