From the GrubStreet

In 2011 at the age of 31 as I lay dying in one of our nation’s top rehab facilities readying myself to be transferred to the hospice floor of a nursing home and carry out my final days, I was given five years to live by the world’s leading medical professionals—but I knew I had less. I knew I would never walk again, never bathe, bathroom, or brush my teeth in privileged solitude again, never fulfill my childhood dream of attaining a higher degree, and never find real love. My student loans were forgiven, but my sins were not. There was no redemption. With some simple subtraction, my white, adoptive, evangelical family abandoned their bedridden Korean lesbian addition, and so at my bedside it was my former coworkers who helped me complete a will and designate beneficiaries for my paltry life insurance policy, before they, too, vanished back into the ether.

"Each day that I write (and I write every day—as though my life depends on it) I heal a bit more..."

By some miracle I found housing and a caretaker, but euthanasia was still the clear solution to my incurable, implacable suffering until another miracle: the discovery of an ancient medicine that cures autoimmune disease. In the eleventh hour I caught the attention and compassion of the only doctor in North America who works with this fascinating plant, the same man who realized within the past decade that it treats ailments ranging from fourth stage cancer to MS to rheumatoid arthritis—ailments that modern medicine deems incurable. I should know, having been a researcher at Harvard Medical School when I fell ill. After firing my esteemed medical team, I began healing myself exclusively with this medicine—physically, psychologically, spiritually, illegally, unadvisedly.

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