Seventeen Years Ago

Seventeen years ago, my phone rang. It was too early for someone to call, so I knew there was some kind of emergency. I picked up expecting to hear a family member's voice. Instead, it was one of the MOMS Club moms. Her voice was loud and panicked.
"Have you seen the news?"
"I haven't," I said, and turned the TV on.

"We're at war," she screeched.

To be honest, my first reaction was that she was overreacting. In the next few minutes I came to the heart-wrenching realization that while what was happening might not be an act of war, it was an act of terrorism, and the events of the day would forever change my world and that of my family.

I watched in horror as a plane hit the second tower, struggling to make sense of what was happening at the same time the morning news anchors were doing the same thing.

I remember the rest of the day vividly. I called my mother first, and then the two moms from the club who I knew were or had been flight attendants. One, crying, told me that had been her route when she worked for American Airlines, but worse, her husband was traveling and she hadn't been able to reach him. She called back later to say her husband was safe in Florida.

I don't remember the details of the second call, only that the other mom was trying to find out who of her colleagues had been on the planes.

The world went eerily silent. Planes were grounded that usually flew over our house by the hour. Cars in the neighborhood that routinely pulled out of driveways and garages carrying their occupants to work, remained immobile. The only sounds were of ringing phones and the news reports that I watched all day.

I had a meeting scheduled that I expected to be cancelled, but the client insisted we still meet. She and the other attendees came to my house, but after thirty minutes of all of us being too stunned to function, she called the meeting a waste of time and left.

Frank was two years old. The lullabies I sang to him changed that night. Instead of Rockabye Baby, I sang God Bless America, the Star Spangled Banner, and America the Beautiful.

In the days that followed, I watched the news coverage of people looking for their loved ones. The signs they held, the flowers they left, the tears they shed, and cried right along with them.

On September 17, I had a surprise party planned for Doug's fortieth birthday. I told him about it and we both agreed it would be best to cancel. I called the invitees who, one by one, told me they disagreed. Many said we needed to be together, to celebrate life, and to not allow the terrorists to "win."

We held the party. It wasn't until the last minute that we knew whether his brother would be able to fly in for it from San Francisco, but he did.

We celebrated life that night. We held our children and each other close, and no one mentioned the events of the week. They were still there, in the back of our minds and at the front of our hearts, but we let love rise to the surface instead of hate.

Each year, my brain processes through how I felt that morning, and how I've felt every year since. Every year I watch the tributes, and every year I cry.

My grandparents never forgot December 7, 1941, the day President Franklin Roosevelt called, "a date which will live in infamy." On that day, Japanese planes attacked the United States Naval Base at Pearl Harbor. The bombing killed more than 2,300 Americans.

September 11, 2001 is also a date that will live in infamy; almost three thousand people died that day or in the days that followed, because of the attack. More than 18,000 people are still suffering from illnesses linked to the dust.

I will never forget.

Inaugural Seven Peaks Music Festival

Frank and I attended the first ever Seven Peaks Music Festival this weekend. There were so many things about it that I want to remember . . . thus, this post. Leading up to the festival, we referred to it as Dierks Bentley's music festival . . . and it was, although we found out Sunday night that LiveNation had a lot to do with making it happen (and that's a separate post).

Friday
Frank and I stopped in at the festival on our way between DIA and Salida where we had rented a cabin for the weekend. We watched a little bit of Sawyer Brown, but mostly marveled at how incredibly well-organized and over-the-top amenity-filled the festival was for the first year. It seemed as though the team thought of EVERYTHING, and made it happen. I've been to a lot of music festivals, but this one was really, like I said, over-the-top.

Saturday
Kiefer Sutherland
Of every performance we saw, this one was (unfortunately) the worst. It was also the first one we saw in its entirety on the main stage. Frank and I cringed through the set, and at one point he said, "Was this guy an actor?"
"Yep," I told him.
"Oh, that explains it."
As in, how over-the-top he was, and not in a good way. Our opinion is . . . the guy should stick with what he knows.

