Tag Archives: Health

Cutting Free: Hair as a symbol of play, power, and transformation. 

I’ve always viewed my hair as a toy. It’s been pixie short to waist length and everything in between. It’s been blonde, pink, an almost black brown, and now silver. I’ve had combinations of green, blue, turquoise, purple, and pink highlights. For me, hair has always been a symbol of play, creativity, and celebration. 

Now, it’s something more. It’s a symbol of motivation, of transformation. Today, I whacked it all off—a declaration of freedom, independence, and a commitment to move forward in power and positivity.

Let me explain. The past three years brought physical  challenge after physical challenge that led me to live reactively, often in fear, rather than proactively, and positively as I typically do. Surgeries for a partially detached retina and an injured knee, pneumonia, vertigo, and breast cancer each forced me to slow down, to recover, and to face fear in ways I never had before. They left marks not only on my body, but on my spirit. I’ve been sad, fearful, and negative more often than for any extended period in my life. I’ve felt stuck! Worst of all, I’ve been mean to myself in the things I’ve thought and the judgments I’ve made about myself. I would never allow anyone to say the things I’ve said to myself.

Without making a conscious decision, I stepped off the reactivity path onto a path of choice and action a couple months ago when I started working out in the pool every day. So today, I did a thing. A powerful, meaningful, positive thing. I got my long gorgeous hair whacked off into a short, sassy style that I completely love. I collected my hair so that I can donate it to Wigs for Kids. 

My hair has always mirrored my spirit. But when life pushed me into survival mode, my spirit dimmed. Today, cutting my hair wasn’t just a style choice—it was a line in the sand, a symbolic, liberating choice. Bonus: It’s also easier to take care of this way. 

I know life will keep bringing me challenges. But today, I choose to meet them not with scarcity and fear, but with short, sassy hair—and a commitment to abundance and joy.

Celebrating a perfect day: Simple pleasures, joy, and laughter 

Sometimes perfect days happen with a lot of fanfare – celebration, music, good food, maybe some dancing, people coming together to honor a special occasion. A marriage. A graduation. A new job. A new baby. Celebrations that recognize major life events.

Sometimes perfect days are so quiet and calm and beautiful that you can miss them if you aren’t paying attention. Sometimes they’re about what you’ve done or will do. Sometimes they’re about just being in the precious moments. 

I just had a perfect day. There wasn’t a lot that was extraordinary about it. It was just time spent getting little things done and also just being. 

I woke feeling strong and grounded. I was going to start my walking plan so I went out for a relaxed, leisurely walk. I didn’t have any distance or time plans. I just wanted to walk as far as I was comfortable and then come home when I was ready. I walked .97 miles. I know for someone who used to do 6 miles a day that’s not a lot, but I felt powerful. I haven’t walked much by myself at this point. The distortion in my vision caused by the winkle in my left retina and everything I’ve gone through with the breast cancer, diagnosis, surgeries, and recovery have kind of put me off my balance game again. But this morning, I had it. I felt so free and it was so lovely outside. 

I exited the condo to birdsong. I felt like I was being greeted and welcomed back into the world. Hummingbirds, mourning doves, and pigeons were the most vocal. But there were also robins, thrushes, and blackbirds raising their voices on this glorious morning. A neighbor was drying laundry and I could smell the warm, slightly scented air of fabric softener. I’ve always loved that smell. Snapdragons, pansies, and roses delighted my eyes, as did the xeroscape landscape with cacti and rock gardens throughout the complex. I was fully present in the moment and I loved it. 

When I came in from my walk, I made my breakfast shake and sat down to wait for sales people to come and talk with me about flooring for our condo. We’ve been trying to get new floors in our condominium since before we moved in. It’s been a challenge because of HOA regulations. We’ve researched multiple places and just couldn’t find products that met sound requirements. Without much hope, I contacted a place that was having a great promotion, explained my needs, and requested that they only send samples that met the HOA requirements. And they did! I had 11 samples to choose from, all of which met the requirements. That was a delightful win! 

Then Andrew and I went out to one of our favorite hangouts for lunch, talked, laughed, and played games together on his phone. It was lovely, a playful, happy time together. 

