Memeoir 2nd Chapter Stolen Innocence Ecerpt

Here's an excerpt from Chapter 2 

 Finished kindergarten when the world still felt small and wondrous. There would be a time to learn the difference between the innocence of boyhood discoveries and shackled terror—those parts would come later. For now, it was a time for learning, laughter, and exploring.

Morning broke into my awakening sleep. I sank deeper into the sheets and blankets, my head nestled in the pillow. Light flickered on the walls and ceiling, seeping through the edges of the darkened window blanket. Hypnotized by the birds chirping, I breathed in the smell of Dad’s coffee and toast drifting through the blanket that covered the doorway of our converted dining room—a space too small for a family of six. Still, it was a world that fit me and my three brothers.

I wiped the sleep from my eyes and blinked into the morning. Slowly, I pulled back the covers, my feet landing on the cold floor. Past the hanging blanket and into the kitchen—first things first: picking the right bowl, the one best for cereal slurps. Dad had parked his newspaper on the table like a wall.

“Would you boys like to go for a drive?”

One Year from the Flicker: Why the Rush, Why the Mask

Yup, as of November first. It's been a year since that acute kidney failure threw me into another near-death spin—hospital lights blurring as my GFR cratered to 4 from some respiratory bug ripping through. Same stay, my blood pressure tanked so low the docs said it was touch-and-go pulling me back. Grateful doesn't cut it; I'm just damn glad to be breathing life again.
That's the spark hauling this memoir across the finish line, pedal down. The Nearly Unrealized Worlds of Ethan Wells—it's spilling out faster because who knows how many flickers we've got? Won't lie: No clocking reader reactions till it's out there, but that's the gamble that keeps the ink honest.
And honesty? That's why I'm laying it bare here, under this pseudonym. The raw edges in these pages—stolen innocence, family ghosts, the kind of sensitivities that snag on folks I've crossed paths with—they demand a buffer. Ethan's my bridge: Safe enough to voice the unvoiceable, real enough to matter. This blog's the campfire for it—raw progress drops, chapter teases, the messy middle. 
If you're shadowing this unravel, follow along. What's one edge you're chasing in your own story?

Six Months In

Six months of writing my memoir. 

I'd been plugging away, working on my 7th and 8th chapters. Let me know if you would like to see another excerpt.

A First Chapter Excerpt

The Nearly Unrealized Worlds of Ethen Wells

A Memoir of Perseverance, Survival & Self Healing

A FLICKERING PULSE

I landed in the hospital, dying again. Doctors and nurses’ grim glances told me they knew it. My wife’s and kids’ trembling faces burned into me, my gut swearing I will survive this too. 

I awoke several times throughout the night. It seemed like every few minutes. By checking blood draws, IV checks, and taking vitals. After several hospital stays, I’ve grown used to what once terrified me—now it’s routine. I’d learned how to disassociate myself from their carts rolling in. Always wanting more. 

Pulled my arm from under the blankets. Both are already placed with PICC lines, needles then taped in place, tubes coming out, wrapped up to keep everything from moving. A catheter was inserted in my upper right chest. 

Letting my arm flop over the bed’s edge, depending on which side the cart went on. I didn’t have feelings anymore and would tune it out. Take whatever you need! I will survive this.

A knock in my dimly lit room. “Mr. Wells, I know you’ve been through a few already. We need to get another blood draw from you.” The phlebotomy tech would say. Dozed off, when she left the room, as light as she came in, the door quietly closed behind her. 

A brief knock, of a couple of taps. A man in scrubs rolls in a gurney before daybreak.

My Grand Project of Memoir Writing

 I would like to take you on my journey

I'd never written anything on this scale before. Writing this not out of desire, but out of necessity. I'd put it off for several decades, but being in my situation now, I feel my story should be told. The main purpose is to help others, so maybe they can see their way past what I've gone through. I don't know, but isn't that the main reason memoirs are shared anyway?