My genetic curse.

It was a queer and sultry summer, the time of Wentworth Miller coming out as gay and Miley Cyrus twerking her way to scandal. I had been ill all August, suffering headaches, the loss of taste, smell and appetite. My vision was ever-so-slightly blurred. And, towards the end of the month, I had been peeing all the time. And drinking like crazy—nothing could quench my thirst. I would wake up with a tongue as dry and red as an Arizona desert. I thought this was due to my sinusitis.


Like many Americans, I have no insurance. So I went to the free clinic staffed by Georgetown University Medical School. The clinic is located on the grounds of DC General Hospital, where I worked as a teenager. The facility also hosts a homeless shelter and is next to the abandoned and allegedly haunted St. Elizabeth’s, a mental hospital that was almost legendary. A group of med students with an attendant physician did all sorts of tests, before informing me that my frequent thirst and urination wasn’t due to a side effect of the various medicines I take for other ailments. It was diabetes.

Everything clicked into place. Diabetes runs in my immediate family. It was probably the cause of my father’s death. I’m not a wildly unhealthy eater, but I do love sweets. (One of my dream jobs was as a pastry chef, creating architectural wonders made of sugar). Right now, I’m still processing this information. My depression has asserted itself. I have a little shame. And fear. And anxiety. The next steps will be to see a physician, and get the proper medications, equipment and a treatment plan.

I know the learning curve will be steep, and the adjustments gradual and frustrating. I am writing this to offer some support to others who have had similar experiences. And also, writing is therapy and like a religious ritual to me.

Finally, I want to thank the Hoya Clinic for their swift and professional care.

*Apologies to Sylvia Plath; the first sentence as a homage to The Bell Jar.

Message in a bottle–support sought.

I don’t like talking about negative private things. This author blog primarily exists to share and discuss fiction–both my own and others–and has expanded into mini-essays about racism and my health. Those outlier essays are still connected thematically to the core focus, because my fiction often addresses these issues.

This post, however, will be more direct. Certain health issues have reach a critical mass with me. I suffer from Samter’s Triad, which includes nasal polyps. Last year, I confirmed that the polyps, which had been removed surgically 5 years prior, are back. This means: no since of smell (addressed in an earlier post) and constant sinus headaches. These past weeks, I have developed yet another side effect: almost everything I taste now has a weird metallic taste. I have noticed that I have lost some weight, because eating is not pleasurable. I’ve also noticed almost everyday I have a headache and pop ibuprofen like candy.

I think I need to see a doctor.

I have no insurance, so I can’t access a healthcare network.

I am requesting some help—in the form of ideas who I should turn to get some some professional help. Additionally, I could use some emotional support as well. Just someone to talk to. That’s all.

If you are so inclined, you may contact me at

My Kindle Fire has a name--Griot.
My Kindle Fire has a name–Griot.
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