Then we decided to get psychic  readings done. I got them for Andrew for his birthday. It was fun. I liked how the reader saw Andrew‘s and my connection, our individual strengths, and the power of our relationship. While I was getting my reading, Andrew went to a popcorn store nearby and surprised me with my favorite popcorn – part caramel corn, part cheddar cheese. I learned about this combination years ago while in the Chicago airport heading to an academic conference. A friend recommended it to me. Yum! Then Andrew took me for a custard at an old-fashioned ice cream parlor. It felt like the sweetest mini date! 

We do wonderful, joyful things together all the time. But sometimes it’s really cool just to make it a date and to say that’s what it is and just do little things where we’re 100% focused on one another and ourselves. It was really special! 

After we got home, we snuggled and watched silly TV for a while. It was such a delightful way to end the day. I love how easy and open and connected we are. Andrew works at 4 AM, so he goes to bed early. I never want special days to end, so I stay up late. I found myself not wanting the day to end, so I got up to game with Stef. My son is my late night WOW partner. 

What a wonderful day of little moments and just being together, of being fully present. Sometimes perfect days aren’t made up of fanfare and celebration. They’re made up of simple, quiet moments of connection and love. 

On asking the right questions and the importance of a healthcare advocate 

Wow! Yesterday was a day! I’ve always thought of myself as a healthcare advocate—someone who asks the tough questions, navigates complex systems, and helps others feel empowered to make their own health decisions. Yesterday, I realized just how different it can be when you’re advocating for yourself.

What I learned is that having a healthcare advocate isn’t just important—it’s critical! You need someone in your corner who can look at a situation from multiple perspectives, who checks, double-checks, and follows up on every question, making sure everything is clear. I hope in sharing this experience I will help others avoid this pitfall.

Here’s what happened: In June, my medical oncologist in California put me on two medications—Anastrozole to suppress estrogen and progesterone and reduce the chances of the breast cancer coming back, and Venlafaxine, to help manage the hot flashes and other menopause-like symptoms caused by the hormone suppression. Venlafaxine is typically used as an antidepressant, but for me, it was all about managing side effects.

Normally, I’m incredibly thorough when it comes to my healthcare. I research every option, weigh the side effects, and think carefully about alternatives. But this breast cancer journey has been different. I’ve been trying to keep up with it all while leaning on my amazing husband Andrew, my fantastic medical and surgical teams, and the open, collaborative conversations we’ve had. Even so, I learned yesterday that I don’t always ask the right questions—and it’s made these last two weeks feel way longer than they should have.

I didn’t love the side effects of these medications, so I talked to my Las Vegas medical oncologist about going off them for about a month. With our honeymoon/Christmas/New Year cruise coming up, I wanted to feel like myself again, free from side effects. She agreed, saying I should know what “normal” feels like and we’d reassess after the cruise. At least, that’s what Andrew and I thought she said.

Turns out, we weren’t quite on the same page. She saw Anastrozole as my cancer treatment and Venlafaxine as an antidepressant. I saw them both as part of my cancer treatment—Anastrozole to treat, Venlafaxine to manage side effects. So when she said to stop “the meds,” I assumed she meant both. She didn’t. 

Two weeks ago, I went cold turkey off both medications, thinking it was the logical thing to do. If I didn’t need the Anastrozole, I wouldn’t need Venlafaxine, right? Wrong. What I didn’t realize was that stopping Venlafaxine suddenly would lead to intense withdrawal symptoms—way worse than the side effects I’d been trying to avoid. The past couple of weeks have been awful. I couldn’t sleep (or if I did, I had vivid nightmares), I was constantly bouncing between feeling too hot and too cold, had headaches, nausea, dizziness—you name it.

I’ve supported friends and family through antidepressant withdrawal, so I know how important it is to taper off these medications. But I wasn’t thinking of Venlafaxine as an antidepressant; I thought of it as a tool to handle side effects from my cancer treatment. It didn’t even cross my mind to ask about withdrawal effects, and my doctor didn’t bring it up either. She just told me I’d feel better and to enjoy the cruise.

Fortunately, I had an appointment with her yesterday and I realized my mistake.  As soon as I got home, I started taking Venlafaxine again because I don’t have time to taper off safely before the cruise. I’m already feeling so much better and should be back to normal in a couple of days.