Brothers Osborne
To be honest, I don't remember much about their performance, which kind of sucks, because I know it was really good. Maybe I have too many memories crammed into my small brain, and they just didn't rise to the top. I do remember this, Burning Man was mind-blowingly good, especially since Dierks Bentley joined them for it. (It is, after all, his song.) The other thing that stands out in my mind is that John Osborne is an amazing guitar player. So damn good. It Ain't My Fault is probably my favorite song of theirs, and performed live, it was stellar.

Miranda Lambert
I expected to enjoy her performance as headliner on Saturday night, but not to the degree I did. She is a pro. The House that Built Me brought me to tears (um . . . sobs, actually). Just thinking about it now is making me tear up. Every other song was amazing. She's talented. She's smart. She's a professional performer. She knows how to work an audience, including how to make the most of her setlist. I will now attend every show of hers I'm able to.

New Friends
We met a couple from Calgary Saturday night, who we ended up connecting with on Sunday too. They were camping on the festival grounds, and (again, unfortunately) filled us in on the things we'd never know had gone wrong behind the scenes. My only comment about this is, book a hotel/motel room early if you plan on going again next year. There were more people we met, and this is one of the truly heartwarming things about concerts and music festivals. We are all gathered together with a shared love of live music and those performing it. The connections made sometimes last for years. There's really nothing like making friends at a place like this.

Sunday
Dillon Carmichael
We saw him at the Grand Ole Opry in August when Frank and I were in Nashville to unload his car and get him moved into the dorms. It was his first time performing there and his story was extra special given that he recently had been a GOO security guard.

Anyway, he performed at Seven Peaks' smaller stage on Sunday afternoon, and Frank and I were in the front row. When he started his first song, Frank and I both sang along and the look on Dillon's face was priceless. About four songs in he looked right at us and said, "That I'm seeing some of ya'll singin' along to my songs is blown' my mind."

Check him out. He's really good. I predict this is a guy you'll hear a hell of a lot more about very soon.

Lanco
We had arrived at the festival "early" on Sunday because we really wanted to see Dillon play, but also to catch Lanco's set. They were good. The lead singer talked a little too much (okay, a lot too much), but their performance was decent. Frank and I both commented that we were disappointed, and then heard several other people around us say the same thing. It may be that there was just so much else going on that they weren't as memorable.

Dan and Shay
Confession . . . I wasn't a fan before the festival. I liked some of their songs, but they sounded a bit too much like Rascal Flatts for me (who I got really sick of after the Cars movie). Anyway, come to find out, Shay wrote a song for them.

After seeing them perform, I changed my mind. I'm a fan now. Shay is a crazy-ass-talented singer. No offense to fans of Dan, but I could see Shay having a mega-career all on his own. Especially if he's the songwriter.

Dierks Bentley - Performance Number One
When Frank told me he wanted to attend this event, I went ahead and got VIP tickets. It was worth every penny and more. We had lots of perks, like a private viewing area right at the front of the stage, and I could go on and on . . . but the absolute, positive, best part was the private acoustic performance Dierks did backstage.

We've been to a few of these, but none were like this one. In the same way he seemingly paid attention to every detail for the festival itself, he knocked this one out of the park. The day and time of the performance changed a couple of times, including Sunday night, but when it finally happened, we understood why.

It was dark when we were led backstage and around trailers and trucks and tents and all sorts of other stuff, and finally, up a hill. When we got to the top there was a table set up where we picked up signed posters, a roaring campfire complete with s'mores, and a small stage with a single microphone.

The set was acoustic. The songs he chose were amazing. The guys with him were outrageously talented singers and musicians.

And Dierks was a class act with every heartfelt word of thanks he gave to the group for their support, not just at this festival, but in all the years he's been a performer. Lots of us have been to meet and greets, other VIP events of his, and he acknowledged that we had been and that he appreciated it.

Also heartfelt . . . every word he sang.

I've been to too many concerts to remember. I keep a running list of my all-time favorite performance memories, and this made the top five, no question.

Elle King
When Dierks' acoustic performance ended, the group went back down to the main stage just in time to see Elle King.

