I’m Tom Collins, a freelance writer. I used to be a daily newspaper reporter, writing about politics, taxes, crime, disaster, human misery of all sorts, and, much more rarely, human happiness. Now I write mostly about medicine. This has been fascinating, but I now convince myself I have a new disease every month or so. In fact, all I have, probably, is hypochondria. I’m 43. I live in West Palm Beach.
I’m married to Jen, who’s smart, pretty, loving and fearless, and inexplicably tolerant of my hourly complaints, whines and neuroses about basically everything.
Three kids: 20-year-old Amanda whom we adopted when she was 12, who, with work and college and boyfriend, has become a part-time resident in our home. We catch sightings of her only occasionally. She is a terrific kid with a big heart and courage that you don’t know the half of.
Also, there’s 6-year-old Quinn with crazy curly hair who would probably surprise you with how well he can say exactly what’s on his mind and how much math he knows already, but still, above all else, prefers to sit on the couch watching cartoons on an iPad while eating gummy bears.
And 3-year-old Sawyer whose blue eyes will claim your soul and who is obsessed with baseball and fortunately hasn’t bitten anyone at his pre-school in a while.
I also live with dog Teddy (unidentified mutt, but probably some Lhasa), cat Sadie (Tortoiseshell), the wooden-boxed remains of the late Bailie (Maltese) and the plastic-urned remains of the late Raven (domestic short hair).