It better work.

I feel oddly giddy. Drunk on the ridiculousness of what I’m doing. Tomorrow I’m driving to Mexico to get hookworms!

The phone rings, and it is my father. I tell him I’m going to a clinic connected to UCSD, and am getting an experimental drug that is a natural immunosuppressive.

“You’re not going to some quack in Tijuana, are you?”

“No, Dad.”

“Because there’s all sorts of charlatans down there.”

“I know, Dad.”

“You’re staying at a hotel?”

“Yeah, overnight in San Diego,”  I lie.

“You’re not going to some Mexican hotel, are you?”

“No, Dad.”

“Because you can catch anything down there. How much is this costing you?”

“Oh, a few thousand dollars.” He whistles. “They’re not getting you hooked on some radical therapy are they?” I almost choke on my homemade SCD yogurt.

“No, Dad.” I lie and reassure him, as I sit here, afraid.

What the hell am I doing?