This has been a tough lesson, but I’m taking it forward with two new questions to ask: “How long do I need to take this?” and “What happens when I stop?” I’m hoping these questions will save me and others from this kind of experience in the future. For now, I’m focusing on feeling good and making sure our cruise is everything Andrew and I want it to be—magical!

Energy shifts as coping mechanisms on this cancer journey: A nice lunch and a moment in the sun

Today was a rough day. No particular reason necessarily. Sometimes this cancer journey just gets me down.

My chest is hyper throbby and achy due to injections into the expanders. I guess I was also hoping for and dreading in equal measure learning about my next steps on this cancer journey. Without the oncotype analyses back, we can’t yet make a plan. And, to top it off, I was over our hotel room. Don’t get me wrong. It’s a nice room. But I’ve been in it pretty consistently since I got out of the hospital on May 11. So, to sum it up pain, liminal space, and boredom did a bit of a number on me this morning. I was sad. I was overwhelmed. I was so bored. I didn’t cry, but I could have at any moment.

So, I got up, washed my face, brushed my teeth, and put on makeup. Those rituals always make me feel better. My sweetie took this as an invitation to get me out of hotel jail for a bit after he got off work.

A few days ago he found a nice Mediterranean restaurant D’Vine in the strip mall across the street, so he rolled me over there. (I’m still not allowed to walk much. So excursions either require the car and drop off at the door, or a wheelchair.) We sat outside on the patio on this glorious sunny day, a gentle breeze blowing, and enjoyed falafel, fatayar, fried cauliflower, lamb kabobs, and lentil soup. Everything was so fresh and flavorful and I topped it off with some rice pudding.

Then Andrew rolled me out into the sun to sit for a bit. It was fabulous to feel the sun on my face and the breeze on my skin. Now back home to the hotel for a nap.

It’s amazing how energy shifts, in this case a change of scenery and some yummy food can change my experience of a day. I’m becoming clear that navigating this cancer journey is going to require me to be mindful of when I become overwhelmed and embracing energy shifts (doing something different, going somewhere different) as important coping mechanisms.

My breast cancer journey: Operating day – double mastectomy – May 8, 2024

I was rolled in for surgery a little before 1:30 in the afternoon on May 8. I handled everything well that morning, having radioactive dye injected into my breast, meeting with Dr Vito, my cancer surgeon, and Dr Lin, my plastic surgeon, having an IV port put in my hand, talking through anesthesia and discussing how I often respond to it with Dr Paik, having my vitals checked, having the contour of my breasts traced with magic marker, keeping a stiff upper lip.

I was focusing on the moment, staying calm, and keeping it together.

Once I was rolled into the operating room, that changed. I was overcome with fear. I felt total terror. I had no control over what was going to happen to my body next. I had no control over what the pathology results were going to be. I wanted to run. Of course there was nowhere to run. I couldn’t run away from the parts of my body that were not functioning in a healthy manner. But I desperately wanted to run.

The OR team was attentive and kind. They saw the shift in my facial expressions. They saw my eyes fill with tears. They looked me in the eyes, stroked my hand, talked to me, and helped me relax a bit. They gave me oxygen and started the anesthesia. I relaxed as the medication took hold and closed my eyes to the sounds of 80s music playing in the operating room.

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An Ode to My Breasts on the Day We Part

Today we must part. I have loved you, appreciated you, marveled at you, been irritated and frustrated by you. Our relationship has definitely been a complex one. But now that you have decided you want to try to kill me, we have to part ways.

I wish you well in “boob Valhalla”. We must continue our journeys apart. I will continue my long happy life without you. I have conflicting feelings about this. I keep joking with Andrew that we can run away to Mexico rather than have the surgery to remove you today, but that would not really be productive. I can’t run away from you.

As I was growing up, you were very small and I was very self-conscious about that, especially as everyone else around me had larger breasts. A friend in college noted my discomfort when someone made a joke about me being flat chested. He pulled me close and whispered in my ear, “more than a mouthful is a waste.” I found that comment both titillating and empowering (pun intended). After that I held you, my tiny perky breasts with pride.

