I could kick myself for not journaling or documenting the last 21+ months. I thought about it, a lot, with the same conclusion—screw it. Even when balloon Bob called and encouraged me to write a book—screw it—was the outcome. For a long time after the accident, I didn’t have a shit to give. I cried for hours every day and night for months. I had none, zero, nil, zippo hope. One dark night, in the middle of those first five months, being painfully bound to my bed—100% non-weight bearing in my right leg—I thought suicide was my only way out. In utter hopelessness and despair, I sent a text to a handful of guys that I believed would pray for me. It was the middle of the night. All of them responded, but one called. Sometimes talking is better than texts—it for sure was in my situation. Stay tuned.