I spent twenty years as a cardiothoracic surgeon. Then I lost it all and rebuilt. I don't write what I know. I write to find out what I know. This is where I do it, out loud, every week or two.
NOTE: I hit publish on this piece accidentally yesterday. I am not sure how many of you have received it, so I am publishing it here again. Here is the piece: I was fresh out of an inpatient 3-month stint in Hazelden for prescription narcotic addiction, and Lea and
Henry thinks it's silly. He's sitting across from his wife Dawn in a counselor's office, and Dawn is upset — genuinely, tearfully upset — because Henry doesn't give her gifts. Birthdays. Christmas. Whatever. No gifts. And Henry is doing what I would have done,
