There are several bags of medicine hanging at the top of my pole. From each bag a tube runs into a central tube that leads to a needle that is stuck inside the top of my left wrist. That is how the medicine gets into my blood stream. I'm not certain exactly what each medicine is. One rather large bag resembles a rhinoceros udder. It is filled with a white, milky substance. 

Another has what looks like Mrs. Butterworth's syrup inside it, while a third is some sort of antibiotic substance - a sort of Orkin-Man- in-a-bag to ward off any bugs that might want to encamp in my innards. 

Whither I goest, goest my IV pole, but we don't goest very far. The six steps from my bed to my bathroom is about the limit of how far Ivy and I can travel. We'd look silly at a Karaoke bar singing "Don't Fence Me In" together anyway. 

What's wrong with me is I'm sick. That's what my doctor said. 

"You're sick," he said. 

"And what's the plan of treatment?" I asked him. 

"We're going to attach you to a pole until you get better," he explained. 

I'll try to keep this simple: I have to take a prescribed blood thinner, because I have an artificial aortic valve in my heart. 

But a few weeks ago my blood became much too thin because I also took a large amount of a blood thinning over-the-counter painkiller in an attempt to treat lower back pain I encountered during a venture around the country promoting and signing a book I wrote. 

My blood became so thin, I bled internally, which is very dangerous and caused the most severe pain I've ever known. 

Until my blood is back to where doctors want it to be, until I stop hurting, I'm stuck here with this pole. But I'm trying to make the best of it and look upon what is certainly a recently brightened side of my existence. 

Yes, I'm in the hospital. But I didn't have to get the tux cleaned for a New Year's Eve party. 

I had the time to read Rush Limbaugh's second book, "See, I Told You So," another masterpiece, and you don't need to change underwear but every other day in the hospital. 

And even more thrilling is the knowledge 1993 is finally over. I am certain that it is. Dick Clark said so on the television in my hospital room. 

We have, in fact, Auld Lang Syned that ball of personal anguish into history's waste dump and, for me, it was about time. 1993 was the worst year of the 47 I have lived. 

In 1993: 

I had heart surgery and nearly died. 

I had another surgery to remove infected pacemaker wiring. 

I had whatever it is I have now. 

My dog died. 

My taxes were raised. 

My alma mater's football team, the Georgia Bulldogs, had a losing season. 

My favorite baseball team, the Braves, had the best record in either league after the regular season and didn't even make it to the World Series. 

Bill. 

Hillary. 

But 1993 is over. It's got to get better. Got to. 

"Can't get no worse," friends have said. 

My resolutions are few, but my determination is boundless. 

I am going to get unattached from this pole. I am going to get well and get out of this hospital and stay out. When that is achieved, I am going somewhere it is warm for a long time. 

I survived 1993. 1994 has finally arrived. 

Happy New Year to me.