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.