I almost died. Or, at least I think I almost did. Rather, I know I almost did, despite the dearth of medical evidence affirming anything. Sometimes you just know. Like when you’re unwrapping a gift from someone close and you can tell with 100 percent certainty not only that it’s a book, but also what book it is. Or like when the Mets are still in contention in July, but you know they’ll fall out by August, just after certainly making a horrible trade. Sometimes you just know.
I’ll be brief: I was working in Paris when suddenly I fell ill, and eventually I went to the hospital. I was admitted due to what they told me was Viral Meningitis, but I later found out was nothing more than an acutely high number of leukocytes in my spinal fluid (which often signifies Meningitis). When my condition didn’t improve, I decided it would be best to fly to New York and see if any doctors in America could do better. Surely my vocabulary is stronger in English and maybe I could finally explain to doctors how my illness felt. I couldn’t, which hints at two possibilities: One, that I had an unconventional virus that has manifested itself in a bizarre way in my body (the doctors are partial to this one). Two, that my vocabulary is insufficiently prolific. I’d rather not take any chances, so I’ll allow for the third possibility that both are true. “Soon, I’ll have to bring back the flashcards,” I thought.
Reading the late Christopher Hitchens’s memoirs (a perfect example of a gift that I knew what it was before I unwrapped it this Christmas), I realized that he had probably never stooped to the degrading practice of quizzing himself on GRE words; nevertheless his book included the words crepuscular, invigilate, riparian, and Gotterdammerung. Perhaps I should emulate the life that he had condensed into those 400 or so pages, which seems basically to consist of loads of walking, drinking, and writing. I’m not yet well enough to take up the drinking, but walking is what my doctors have prescribed, along with a mason jar of pills, and I’ve always liked writing.
Yes, I have always liked writing, save for anything assigned or with a deadline, which, never having kept a journal, is the only type of writing I’ve ever done. I guess a better way of saying it is I’ve always loved searching for the perfect words to describe something. The sound of sneakers squeaking on a parquet floor, the way French men wear scarves, or what it feels like to be half-Jewish and half-Christian and full-I don’t-know-what-I-believe-in are all examples of descriptions I’ve attempted and conquered to a degree. The distinct smell of New York when you take your first step out of the airport is one I’ve wanted to illustrate since I was old enough to travel. “It’s like someone took an old cigarette that he found on the sidewalk and infused it into the soft dough of a salty pretzel from one of the hot dog carts around the city,” I told Grace, who said it’s sweeter than that. She’s right. She thinks I need to add in some of the roasted nuts from those same street carts, but I’m not sure: are there any of those in Queens (where all of New York’s airports are located), or could their smell waft across the East River? Otherwise, it doesn’t explain how Queens and Manhattan share a hint of that distinct identical odor, like distant Hapsburg cousins having that jaw line. Then again, the pretzel dough made it across… I suppose when I figure it out I can stop writing, unless, of course, I still cannot perfectly transport how it felt to be sick to my doctors.
So that’s my introduction to why I’m writing these next few entries. Briefly: I’m supposed to walk, and I’d like to be able to describe my symptoms, though they are largely attenuated by now. Oh, and I’m back in Paris now so everything is newer and stranger and petitioning me to tell about it. I hope you enjoy, but at the same time, I don’t really give a shit. I don’t mean to be rude, just honest, and as I’m sure you realize, I’m writing for me.
