Wall Street measures their stockbrokers by the amount of commissions they generate. If you’re successful, you qualify for certain production club levels. While I was still working, someone in the Pacesetter Club would bring in $400,000 in commissions. A President’s Club broker was at the $750,000 level and the highest club was the Chairman’s. They earned over $1 million in production.
Ever since I became a broker, I was on the Chairman’s Club pace. In 2007 I was offered a promotion to the Sales Manager of the beautiful San Diego Office at Banc of America (now merged with Merrill Lynch). However, I was doing well enough as a broker that I could confidently turn down the promotion.
Imagine if I had accepted the job. I would have moved my family from Las Vegas to San Diego and taken on a huge mortgage to keep my wife and three daughters in an equivalent house. At the time I was perfectly healthy but something inside nagged at me to remain in Las Vegas. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but it lingered. It was strange because we love San Diego, and I should have jumped at the opportunity.
Later in the year, my first symptoms appeared. I was 38 years old, they were urological and I guessed they were just part of getting older. My family physician referred me to a Urologist. He prescribed drugs to treat Prostatitis, which is an enlarged Prostate (no, not cancer, even though the only time I heard that body part mentioned was with the big “C”).
He told me to come back and see him in three months. But when I did, the pain I was experiencing had travelled down my legs and into my stomach. My dosage levels increased, and another three-month appointment was set. The pain only got worse, and it continued to range in both directions, down my legs and up the trunk of my body.
After a year, my Urologist said, “You’re a mystery to me and I’m sending you back to your family physician.” It’s always great to hear you’re a medical brainteaser. One of my clients was a hot-shot Urologist in town, I called him and explained what was going on. He told me to come to his office and he’d get to the bottom of it.
After running his tests, he essentially prescribed me the same drugs, but at even higher doses. Nothing helped. He sent me to a number of other specialists, both in Las Vegas and California to see if they could crack the code, no one could. Meanwhile, my pain level was increasing, and my symptoms were growing. Nausea, dizziness, and fatigue joined the fray, and my pain medication got stronger and more frequent.
Another year goes by and I’m still living without a diagnosis. Now, the pain is affecting my work. I used to stay at the office until 7:00 – 8:00 pm most nights. But I’m forced to leave at 5:00 pm as the suffering is too intense to remain any longer. I don’t take the drugs while I’m working because they cloud my judgement and I need a clear head to steer my clients through the ups and downs of the stock market.
When I ask my Urologist why the pain is hitting so many different parts of my body, he tells me that it’s referred pain. Meaning, that when they uncover and treat the urological cause, that will stop it in its tracks. Made sense, I guess.
After more than two years of symptoms, he referred me to a Neurologist. I remember sitting in the waiting room thinking that I was wasting my time there. When he called me into the examination room, I asked if he wanted to hear my whole story or just a summary. I had recounted my situation to so many doctors that I was weary of going through the whole tale. But he told me he wished to hear it all. At the end he said, “It’s not Urological, it’s Neurological. You have Multiple Sclerosis.”
Huh?
Driving back to my office my wife called, we talked about which kid had which practice or a game that night. In passing she asked how my appointment went. She expected to hear that another doctor had no idea about what was happening to me. When I told her the diagnosis, she went completely silent. I had never known anyone with MS, but she had, and her friend ended up in a wheelchair. Talk about panic.
My Neurologist ordered a bunch of MRI’s and other tests and sure enough, they confirmed the diagnosis. The pain level amped up, and now I was leaving the office around 2:00 pm and it severely affected my performance at work. On the weekends I tried not taking the opioids because I was scared of getting hooked. I ended up sitting in the corner of my family room while the pain level magnified until I curled up in the fetal position. I eventually gave up and took the drugs.
Sometimes I only survived in the office until 11:00 am or noon before leaving in agony. My wife is a stay-at-home mom and the stress of going on disability overwhelmed me. How could I possibly provide for my family? The thought drove me to fly to the Cleveland Clinic for a second opinion or at least a way to treat this disease and keep working. They concurred with the diagnosis and signed my disability paperwork. I couldn’t work any longer.
I convinced myself that it was a temporary leave of absence. Somehow, I’ll beat MS and I’ll be back to work in a few months. Except, this is a chronic, progressive disease and there is no beating it.
Initially, I went through the stages of grief. Just like anyone with a broken heart, sometimes I cried at the most odd moments. While walking down the aisle of a supermarket, I was suddenly bawling my eyes out.
I kept trying to find meaning and purpose in my situation. After a couple years, I seriously considered writing a book. Earlier in my career, I was at a small online brokerage firm, and I was in charge of the written material on the website—the final editor. But that’s the extent of my writing experience.
It took about a year, and I wrote a financial textbook for stockbrokers. I marketed it directly to Wall Street firms. However, trying to maintain those relationships took up so much energy that my Multiple Sclerosis struck back—hard. My pain level increased, I threw up for a couple weeks, the fatigue overwhelmed me, and the migraines were killers.
It reminded me that I can’t ever defeat the disease, only to try to work and live within its boundaries. If I exert too much effort, it punishes me for it. Currently my symptoms are so bad, every inch of my body screams out in pain, like I’ve been hit by a truck. I’m on opioids twenty-four hours a day, the fatigue is still crushing, the nausea often rears its head, migraines are a constant threat, and bouts of dizziness hit me every day.
Yet, the desire to write and be productive never goes away. The drive to accomplish something great remains in me, even if my body won’t cooperate. I realize that if I’m going to be an author, I need a traditional publisher. There’s no way I can perform the daunting tasks required to self-publish.
I finish my first novel, and like every first-time writer, I think I’m as good as Stephen King. People tell me I need unbiased opinions and to find a writing group to critique it. When I go, no one mentions that I’m in his class, instead, they destroy my chapter.
But I don’t give up. I keep going back for more. Sometimes I’m so frustrated that on the drive home I ask, “Why am I putting myself through this?” I write a second manuscript. The feedback I receive is no better. Everyone tells me to find my voice.
On my third attempt, it’s after Covid and that writing group broke up. I discover the Sin City Writer’s Group and later, the Henderson Writer’s Group. However, the feedback I’m getting is turning positive. People are saying things like, “That was a funny scene, or there was good tension in there, or you have a great voice for YA.” The critiquers are also laughing out loud when I’m writing jokes.
Maybe I can do this.
After about twenty or thirty re-writes, I finally believe it’s good enough to look for a traditional publisher. It certainly didn’t come right away, but after developing a thick skin, and weathering a lot of rejection, The Wild Rose Press agreed to publish Promposal.
One time in church, a priest said, “We all suffer in life. I have my sufferings, you have yours, we all suffer. It’s how we handle that suffering that’s important.”