It’s been a while… But here I am, just a little over a
month away from my 30th birthday. So, here goes. (I won’t bother to
edit this, because I’ll just never finish it. I’ve already tried to write this like, 6 times. Seriously.)
I actually almost didn’t make it to where I am now. Actually, several times. So it was especially touching when, last night, a friend told me he’d nicknamed me Phoenix.
Shortly after my last post, my body essentially went on strike, and I began waging a full-out war against a myriad of precipitous and totally unexpected chronic diseases, syndromes,
and illnesses. I have spent so many months out of the past couple years on the other side of medical publishing, as
a professional patient – a subject.
I was
just one hospital bracelet after the other, a patient in her hospital gown hugging her knees, holding onto the waning hope that I
could ever have any semblance of a life again – or even just feeling human – after being diagnosed with:
- Fibromyalgia
- Hypothyroidism
- Osteoarthritis
- Reactive Airway Disease
- Degenerative disc disease (especially in my cervical spine)
- And more…
The diagnoses above are just the ones that stuck (though some, thankfully, didn’t take up permanent residency). My team of doctors urgently insisted that I resign myself to going on disability. Forever. It’s like the only person you believe could possibly save you from the rebellion of your own body, just casually telling you to give up on life, once and for all. That there was no chance of ever having it back.
When I finally asked my primary care doctor if he thought I was dying, he looked at the shiny white floor, and I could tell how much it pained him to say “I don’t know.” When I asked how much time I might have left, he shook his head again and responded, “it could be any day.”
When I finally asked my primary care doctor if he thought I was dying, he looked at the shiny white floor, and I could tell how much it pained him to say “I don’t know.” When I asked how much time I might have left, he shook his head again and responded, “it could be any day.”
If only I’d had the luxury of a family or any other support
system to fall back on… But not working simply wasn’t
an option. I’ll never forget how hard I tried to conceal how sick I truly was while attending job interviews. I had to stifle myself from coughing up and shitting blood and try to pass off the sweat on my brow as pre-interview jitters instead
of the high-grade fevers I’d become accustomed to at the beginning of summer that year. It’s a good thing I had no appetite, because I was (barely) subsisting on a condiment diet. It was all I could afford.
Oddly enough, it was one of my doctors who came to my rescue by sending me a link to the job I eventually landed. She was the only one who truly knew, understood, and cared about how much was at stake.
Oddly enough, it was one of my doctors who came to my rescue by sending me a link to the job I eventually landed. She was the only one who truly knew, understood, and cared about how much was at stake.
The year before, on New Year’s Eve of 2014, I remember trying my best to avert erupting in a total meltdown in front of my then-boyfriend’s teenage daughter, Nicolle, and her
friends. As the ball drop began, somewhere around when everyone was chanting “17! 16! …” I had the sudden,
cruel realization that I was saying goodbye to the last year I’d do anything I’d ever loved – dance, violin, or even putting a sentence together.
My cognitive
function had taken a swan dive the same time my physical health went plunging into a downward spiral. Finally, I couldn’t fight
the tears pooling in my eyes and spilling into rivulets down my cheeks, and I simply prayed Nicolle wouldn’t turn around to
see me, this sad thing clawing for mercy inside a thin and very broken shell.
In the summer of 2015, upon securing a new job, any
remaining hope grew increasingly dim, when every last minimally invasive treatment failed to treat
the throbbing, stabbing pain in my neck, radiating and shooting down my right (and dominant)
arm, all the way to my fingertips. I’d tried to cover each finger in band-aids, just to dull the pain I felt take my breath away, just typing on a keyboard at work. The culprit: two of the vertebrae in my neck were crunching down on clusters of nerves, joined by osteophytes (or “bone spurs”). Even when I began receiving routine epidural steroid injections in my neck, it did close to nothing to dull the pain.
Finally, I had to face the inevitable: cervical spinal neurosurgery. I was scheduled to go under the knife for an anterior cervical discectomy with fusion to get a titanium cage fitted into my spine just a
week after my boss coldly fired me from my job – conveniently, at the same time I was frantically coordinating a move to the apartment complex next-door. I had no idea what I was going to do. Fear paralyzed me, in addition to the utterly unbearable pain that came in the days that lay ahead. I still remember softly singing to myself while I was waiting in pre-op the David Guetta song featuring Sia, You shoot me down, but I won’t fall, I am titaaaaaaaniuuuum…
Post-surgery, as I tried to “recover” in the hospital,
I suffered several complications, and a couple very real, literal brushes with death. (I told you I almost didn’t make it.)
When
I was finally released from the hospital, I was confined to bed rest in my new apartment. I felt claustrophobic, cramped inside the den I had rented as my bedroom. Every time I looked out the window, I sighed and sank further into an exhaustion like none I’d ever felt before, gazing at my ex-office building.
During the several months of strenuous physical therapy that
followed, I spent all my time applying to jobs. Literally hundreds of them each week, day in and day out. The in person job
interviews I did score got me just an inch or so away from landing the job, but each time, I kept coming up
short next to one other candidate or, more often, budget cuts. I had absolutely no hope left that I might salvage the situation I’d found myself in.
