How it all began: Part 1

Part 1 in an ongoing series

Leave it to Beaver was on the television, me in my bed watching intently as any typical 12-year-old might. Mom was sitting next to me in a chair, a constant companion in my private hospital room. They give private rooms to people who either pay the extra money to get one, which we did not, or for folks, like me, who are really sick.

How sick, that was up to the 72-hour blood test being performed to single out the infection that had made its way into my blood stream and surfaced as an inflamed left hip filled with puss. As I lay in the hospital, a long clear tube was jetting out of the hip and fed into a small round plastic container. It was slowly siphoning any infection left over from the surgery performed to clean it out a few days earlier.

This, as it turns out, is normal procedure for these types of things. My close-knit family sure wasn't accustomed to this. This was probably the first time in my family's history that one of its own was in such a precarious medical state. I mean, the worst thing that had happened to us was when my older brother Darrell busted up his forehead while riding a bike too fast as a kid in suburban New Jersey.

The five Popes were now living happily in Solana Beach, Calif., a picturesque coastal town that was quintessential 1980s San Diego. Wicker furniture and macrame were common in every home. It's the birthplace of things like street luging, fish tacos and drinks made with wheat grass. It was, and still is, a great place to live.

I was a pretty typical pre-teen back in 1984. I played Pop Warner football, rode a BMX style bike to school and always wore long shorts and Vans tennis shoes. My major concerns back then were getting to school on time and getting the high-score on Asteroids at the local 7-11.

But one April morning changed all that. Instead of heading off to Skyline Elementary school, I headed to the hospital with a raging fever and a left hip that hurt so bad, mom had to avoid bumps in the road while in the car because it would somehow make me feel worse.

As soon as I got to Scripps Hospital, I went into the operating room. I don't remember much more from that day but my memories are filled with what happened in the ensuing days as a two-week guest there.

In three days, I'd be given the diagnosis of Juvenile Rheumatoid Arthritis. Yes, at 12, you can get arthritis. Not the kind most folks know as they get older and their joints wear out. This one was different. It meant my immune system didn't know how to fight off the disease that had set in. In so many words, my body was turning on itself.

"There is no cure," I remember the doctor saying.

Of course, no one in my family would knew the journey that lay ahead. And as the doctor left the room, Leave it to Beaver was suddenly over.