Okay. So. Elle King. I write a lot of badass-stronger-than-shit female characters in my books. Elle King is all that times ten thousand.

The woman is badass personified. I had no idea. I also had no idea how much I've been missing not paying more attention to her music. She, like so many others who performed at this festival, is crazy-ass, out-of-this-world talented. One other comment: She looks so much like her father it's freaky.

Dierks Bentley - Performance Number Two
Frank and I have seen Dierks before. Our favorite show was the one at Red Rocks a couple of years ago. We had front row tickets. He killed it that night in the same way he killed his performance on Sunday. And then he kicked it up about ten notches. He invited several of the performers back out on the stage for a song or two, and then invited other musicians that had flown in just for that night's performance out on the stage. It was a once-in-a-lifetime experience for us, but also for them, and it was evident. In a word . . . it was magic.

It's Different for Girls was worth the price of admission for me. It's one of my favorite songs and to see and hear it performed live by both of them was another one of those all-time favorite music memories for me.
_____________________________________________

I think I took videos of some of the performances. I know I took a lot of photos. But here's the other thing I did . . . I stayed present in the moment. I let the music, the night air, the surroundings, and the other people there envelop me in a blanket of something I love with all my heart . . . music. To have shared this with Frank was an experience neither he nor I will ever forget.

On the drive back to the cabin Sunday night and on the way home Monday, Frank talked a little bit about the music industry, ideas he had from things he saw and learned at the festival, and seemed even more fired up to get his resume out on internships.

Which reminds me. There were several people in the VIP section who commented on how cool it was that he and I were at the festival together. I'm never shy about telling someone who comments about our obvious love of music that Frank is attending Belmont University and that his major is music business. Frank wasn't shy either about telling those who asked that he lived in Nashville, etc. EVERY person who we talked to about what he was studying, what he wanted to do with his life, shook his hand and wished him luck with sincerity and a little bit of awe. Every. Single. Person. How many of us look at a kid my son's age, with his story, and think . . . damn . . . I wish I could go back and relive that time of my life? I think the answer is a lot.

It's one life. Load it with memories. Buy the concert tickets. Take the trip. Call the friend. Whatever else it takes to warm your heart and feed your soul. I'll never look back and regret having these experiences, but I would look back and regret missing them.

Another Month, Another Milestone

I'm celebrating a milestone today, unrelated to my health, but definitely related to my heart and soul. It's a milestone related to my life as an author.
One of the hardest things I've encountered as an author is finding an editor that is a good fit. Back when I used to edit, primarily non-fiction, I had a certain philosophy about books, and that was, a book is to an author as a child is to a parent. Sometimes writing a book is a lifelong dream, and having an editor treat it as anything less, can be devastating.
My struggle has been to find a good editor, who cares about the work they do, rather than just the paycheck, and who realizes two things—one, that my books aren't like my children, but that it is a HUGE and very vulnerable risk to put something I've written out there for the world to see, and to treat it and me with respect accordingly. 
The second thing, is finding an editor who pushes me when I need it. The editor I have now will send notes back that say things like (this is not verbatim) "I'm not feeling this." Or, "this doesn't make sense," or "I need to understand how he/she is feeling here." I LOVE that. Love it. 
Anyway, I found the editor I have now a few months ago when I was writing the third book in the Butler Ranch series, The Secret. She not only did a great job editing, she was willing to brainstorm things that had me stuck. And in instead of doing a moderately okay proofread (for the price of an editor), she actually edited the book, doing three passes, until she felt it was ready to release.
Since some of my reviewers actually told me my (previously released) books, needed a good proofread (devastating again, because they had been proofread and edited and proofread again) . . . I decided to bite the financial bullet and pay to have my books edited again. Hard to do when each time a book came back and there were so many mistakes I wanted to hide in a closet.
Today, I have sent my LAST previously edited and released book to my (not-so) new editor. Once she finishes this one, I'll be done and will only need NEW books edited.
Almost every book she's edited for me has at least one review (sometimes several) in which the reviewer comments on how well-written the book is and/or, how refreshing it is to read an indie book that has been professionally edited. That, in an of itself, has made the investment worthwhile.

