 Yale Youngblood |
Confession: This isn’t the column I intended to write this month. My original missive was to dwell on industry matters—or, at least, on my take on industry matters—and it might have become the standard by which all future Editor’s Notes would be measured.
Or not.
In any case, it wouldn’t have been nearly as important as what is to follow. You see, I ran into my friend Daniel the night I was going to sit down to compose my editorial—hence rendering any/all previous notions moot.
Upon Further Review...
I say Daniel is my friend, but that’s not fair to him. We met a little more than four years ago, a few feet from a CT scan machine at North Hills Hospital in North Richland Hills, Texas. That Daniel was there wasn’t unusual; he is, after all, a doctor. That I joined him in that locale for our first conversation probably isn’t far from the norm, either, as I was about to be his patient. Not that I realized that at the time. All I knew was that my tooth hurt something terrible.
The aforementioned conversation was brief. He introduced himself, told me he was an oral surgeon and then said six words that would mark my life forever: “Mr. Youngblood, you are very, very sick.”
The extent of “Very” squared, at least in my case, was measured thusly: I immediately underwent emergency surgery (during which Daniel removed two infected teeth) and then spent the next 12 days in a medically induced coma. Over that period I lost 26 pounds and practically all of my motor functions.
Not to mention, very nearly my life.
Without getting too technical—or too morose—the originally abscessed tooth spawned a potentially deadly infection that spread not only to a brother wisdom tooth but into my chest. It was making a beeline for my heart, and my best—only?—hope was to be rendered unconscious for as long as it took to pump my body full of antibiotics in the hope that the bacteria would “blink” before I couldn’t any more. Three days following my surgery, no one was betting on the former.
Well, Almost No One
Obviously, my friend Daniel was. Likewise, a gifted North Hills Hospital medical team, as well as a gathering of family and friends, many of whom were great prayers who prayed greatly for a fortnight. I finally awakened and eventually regained my wits—and, over time, my strength.
Four months after the ordeal, during a November visit with my friend Daniel, he waxed profound once more: “I think this Thanksgiving will be very special for you.” He was right—but only partly so.
The truth is, every Thanksgiving is very special for me.
yyoungblood@gie.net
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