You fed my son. Nursing him was the most amazing experience. To be able to give a baby who had come from my body sustenance – from my body was so special and precious. I loved the end of the day when I rocked him in the rocking chair and nursed him before he went to sleep. I didn’t like it so much when he started biting you. That was when I knew it was time to stop nursing him. Similarly, I know it is now time to release you.

You were tiny and perky until after Alyssa was born and I loved nursing her too. The intimacy and connection that I felt with her was incredible and in the rocking chair at night, feeding her one last time before she slept, I found bliss. It was a precious part of my day. Yssy loved nursing. I think she would’ve nursed for a lot longer, but I had to go on a trip. Stopping nursing her was difficult. It made me sad.

Removing you today is difficult. It makes me sad.

An unexpected positive side effect was that I kept my nursing breasts and suddenly I had a respectable chest. I have loved my breasts in terms of size and shape for 30 years because that’s how long I’ve had you.

You have been part of my self image, and a precious part of my sensual and sexual life.

Today, though. It’s time for me to release you, to set you free. We no longer have anything to offer one another. I am simply not willing to give a blood supply to the cancer you’ve decided you want to grow, although I have loved you, you are no longer part of my life.

Thank you for all you have done in my life. I wish you speedy travels.

I Hope You Dance! I Will!

Dance has permeated my life. Even before I went to my first ballet class when I was 5, I loved to dance. I still do. My favorite emoji is the dancing woman.💃💃💃 I use it regularly to express joy. I guess that sums it up. For me, dance is joy.

My children inherited their passion for dance from me, and while they far exceeded my abilities as a dancer, they grew up dancing with me. From standing on my feet while I waltzed them around the room to a fusion of swing, jitterbug, and disco that we did to anything with a beat, joy with my children has always included dance.

When we came home from my second Fulbright trip to Russia in the summer of 2001, Alyssa and I were so wound up we couldn’t sleep, so we danced around the family room to Safri Duo’s – The Bongo Song

and Culture Beat’s – Crying in the Rain – which we fell in love with during my first Fulbright in Russia.

We spent over an hour laughing and spinning until we were finally tired enough to go to sleep at about 4 am. Alyssa was 8.

Our last song that night was from our first train trip from Moscow to Kazan, Robert Miles – Children https://youtu.be/z9b09Ljnh0k

While dancing gives me joy, watching my children dance feeds my soul. Dance metaphors have filled my children’s lives and my own. Both were competitive dancers for years and nothing gave me greater joy than watching them dance.

I wanted to sing Lee Ann Womack’s – I Hope You Dance to them in honor of their high school graduations, but I knew I’d never get through it. In addition to being a dancer, I’m a crier. I cry when I’m happy; I cry when I’m sad; I cry when I’m frustrated; I cry when I find something touching. I particularly get choked up by the lines “Whenever one door closes, I hope one more opens… When you get a choice to sit it out or dance, I hope you dance!” I want my children to live their lives dancing.

Lee Ann Womack – I Hope You Dance

As most of you know if you’ve read earlier posts, I’m going through a rough moment. I had surgery for a partially detached retina and my right leg is in a brace and I’m using crutches until I can get my knee checked out once the gas bubble in my eye dissipates. I heard this song the other day, and as she often does, Pink nailed it! “One thing I’m never going to do is throw away my dancing shoes… We’ve already wasted enough time… I’m never gonna not dance again. So let the music play till the end.

Pink – Never Gonna Not Dance Again

Shattering the cartilage under my knee didn’t stop me from dancing. Breaking both my wrists in a freak dancing accident didn’t stop me from dancing. A partially detached retina and sore knee will not stop me from dancing. I will dance again. Dance, for me, is joy!

Adventures in aging: Part 3 – Seriously?! There’s more?!

Apparently the universe was not done giving me the “slow down” messages with simply a detached retina and sore knee that can’t be assessed, let alone fixed, until after my retina heals. So, … at least eight weeks.

The night of my surgery, I stumbled in the bathroom twice in succession, heard a loud pop both times in my right knee (the sore one), felt excruciating pain, and to cut to the chase, had to be taken to the hospital in an ambulance. I feel oddly embarrassed by this. I think prior to this week I’ve been in the ER only a handful of times in my life, usually for someone else, but only once before in an ambulance.