One Month Ago

Tomorrow will mark the day that I’m two-thirds the way to my leg healing. I’m trying not to focus on number of days or dates with my leg, because there is the possibility that I’ll leave my next checkup/x-ray with more time on my recovery clock. I’m optimistic and hopeful, but I don’t have my heart set on walking thirty days from today.

A more important milestone, and one I am focusing on is, one month ago today, I thought I was having a heart attack. Little did I know that what I actually had, was even more deadly.

I want to remember this milestone, and have it serve as a reminder that there is no point in dwelling on things that happened in the past, but instead, endeavor to live the best possible life I can today, and every day after this one.

No matter how hard someone attempts to bring me down to their level of unhappiness, I refuse to do it, because I am alive, and I have no intention of living out the rest of my life either feeling sorry for myself or dwelling on shit I cannot change. I will not rehash the minutiae of every unpleasant thing that has ever happened, nor will I attempt to analyze the past, present, or future. I’m just going to live.

I have no lingering effects of the pulmonary embolism, except for what I’ve stated above, and having the reminder that life is worth living in a good way, is a great lasting effect.

I remember when I turned forty, I decided I wasn’t going to allow unhappy people to bring me down, nor was I going to put up with their manipulation, or tolerate the pain they intended to cause.

Ten years later, when I turned fifty, I decided the same thing . . . just different people. So here I am, only five years later, but reacknowledging the commitment anyway, because instead of an age milestone, it’s an alive milestone.

I vow to remain steadfast to the commitments I’ve made to myself first, because if I don’t take care of me, I can’t be useful to anyone else. And if anyone tries to sabotage, manipulate, or derail me, I will refuse to allow it.

Thumbs Up, Thumbs Down for Memories

I wish there were a way to force our brains to forget that which we never want to think about again, and remember the stuff we don’t ever want to forget.

Riding in the car today, something, I have no idea what, made me remember something I’d really rather never think about again. Now, when I’m trying to remember what it was, I can’t, and that’s a good thing . . . because I wish I wouldn’t have remembered it in the first place.

If only we could hit the thumbs up or thumbs down button on our memories. Oh, that one? No, I’d rather not think of it again. Thumbs down, move on to the next. And if only our brains had the algorithms of the Pandora app, so it would then filter out any similar memories from the playlists of our lives.

The ones that pop into our heads are bad enough, but what about those memories that are forced on us? 

“Remember the [horrible] nickname people called you in high school?” 

“Um, yeah. And thank you for reminding of something there wasn’t any reason for me to ever think about again.”

“Remember when you were eleven and you said…”

“I wouldn’t have any recollection of whatever it was if you didn’t remind me of it every time I saw you.”

And then there are those that aren’t said as reminders, but to impart new knowledge of something you never needed to know, something you never wanted to know, that becomes a two-headed monster. One head is the thing itself, and the other is having to now carry another unwanted, unneeded burden—something that given the choice we would’ve hit the thumbs down button before we heard the first bar.

I have countless wonderful memories. Hundreds of thousands of them. Every once in a while someone will say . . . remember when we . . . and I’ll think . . . no, actually I don’t. And then they’ll toss in a few more reminders and little bits of that happy time comes floating back like a stream, when instead you’d so much rather have a rushing waterfall of good memories, rather than the never-ending Niagara Falls of bad ones.

The Way We See Men

I am editing one of my back list books right now, one that has drawn harsh criticism from readers regarding the heroine. I’ve spent a lot of time mulling over the criticism, taking weeks and months between hearing it and then going back to re-read what I wrote.

In this story, she is twenty-two years old. She’s lived with her single mother her whole life, with the exception of when she was away at college. She’s naive and hasn’t been in a relationship BECAUSE she’s secretly been in the love with the (older) boy next door since she was a child.

In the story, he has recently begun feeling things for her that are more than the best-friend-ship they’ve always had. He tells her everything. If he wants someone’s opinion, or to share a story, he talks to her. He’s always seen her like the little sister he never had. As his attraction to her intensifies, he struggles with the weirdness of it, but ultimately, he can’t ignore it, and talks to her about it. It’s at this point that she reluctantly confesses her own feelings, and their relationship changes.

