Indian Wells: The Sickness Unto Death in the Desert

See, as soon as you absolutely expect to have the time of your life,
God has to step in and have his way. And so it was with me and the annual Indian Wells
pilgrimage. I virtually never get sick, so in retrospect that tight scratchy feeling
in the back of my throat on the drive down meant something, even if I chose to think
it meant nothing.

Sometimes God just likes to have his own way when you are counting on having yours.

But by Saturday denial was no longer an option. There it was–a big nasty full
blown case of vicious, horrible flu. You know, the kind where you need both
hands to hold your head up. The kind that when you cough it feels like someone is running
coarse grade sandpaper across the inside of your lungs. Fever, throbbing headache, chills.
Giant mucous balls! A total disease home run.

Just ask the rest of the team how well I handled it: J. Gregory Swendsen, our still photographer and our editors Giancarlo Andreani and Greg Ryan. I was an absolute saint, bearing my burden of pain with a smile and peace in my heart and forbearance –yeah right….