I feel as if I owe you an explanation. Some of you may — and lest I say do, judging by the number of times people have stopped me to ask “How are you?” with that long, drawn out emphasis on the word “are,” sort of like courteous pirates — remember that some time back this spring I discovered I was facing some unusual health problems.

The story back then was something to the effect of having gone to the doctor complaining of migraine headaches and, after a series of uber-expensive tests and consults, walked away with a diagnosis of high blood pressure caused by a narrowed renal artery. Along the way we’d found that two of my other arteries — my celiac and mesenteric, both of which run to my, ahem, guts — are totally blocked, not by plaque, as with most arterial blockages, but by some other foreign substance.

I’m thinking it’s one of those gazillion watermelon seeds I swallowed as a child trying its best to make fruit, but that’s just me.

Back then, they — they being a he, and he being a vascular surgeon in Asheville — decided two things: one, it would be my decision whether or not to have bypass surgery and two, he didn’t want anything to do with me. Apparently there was a sign flashing above my head, visible only to those who carry malpractice insurance. It said liability, liability, liability.

So they — again being he — sent me off to Bowman Gray in Winston-Salem to see a bigger, better specialist.

The new they — one Dr. Kim Hansen, cute in that geeky, I have more money than God kind of way — reviewed my charts, spent an hour asking questions, poked my stomach and proclaimed that not only am I weird ... I’m super weird.

Apparently, it’s not normal for someone my age to have these arterial blockages (Captain Obvious strikes again) and for this to be the case I must have some sort of vasculitis, they said. What kind? Takayasu’s Arteritis. And yes, it comes with a side of ginger and wasabi.

Takayasu’s is a rare auto-immuno inflammatory disease. It causes medium- and large-sized arteries — read the really important ones — to become inflamed. Uncontrolled inflammation leads to scar tissue, which leads to blockages and weakening of the arterial walls, which in turn leads to fun things like stroke, aneurysm and heart failure.

No one knows what causes it. There is no cure. There are two or three new cases diagnosed per million Americans each year. Short of being hit by one of Western North Carolina’s non-existent busses, or being involved in some sort of late night, drive-by, roadsign shooting accident, this is going to be what kills me. It could be 75 years from now, or it could be Tuesday. Either way, one might say I’m screwed.

The problem with TA, as it is known in short, is that it’s not like cancer or diabetes or glaucoma. It’s not something that you can name 10 people who have it, be they personal acquaintances or celebrities. It’s not something at the top of the government’s research list. It’s not something that comes with candlelight vigils and awareness campaigns.

And it’s sure as heck not something Blue Cross Blue Shield is running commercials about featuring testimonials from satisfied customers who made it through their TA treatments thanks to their insurance company’s willingness to cover out-of-network expenses.

And since TA has no “cure,” all we can really do is fix the damage that’s already been done and try to control any “flare ups” in the future. With this in mind, about three weeks ago the doctors passed on the word that we’re doing bypass surgery. It’s either that, or allow my kidney to slowly die and my innards to begin to rot. (Yeah, that’s what I thought — ugh, gross.)

So on July 4, while the rest of you are out enjoying your hotdogs, beer and fireworks, I’ll be laid up at Bowman Gray, waiting for them to start my IV fluid drip and an epidural. We head into surgery bright and early the morning of July 5.

From what I hear, it will be “at least” a seven- or eight-hour ordeal during which they will split me open like a trout, heave my intestines out and “up and to the left” so they’ve got some room to move around in there, then cut a hole just a bit below my heart and sew in a little, tiny pair of polyester pants.

Polyester. How tacky is that? I’ll be permanently bonded to the 70s. My only hope is that Roller Girl isn’t a surgical assistant.

They’ll take one pants leg and wrap it around my celiac artery, the other leg and wrap it around my mesenteric artery and come off of one of those with a renal bypass. Then they’ll sew me and staple me shut and leave me incapacitated and festering in ICU for a couple of days. All in all I should be there a week.

Of course, it will take me a while to get back on my feet. We’re predicting, and hoping, for a return to the Smoky Mountain News within a month.

In the meantime, those of you who have grown used to seeing me at your various meetings, shindigs and assorted whatnot, I bid you a temporary adieu. You have been absolutely fabulous and I extend my sincere thanks for all your support.

(Sarah Kucharski can be reached at sarah@smokymountainnews.com.)