A couple weeks after this mutual epiphany, or hero finds out he's the father. The baby’s mother never told him she was pregnant, or that she'd given birth. Tragically, that woman is killed in a car accident, and her family contacts our hero to tell him about the baby, as the woman said she'd intended to do prior to her death.

Our heroine has layers of reactions. Her first inclination is to be the friend she’s always been. She struggles with thinking that now they won’t have a chance to see where their relationship goes, because he has this added responsibility that she has no idea how to deal with.

Given she has several years of school ahead of her, in a veterinary program, she isn’t sure what our hero’s expectations are of her related to the baby. She sees her lifelong fantasies as impossible dreams, and realizes that she’s been living her life solely for this man, putting him before everything and everyone else. When he begs her to go along with him to bring this baby home, she does, but once there, she realizes she can’t handle it.

SO, she freaks. She leaves and, after great soul-searching, ultimately makes the decision to focus on herself rather than our hero. She looks at her whole life differently because the way she’d dreamed it would be, is impossible.

You get the drift . . . 

This is the point that I’ve had many readers tell me they stopped reading, because our heroine is the “most selfish bitch” they’ve “ever seen.” I’ve had readers tell me they hate her. How could a person be so selfish as to walk away from a man and his baby?

Now I’ll bring it around to the subject line of the post. There hasn’t been a single reader who chose to give me their unsolicited opinion, who sided with her. I’m sure there were many, at least I hope there were, but none chose to send me a private message or leave a review, defending her.

This guy, who is ten years older, had a baby with a woman he slept with once, and has trampled on our heroine’s feelings and taken advantage of her friendship their whole lives, is the sympathetic one. 

As the writer of this book, this baffles me. Of course I know what our heroine’s thoughts and feelings are, and perhaps I didn’t do a very good job conveying those feelings, but the overall response leans so far in his favor, I can’t help but question if it is societal.

If the story were opposite—she got pregnant, didn’t tell our hero (because obviously she wouldn’t be unaware of it), and then two weeks into their relationship said, “Surprise! Can you help me raise this baby?” If he then chose to walk away, would the resulting animosity be toward him or her? My guess is it would be toward her.

I’ve had this conversation countless times. I’ve tried to defend this character’s actions when responding to a message, only to be met with, “yeah, well, I still hate her.” What follows is typically her remaining transgressions.

So as this relates to the news of the day, about previously unreported sexual harassment or assault, I can’t help but think . . . how much had to take place before “society” began to accept that it wasn’t the woman’s fault? When did it change from “that’s her side of the story” to “that man is a despicable person”? Listening to some of the gymnasts who were assaulted by the team doctor, I’ve heard some say they had tried to report his behavior, only to be ignored. 

I can attest that I experienced the same thing when I was fourteen. I tried to tell a trusted person in a position of authority that one of their colleagues approached me in a very, very inappropriate way. Fortunately someone came into the room, and he left, but what if he hadn’t? Or what if he had come back? My recounting of what happened was met with “don’t be so dramatic, Heather.”

I learned that day that it was up to me, and that no one would help or defend me. That may have been an extreme reaction, but it’s still what I learned. If something like that had happened again, I certainly would’ve kept it to myself.

My book and that occurrence don’t have much to do with each other, but it’s what led me to question how we, women, see men versus other women. I may be over-analyzing and drawing correlations between things that are vastly different, but still . . . it makes me think. And when yet another reader tells me how much she hates my poor, put-upon, innocent victim of a character, I'll continue to defend her.

Please don't misunderstand as you read this that I wrote it would anything other than curiosity. I am the most non-gender-biased person I know. Truly. 

I Got Soul but I'm Not a Soldier

It’s probably one of the best known lines from any of the Killer’s songs, and last night I saw the band perform All These Things That I Have Done in a way I never could’ve anticipated. They were just that good.