The 911 response team was wonderful. They immediately gave me IV pain meds that took the edge off. “They won’t stop the pain”, the paramedic said. “They’ll just make you care less.” The EMTs apologized for the fact that they actually had to get me on the gurney and into the ambulance and to the hospital. And all this was going to hurt… A lot… It did.

Ambulance maintenance clearly does not include shocks. I felt every bump along the way. The EMT gave me a little more pain medication in route.

Apparently fentanyl derivatives make me very talkative. The EMT kept asking me questions and I kept answering them. I babbled the whole way. It only occurred to me later that this was a distraction strategy – keeping my mind on something other than the pain. He asked about my career – directing forensics at St. Olaf College immediately after earning my PhD, helping create the precursors to what become the School of Public Health at UNR, serving as the Kansas Health Foundation Distinguished Chair in Strategic Communication and starting the Wichita State University Hunger Awareness Initiative, teaching judges around the world, traveling with my children, my amazing partner Andrew, and on and on. I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone so much of the story of my life in one 20 minute moment. And through it all, I reaffirmed for myself how wonderful my life is except for this weird moment… and, you know, some other weird moments,… but those are different stories. Apparently even when I’m on drugs I recognize how privileged and blessed I am.

We picked the hospital we did because it was in my insurance network and I’d had a very positive experience there earlier in the week when my retina partially detached (see parts 1&2 in this series). Andrew also called in advance to make sure they had people available to address my injuries. They told us they had people on call who could take care of me, if necessary.

We and the hospital staff differed vastly in our understandings of what “care” meant. For us that meant figure out what’s going on with my knee and get a plan to fix it. For them it meant “If it ain’t broke we don’t fix it”, a literal quotation from my attending physician. They did, however give me great IV pain meds, so I was able to relax a bit.

Andrew followed the ambulance in his car. At the hospital the ambulance went in one entrance and the EMTs directed Andrew to park in a nearby lot. “They’ll let you in back as soon as you get in. Don’t worry we’ll take good care of her.” And they did. ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ to the 911 response team. The ER staff were a mixed bag. I asked for Andrew from the time I got into a bed in the ER. They made him wait an hour and a half in the waiting room until they allowed him back with me.

When we got to the hospital Andrew called my daughter Alyssa. I hadn’t been able to reach her. Alyssa came immediately and they let her back with me.

They did a really nifty set of x-rays in the bed. I didn’t have to move my sore knee much or turn my head. It was pretty snappy. I knew that I hadn’t broken anything. I hadn’t actually fallen. So it had to be soft tissue damage. But x-rays are the ER go to.

What I should have remembered from Alyssa’s experience shredding her knee was that emergency rooms, although they tell you they have orthopedic specialists and surgeons on call, don’t call them to the ER except to set bones. When I say I should have remembered that ERs don’t treat soft tissue injuries, what I mean is that 10 years ago when Alyssa destroyed her knee, severing her ACL, MCL, tore meniscus, and severely bruised her knee, they sent her home with no wrap, no brace, and no crutches because her leg wasn’t broken. When we went to the doctor the next day and found out the extent of her injuries, I was livid. I assumed Alyssa’s experience was just bad care. I didn’t realize it was ER practice not to do anything with soft tissue injuries.

With Alyssa’s insistence, they did finally decide to give me pain meds, the sling that I wear from my thigh to my ankle, and a pair of crutches. They then wished me the best of luck in finding a referral as they didn’t have one to give me. Not sure how any of that means orthopedic surgeons on call… or care… But there you go…

Reflections:

1. I’m really not sure what I should have done when I hurt myself that badly at night. The pain was unbearable. I definitely needed some serious pain meds and I am not clear what the alternative to the ER might have been.

2. I need a clear understanding of what services are provided in the ER. Maybe we all do. It’s important to know that they don’t deal with soft tissue injuries, no matter how painful they are. In the words of my attending physician “We treat blood and bones.” Neither were my issue. In the ER, they x-ray. Because the same ER had done CT scans with and without contrast and ultrasounds earlier in the week, I expected more.

