This is an excerpt from my old journal. On the following day, March 2, 1994, I suffered a massive stroke that left me quadriplegic. The next time I picked up a pencil was a month later, and my handwriting was worse, of course. It took me half an hour to write two words, “Dear Rob.” Those two words were so enormous and misshapen, I did not finish the letter. I put my pencil down, with frustration and an aching hand. My doctor told me that brain damage would keep me from ever writing legibly again. It’s a shame that so many people think a doctor’s prognosis—which is nothing more than an educated guess—is ironclad.