I usually look at tour setlists before I go to a concert, and while I did for last night’s, they didn’t follow it at all, with the exception of the final song of the night, which was Mr. Brightside. 

It wasn’t easy for me to get to this concert, or more specifically to my seat, but my friend Cathy and the staff at First Bank Center really went out of their way to help. Since we had first level, first row seats, I could sit through the entire show, and still see without any problem.

About the second or third song in Brandon Flowers announced that the flu had been going around the members of the band, and that it had hit him hard yesterday morning. He asked the audience if he gave the show his all, would they give it back to him. I cannot imagine his performance if he was feeling good, because there was no hint that he was sick at all.

The Killers are a really good band—musically, lyrically, and live. They came out in regular band attire, with the exception of him, who wore a dark suit and white shirt, making him look more like a businessman than a rock star. The performance wasn’t flashy, at least not on the humans’ part. The lasers, videos, streamers and confetti coming from above the stage were. He navigated the stage, but more, he just sang. 

There were times it was evident he was out of breath, who wouldn’t be performing at our altitude when they didn’t live at it? The audience made up for it.

I took a couple snippets of videos, but none longer than a minute because I wanted to stay in the moment and experience a band that I’ve wanted to see for years. They don’t tour often, although their latest album, Wonderful, Wonderful has some really good tracks, and maybe even a single already, so perhaps they’ll be out with more regularity.

I’m tired today so I'll likely go back and edit the post later, when my brain is more willing to let me remember the details. I’m so glad I didn’t miss this show. If you’re a fan at all, I encourage you to go see them. When you leave, you’ll be a bigger fan.

Happy New Year!

One of my favorite people and dear friend came to see me while I was in the ICU. We talked about our family’s year so far, from Beck’s surgery (which was technically last year), breaking my leg, to my PE. I told her that I was ready to hit the reset button on 2018.

She and I are going to see the Killers tonight, and as anyone in the universe I’ve talked to knows, I’m really looking forward to this concert.

She said something when we were planning our night, and I think it’s great advice. “Let’s make tonight New Year’s Eve and really start over!” Yes. What a GREAT idea. 

So . . . Happy New Year everyone, I can’t wait to see what wondrous things 2018 will bring—peace, happiness, success and  by however you measure it, and most of all, good health!!

Seven Days

It’s been one week since I was certain I was having a heart attack. In that time I’ve been hospitalized, treated for a pulmonary embolism, spent a couple days in intensive care, a day in the cardiac care unit, and yet, it seems as though I’ve been home far longer than three days.

A friend visited yesterday and asked how I was feeling about the whole “episode.” I told her I don’t think it’s really hit me yet. I’ve thought a lot about it, but I’m also trying to make my life as it is now, work, rather than dwelling on what got me here.

My leg is still broken, and was the cause for the PE. I had a blood clot in my leg, part of it broke off, and went to my lungs. Given the ortho doctor I saw after I was released from the hospital told me I should expect another eight weeks without being able to put any weight on my leg . . . that is what is impacting my life more than anything else.

I’m worried about more blood clots, but the blood thinners I’m on combat that, along with some simple exercises and more activity. With activity comes shortness of breath as my lungs recover, so monitoring my blood pressure, heart rate, and oxygen levels are part of my new, albeit temporary, normal too.

It is not easy to make our life work when I have a broken wing. The day-to-day duties, chores, whatever you want to call them, that Doug and I typically share, fall mainly on his shoulders. Our lives are made up of shuttling Beck and Charlotte to various doctor appointments and activities, keeping the cupboard and dinner table from getting too bare, and managing the other things, like writing for me, that are important to us individually.

Knowing that I will not be able to help, let alone take back over the things that have typically been my responsibility for a few more weeks, is hard to accept on my part, and probably overwhelming on Doug’s. 

Through all of this, I’m am so thankful I can write. Without it, my already shaky hold on my sanity would register on the richter scale.

I’ve posted about this experience, like I always post about my life—particularly things I want to remember, or when I want to remember how I felt. My blog is my journal, and while it is public and you are welcome to read, whether you do or not, is your choice. 