3. It’s very important to have an advocate. My daughter made things happen quickly once she arrived.

4. In all situations, assertiveness and perseverance are important in getting your needs met. It was very difficult to get the health providers to come down to my level so I could actually see them. Since having had my retina reattachment surgery earlier that day I could not lift my head nor could I lie anywhere but on my right side, eyes parallel to the floor. I repeatedly asked the same doctor and nurse to sit down so I could see them when they talked to me. That actually helped them stop treating me like I wasn’t really a person and facilitated communication. I’m glad I was assertive about that.

5. It helps to have a professional that you can call for back up support. I am incredibly grateful to one of my ex students who is a well respected doctor and has worked in the Las Vegas medical community. She talked with me on the phone while I was in the ER, clarified my expectations, and helped me strategize.

6. Even though I didn’t get what I hoped for, a diagnosis and a plan for treatment for my knee, I did get what I actually needed in that moment. I got pain medication, a brace, and crutches. That’s a lot to be thankful for.

Adventures in Aging – Part 2: Knee pain, a brace and a walker

I’ve always believed that aging is a mindset, and that attitude keeps us healthy regardless of biological age. This is obviously not the case with serious or chronic illnesses, accidents, etc. but absent those, how we choose to live determines our strength, our vitality, our tenacity, and perseverance. That’s what I believe. I’ve been extremely lucky. Aside from two broken wrists and shattered cartilage under my right knee that have each taken me down for 3 months plus healing time, I view myself as healthy. That view has been challenged a bit this past week.

Not only did I partially detach my left retina, but my knee has gotten progressively worse over the last week. Last month, I held my first in-person workshop at a girl scout camp in southern Illinois. It went incredibly well. But the day before, my logistics partner, who arranged the marketing and location, broke her foot. That meant I tried to keep her from schlepping things throughout the weekend. She didn’t ask me to do this. I just didn’t want her to hurt her foot worse. We had great help from participants, but at first, it was just the two of us in the camp. So, I carried stuff I probably shouldn’t have carried. I didn’t notice much during the workshop, but after I got off the plane back home, I felt a twinge in my right knee. I dealt with it as I always do, a hot bath, Advil, and a slathering of full-specturm CBD roll-on. I was stiff the next morning but decided to walk it out. It seemed to work. The pain was minimal, and I was fully flexible. The next morning it took a little longer to loosen up and there was more pain. This went on… and on… and on until the day I went to the ER for my vision issue. What I had been doing was powering through the pain. As the day went on, that got harder and harder. By the end of my time at the ER for my eye, the doctor (He’d noticed how my gait had changed throughout the day, from smooth to my having a pronounced limp) called for an ultrasound to make sure I didn’t have a blood clot. I didn’t.

That night, walking from the car to the elevator at our condo was excruciating. I told Andrew there was no way I could walk like this the next day to see the surgeon. He assured me I could lean on him. “No. Seriously. I can’t put any weight on it.” He agreed to run out (at 11 pm) and grab me crutches and a knee brace. When he got to Walgreen’s he facetimed me to tell me that they didn’t have crutches after all (He’d called to check in advance.), to let me pick out the brace I wanted, and to show me a walker he had found that he thought would work.

I have to be honest. I burst into tears. A WALKER! Not for the first time, I played with the idea of losing capacity. And I didn’t like it. “I’m sorry. I can’t make that decision”, I said. “I need to get off here before I really start bawling. You do what you think is best.” And I hung up. I am lucky that Andrew is such a patient person. He came home, brought me the knee brace, and helped me put it on. My knee felt immediately better, but I still couldn’t walk on it. “Hey”, he said. “You have hiking poles. Do you know where they are?” “The front closet”, I replied. When he brought those to me, we immediately knew they wouldn’t work as they had sharp metal points on the tips. Bless his heart, he let me say it out loud. “These aren’t going to work either.”, I said. He nodded. “So, just try this”, he said as he brought out the walker. It was cool, collapsible, lightweight with wheels on the front ends. Then he made a joke about me practicing for when I’m 90. “Too soon”, I said and I burst into tears again.