Meanwhile, I was running ragged with anxiety as I assisted in an investigation led by D.C.’s Adult Protective Services in search of my
father, who had mysteriously gone missing right around my birthday. I began having violent, recurring PTSD nightmares night after night. This particular tale, best saved for another day (or post), culminated in my father and I speaking to each other exclusively through our lawyers and, ultimately, saying our goodbyes in court before a
judge this past fall.
Becoming a complete orphan, with no one left, was one of the most excruciating
and unbearable wounds to ever rip me open and completely tear me apart. I’m still amazed I survived.
It’s a wound that will take a very long time to heal – if it ever does.
As I climbed the application and interview ladder
for the position I now hold at a scholarly medical publishing association,
I swore up and down that, if this round of interviews didn’t work out, I was going to throw the career I’d worked so hard to build out the window and try my hand at becoming a florist. Or a plumber.
Given that I know very little
about being handy around the house, it’s pretty lucky that I got the job after all. My start date was set for November 28, 2016.
Today, my life looks completely different from when I wrote my last post, though some familiar players have managed to make their way back into the picture frame. (I still keep a much earlier curfew, too.)
I am incredibly thankful I can say that, not only am I regularly rowing and
lifting weights, I’ve returned to dance. I’m finally back at home in ballet class –
and it’s even more fulfilling than ever before.
Over the last few years, I’ve come to find immense fulfillment in so many things – things that most others might see as banal or even mechanical aspects of life. Now, I give quite a bit of
consideration toward all of the little things. These days, the little things mean everything
to me.
The isolating and restrictive nature of my illnesses had cost me lifelong friendships, relationships, my job, and almost everyone and everything I held dear in life.
I’ve been so lucky to have so many occasions where I currently work that have allowed me to cement the career I’ve invested myself in with a renewed sense of commitment. Every day, I grow, further and faster, both professionally and personally.
At work, I act as an executive member of four established committees, not including the many ad hoc ones I’ve volunteered my time toward in the last six months since my tenure began. I’ve also had the great honor of being appointed as the chairwoman of a committee focused on recognizing and celebrating diversity in the workplace.
At work, I act as an executive member of four established committees, not including the many ad hoc ones I’ve volunteered my time toward in the last six months since my tenure began. I’ve also had the great honor of being appointed as the chairwoman of a committee focused on recognizing and celebrating diversity in the workplace.
While heavily involved in work, I’m maintaining the best work/life balance than ever before. Maybe it’s because, at home, I get to live with the amazing women who
have become two of the best friends I’ll likely ever have in my whole life: Laura and Jen. They mean everything to me. They are my family.
Me and Laura at the annual holiday boat parade last December, and our yummy gingerbread men
Jen and I painting the town red (which we did every single day of that week)
Jen’s also my favorite workout partner and fitness guru, heart-to-heart barer, and absolutely the only person I will ever allow to call me “bro”
Together, the three of us decorated my first official Christmas tree. (We named him Bruce.) The topper was a huge Sharknado ornament I
Because Jen and Laura gave me the gift of a real family Christmas, I got each of us personalized ornaments. From the top: With her name on it, I gave Jen a denim-patterned star that says “Cowgirl Up,” because we share a love of country music. (Among so many other things. Also, yes, it turns out that my “country music phase” was definitely not a phase...) We’ve even vowed to learn how to line dance together. Most recently, we fulfilled our shared dream of attending an Eric Church concert together. Wow. Just so much wow;
Mine is pictured (solo) below;
And I got Laura a wine glass-shaped ornament with a real dangling cork that reads: “A Christmas toast to you, Magical Laura!” Because she really is magical. She is the personification of all things bright and twinkling. She’s my favorite person, not only to share a glass of wine with, but to pop open a bottle of celebratory champagne and dance on the couch with, while singing along to the Spice Girls. Loud.
(Here's mine. Obviously.)
I’ve even learned how to cook.
And I get closer to working off my remaining surgery weight every day. (I’ve lost several pounds of fat and gained plenty of muscle even since taking this picture.)
I’m living life in ways I never could have imagined before. My gratitude is endless; it has been the ultimate gift to have back the passions that have make life worth living. As Laura told me over a champagne toast, approaching wintertime, I got my sparkle back.
As it turns out, I’m pretty much sparklier than ever. (Yes. Like, ever.)
I sincerely, wholeheartedly welcome – and embrace – whatever comes next in life. I see my 30th
birthday as yet another opportunity to continue growing, trying new things, loving more, and loving more deeply.
I believe in being kinder to myself. And I think part of that is not losing my mind over turning the number 30. I mean, I don’t have to like it. But I kind of don’t have a choice about being 30 either. And seriously, who cares? Luckily, I’m very much in touch with my inner child more than ever before (yes, including when I actually was a child).
I’d like to think that (at least, for me) my birthday will simply be another day toward becoming more of the me I was always meant to become.
Plus, I’m so ready to leave my 20s behind.
Plus, I’m so ready to leave my 20s behind.
Without reservation, I’m ready for anything.
I look forward to it.
I look forward to it.