As I was telling my visitor yesterday, a couple of people have commented on my FB posts that I should be grateful to be alive (rather than complaining about my broken wing). My response, although only in my head, has been . . . if you think I’m not, or that I won’t wake up tomorrow full of optimism and positive thoughts for the day ahead, you really don’t know me at all. I have my moments of self-pity, sadness, frustration, anxiety, worry—but none of those things define me. 

Like always, I will make the most of whatever my circumstances are, and look for the silver lining. In this case, I have eight more weeks to write while my opportunities for distraction are limited. I accomplished more than I could’ve imagined in my first four weeks of not being able to walk without crutches, thinking that by the time I could again, I would be in a better position to manage life and writing. Just think what I can accomplish in twice that time.

On March 3 of last year, I sat down to write the first book in my Butler Ranch series. In less than a year, I have written and published three more in that series, and am partway through the fifth book. In less than a year. Even I’m amazed by that. There is a very good chance that by March 3 of this year, that fifth book will be finished, and I’ll be working on the sixth book in the Cowboys of Crested Butte series, or even the first book in another series that I’m getting ready to launch. 

So, yes, I’m very happy to be alive. I’m appreciative of the fact that in eight weeks, I’ll be able to walk again, and I am aware that I have little to complain about given my big picture versus that of the rest of the planet’s population. However, that doesn’t mean I couldn’t use a hug every now and then.

Shouldn't It Be More Difficult? I Almost Died

I haven’t written on this blog in a long time, and for good reason. I’ve been writing books instead. Since May of 2017, I’ve written four books and rewritten five others. That’s been a very good thing, but also means other things fall by the wayside.

On Friday of last week . . . what was only six days, but literally a lifetime ago, I got the feeling something was wrong. Simple tasks, that I’d been managing for three weeks by way of crutches and a wheelchair, were becoming more difficult instead of less so. I found myself short of breath more often, and worry set in that I wasn’t doing enough, and my body was atrophying. 

Saturday night, after a relatively normal day where I did more resting than moving around, I was making my way via wheelchair to the dinner table. Halfway there, I was out of breath. I felt as though I could go to sleep right there at the table. I mentioned a couple of times that I was afraid something was wrong; my Apple watch was registering a consistently high heart rate, and the shortness of breath thing was out of left field.

Sunday morning I got up, determined to do more, and thus, start working my body a little harder. My goal was to build my stamina back up. I showered, which is work when you can’t put weight on one leg, have to transfer from wheelchair to shower chair and back. From what I recall, that may have tired me, but not enough for me to remember.

A few minutes later I made my way from the bedroom to the kitchen. I remember feeling tired, and annoyed with myself for being so. I puttered around getting coffee, putting things away, and taking intermittent breaks in the wheelchair. Soon I found myself so out of breath, that I was literally gasping for air. I stopped everything, tried to get my breathing under control while intermittently splashing my face with cold water. 

Once I felt as though I could breathe, I got from the kitchen to the bedroom in the wheelchair, and from the wheelchair to the bed. The extreme shortness of breath kicked back in, my skin was clammy, I was sweating, my heart rate was hovering at 150, and I had a lot of pain in my chest and back. I yelled for help a couple of times, thinking I was surely having a heart attack. At the same time, unbeknownst to me, Charlotte had felt dizzy, so she had laid down on the floor in the hallway outside the bedroom door. 

When Doug ran upstairs to answer my call for help, he had no idea which of us I was calling for help for. He went back and forth between the two of us, not sure who was in worse shape. 

I told him I was sure I was having a heart attack, and went through my symptoms. He found a blood pressure cuff, got me an aspirin and we discussed what we should do.

For those of you thinking, “why the hell didn’t you call 9-1-1?” Yes. Why didn’t we? In the moment, it’s harder than you think. I sent a group text to three close friends simply saying, “we need help, I think I’m having a heart attack.” One immediately called and told me to call an ambulance. When I briefly attempted to explain what was happening, she told me to hang up and call 9-1-1. About the same time, Doug was taking my blood pressure again, and turned gray when he saw the results, I was already calling. If I hadn’t been, he would’ve.