I’ve now been using the walker around the condo for 4 days and on limited trips outside. My knee is feeling better. I’ll have to wait until I’m approved by my PCP to see a doctor about my knee and I’ll definitely wait until after my eye surgery, but in the meantime, I’m using my brace and my walker, and I’m grateful. I’ve become a poster child for the Walgreen’s Space Saver walker. At doctor’s appointment and on the street, people using more traditional walkers stop me and ask me about it. I let them try it out, see how lightweight it is and how easy to collapse.

I know my using a walker is temporary, at least this time. My attitude has again shifted and I view my walker as a tool and my knee pain as slowing me down to protect my eye prior to surgery. I’m also viewing my knee pain as a reminder that I should not be schlepping too much, just as my wrist pain reminded me of that during our recent move. My body is strong and resilient, but she has limits, limits I need to respect.

Adventures in aging – Part 1: A partially detached retina, problems with my PCP, a trip to the ER, and great care at Desert Springs

I won’t lie. This last week has been rough! It challenged how I see myself, how I see, literally, and my self-concept and beliefs about my capacity. The universe decided to remind me that I’m not a kid any more,… or a young adult,… or even middle aged, as more than half my life is definitely behind me. It also reminded me that my body is strong, resilient, and that sometimes things need extra care and support. I need to stay vigilant.

I woke up one morning and immediately started getting things done, like I do. I collected paperwork for my editing partner, Victorine Mbong Shu, negotiated with a local independent bookstore about doing a book event for Writing about Motherhood Honesty in Wichita in November, communicated with coaching clients, forwarded an invoice for a friend, finalized my ballot for the upcoming election, did laundry, made turkey salad for lunch.

As I was working on the computer, I noticed the vision in my left eye was, well,… strange. I seemed to be looking around my left eye. Upon closer attention, I had a big dark semi-circle from my nose halfway through my vision in my left eye. I couldn’t see anything through it. I realized I had been working like this for a while that morning, looking around part of my vision. Our brains are amazing things!

I thought “Oh crap! Ocular migraine!”, so I took some Rizatripton and Advil and continued about my day hoping to stave off the nasty headache I expected. As I made the turkey salad, I noticed that my spot was not resolving. “Hmmm… This is new.”, I thought “Oooo! What if this isn’t a migraine?”

Since I’m new to Las Vegas, I have new insurance, a new primary care provider, who I have yet to meet (changing that), and as it turned out a lot of red tape to sort out. My primary care provider’s receptionist told me that they would have to verify that I was a client with my insurance provider, have their supervisor review my materials, and approve me as a new client prior to meeting with me… And this could take up to a week… Crickets.

My mind was racing. This seems like it might be serious! Stroke, aneurysm, blood clot, retinal detachment all ran through my mind. “I don’t have a week to wait. I think this may be serious”, I said. “I’m sorry. That’s our policy”, she said. I tried to joke; I tried to persuade; I tried to plead; I tried to bargain. “What should I do?”, I asked. “I can’t advise you. You’re not our client”, she replied. I gave up.

I called Humana, my insurance company and asked what I should do. To make a very long story short, they sent me to the ER. Good decision. They sent me to Desert Springs Hospital Medical Center. “Hi, I’m Dr. George”, the doctor said. “Hi, I’m Dr. Deborah”, I replied, joking. We first talked about what kind of doctors we were, our specialties, our training, etc. Through it all, he was assessing my condition. “I think you detached part of your retina”, he said, but I want to be sure. Over the next several hours they ran CT scans, CT scans with contrast, ultrasounds, an EKG, blood tests, etc. They were incredibly thorough. Desert Springs is a teaching hospital, so under strict supervision, there were residents, interns, med students, and nursing students caring for me. I recognize the need for teaching hospitals. Teaching is extremely important and everyone who worked with me was professional and highly skilled.

The tests, confirmed Dr. George’s diagnosis and we headed out for the day with an appointment to see a retina specialist at 7:45 am the next morning. I left feeling very satisfied with my care and more respectful of my body. But she and the universe weren’t done with me yet… (more on that later). Oh, and Dr. George called me the next day to follow up and see how I was doing. I appreciate that kind of care.

The silver streak in this video is the detachment line of my retina. Pretty cool video!