The year is 1992. I am in my 16th year of law practice. My career is fulfilling, and it brings great financial rewards. My partners and I own one of Sacramento's preeminent land use law firms. European travel is at least an annual event, and I own a pressurized twin-engine airplane for more local travel. We entertain and often hold political and charitable fundraisers at our home. Our children are doing well. We love our home and neighborhood.
It's June 1992. I lay prone on a hospital bed. I have a few dozen staples above my forehead that span ear to ear. They hold together my skull following a craniotomy to remove a brain tumor.