In the moments prior, I was vacillating as to whether something was really wrong or not. And Doug was reacting to that as well as trying to help his mother. It is surreal when it is happening, and I think it is human nature for us to consider waiting a minute to see if maybe we’ll be okay. Most times we are.

The 9-1-1 operator asked several questions, told me to chew more baby aspirin, and stayed on the phone with me, until the EMTs arrived. At virtually the same time, so did the two other friends on the group text. 

After a series of protocols, the EMT confirmed what one friend stated the minute she looked at me. “Pulmonary embolism,” he said. I looked at her and she nodded. 

The ambulance transported me to the hospital, kept an eye on me, started an IV, ran more tests, while the two friends and Doug’s mom determined she was okay, so Doug could go with me.

After I arrived at the emergency room, things started happening relatively quickly. The PA call for an x-ray and then a CT-scan, but the ER doctor said to bypass the x-ray and put me next in line for the CT. 

Just sliding from one gurney to the other for the scan winded me. The scan went quickly, and I was back in the ER a few minutes before the doctor came in.

“The radiologist hasn’t read the scan yet, but the techs do enough of these that she was able to confirm you have a PE. A very large PE.”

He left for a few minutes and came back saying he’d talked to the pulmonary specialist and both of them believed I was a candidate for TPA. This is what stroke patients are given—the stuff that if it’s given early enough, can reverse the stroke symptoms before lasting damage is done.

It took longer than the doctor thought it should for me to get on TPA. I saw him fist-pump from several feet away when the answer finally came back affirmative after the twenty times he asked whether it had been delivered to the ER yet.

I was sent up to the ICU, TPA running through an IV, and essentially told not to move. At all. If I needed to move, at all, the nurses would move me. What I know now is they didn’t want the clot to move. After two hours, the TPA was finished, and I was put on a heparin drip. Based on my vital signs, it was evident the TPA had done its job and the mass of clots had been dissolved.

My heart rate, blood pressure, and oxygen levels slowly returned to “normal,” over the course of a couple days. My biggest issues were massive, debilitating headaches, nausea, and fatigue.

At some point, one of the doctors drew a picture on a dry erase board. “You had a saddle pulmonary embolism with 70 percent occlusion,” he said. I haven’t been a able to find an image as simplistic as the one he drew, nor as illustrative. 

By Tuesday, they were ready to move me out of the ICU, and into the cardiac-moderate-care unit. Once I moved, I had fewer restrictions, and was slowly able to start eating solid foods again.

I was taken off of oxygen, off of the heparin drip, and put on blood thinners in pill form. I learned that I can no longer use crutches, just going a few feet on them resulted in a huge hematoma under arm. This is the life I’ll need to get used to as long as I’m on blood thinners, probably for six months. I’ll bruise easily and something like a minor car accident could be devastating.

As I was listening to the nurse going through discharge instructions yesterday, I realized that there wasn’t much I needed to do or not do, with the exception of the blood thinners.  I knew the statistics, I knew I was one of the few lucky ones who lived through such a significant PE. So, why wasn’t this harder?

“You’re very, very lucky,” she said, looking me in the eye. “You aren’t like any other PE patients I see. Most can’t sit up without fatigue. Most are in far, far worse shape than you are.” When my eyes filled with tears, she said, “Heather, most don’t live.”

Okay. I heard that. It’s still difficult for me to process . . . that I came that close, but now feel really “okay.” It’s miraculous. Truly. The combination of getting to the emergency room, and having them administer TPA right away, is why I’m okay. It was all about paying attention to my body telling me something was really wrong, and then getting to a place where medical professionals could help me.

I don’t remember which day or night it was, but at one point, Doug was sitting next to my bedside and told me what he’d learned from researching a saddle PE. “Only one to two percent recover without an damaging effects,” he told me.

I’m in that one to two percent. Grateful. Thankful. And acknowledging, at least on a clinical level, how lucky I am. I expected to “feel” it more, and maybe it just hasn’t hit me yet. I’m still thinking it should be harder.