On Sept. 7, 1994, my husband, Curry, and I returned home from our appointment with the neurologist. We were stunned, shocked by the diagnosis of amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS or Lou Gehrig's disease) and the prognosis that I had three years to live.
I was 36. The ultimate procrastinator, I had done nothing with my life. No family, no successful career — nothing lasting or memorable.