I’ve had more health scares than anyone I know. The precancerous mole that thankfully washed off with soap and water. The debilitating headache I thought was a stroke until I saw the empty 44-ounce Slurpee cup. You, my dearest friends, have been there at every turn. It kills me to ask for help again, but I could be dead soon if I don’t.

It’s only a splinter, says my doctor. Give it time to come out on its own. He’s afraid of severing a nerve or cutting a tendon. Like I would sue him over that. I would, but that’s not the point. Our broken healthcare system isn’t going to save me. You are!

Time is not my friend. Bacteria from the sliver is multiplying, as I text. I can feel sepsis is setting in. I only have one, two days tops. I’m woozy just thinking about it.

You may be asking yourself if you will feel like a bum at the next neighborhood cookout if I die. You may be wondering if there is something concrete you can do right now. Great questions! Let me help you.

I updated our GoFundMe page from my brush with appendicitis earlier this year. That experience taught me two things: I have the best friends in the freaking world, and hot dogs and beer turn me into the Hindenburg. Man, the new hot tub was a lifesaver. There’s nothing like finally ripping one in a hot tub your friends bought. Feel free to use it anytime, since it’s really our hot tub. Karl, we didn’t see your donation. You were probably too busy with your IPO to monitor Facebook. No worries, we’re going to give everyone another chance to support us with a new goal of $10,000 to fund Band-Aids, Neosporin, and incidentals, like a prosthetic hand or cremation services.

I try to focus on sending healing energy to my hand, but then I look at my unpainted deck and the nightmare returns. The soft breeze, the warm beer, the piece of 80-grit sandpaper, the pain like a hot saber, the bloodless hole in my palm. In an instant, my world changed. As long as the deck is unpainted, I suffer. What about a dudes-only painting party? Mitch, you would be the perfect person to organize it. Let’s make it BYOB, to make it fair. I have a half a bag of tortilla chips from Costco. Of course, I can’t do any physical labor but can supervise and point out spots you missed from my hammock.

Patti, please reinitiate the meal train from my scare with walking pneumonia a couple of years ago. The chest X-rays never found proof, but I believe it was Sheryl’s mac and cheese that saved me. Speaking of which, my wife’s brother and sister are coming over this weekend, and they’re big eaters. Sheryl, could you make enough and bake it so it gets super crispy around the edges? I’ve told my sister yours is the best, and she doesn’t believe me. Don’t make me a liar!

Facing the end of life has brought up a whole range of emotions. Debbie is a saint, but she’s not a good listener (sorry, honey) and too quick to offer solutions when all I need is someone to listen. Kate, listening is your superpower. The times we’ve talked at BBQs, I felt seen by you. Would you be willing to come by on Thursday nights when Debbie is at bridge? And Jack, the dog could really use an extra-long walk while your wife and I talk.

One last thing. The upstairs toilet is running again. It would just take a minute to jiggle the handle. Debbie’s at the store, and I don’t want to bump my hand. While you’re here, the dog really should go out. Her leash is on the rack in the kitchen. Poop bags are under the sink or in the garage by the motor oil. There’s at least one in my glove compartment. The car keys are in the dish by the back door. Never mind, they’re in my pocket.

The bacteria must have reached my brain.