It Has Been Quite A Year

(song: Aperture/artist: Sleeping At Last)


It's a new year, y'all! Thank sweet Baby Jesus, 2016 is OVER!

I don't know who created this, but I love that person.

I rang in 2016 on a cane, then later in the year, my dad died. So, yeah, it pretty much sucked. I'm still dealing with all of that. Suffice it to say, I'm still sad and I still cry at least once a day (usually for less than 30 seconds, but occasionally the wave hits hard and it's a long, ugly-face cry), and I still struggle with my anger. I've got great support, and I'll get there. My feet are much better but I still have numbness in my shins and mild foot-drop in my right foot so my physical therapist advised against any running until I'm not a risk to myself. I've got great support, and I'll get there.

My goal for the new year is simply to keep getting better. Keep doing my physical therapy, stay in psychotherapy, eat healthy, exercise, be a good person/wife/mom, be patient...keep getting better. That seems like a good place to start, right? Oh, and I want to write more, eat less, lose weight, learn guitar, sing more, run again...but that's it!
 
But hey, despite all the sad shit that happened in 2016,  a lot of good came out of it. The trips to Georgia during my dad's illness afforded me the opportunity to strengthen and renew relationships. The experience healed a lot of lingering childhood angst.  The past year would have been impossible without the support of my southern sisters (and mamas), or their northern counterparts. I learned I have really good people. My affiliation with Achilles brought incredible new friendships into my life.

Jan 3 with my beloved Achilles Brooklyn family at NASDAQ's closing bell. An extraordinary start to the new year.

I joined a grief support group. I rediscovered the reason I moved NYC - I saw plays, concerts and dance performances. I participated in a race with a group of women I had never met in person. I participated in races even though I couldn't run. I learned to appreciate just being able to move. I learned to appreciate the little things. I listened, I talked, I laughed a lot.  

I don't know how 2017 will end for me, but I sure am happy with the way it's starting. My focus is forward and positive. One step at a time. 

A cane in January, a race on Thanksgiving. Not bad for almost a year. (Color scheme purely coincidental.)

I'm Bigger, One Whole Year!

(song: Birthday/artist: David Weinstone)





March 26, 2016



Today I am 41 years old. Just after my 40th birthday, I wrote this post about my feelings of inadequacy and how I let my fear of, pretty much everything, hold me back from personal growth and progress. When disaster struck in November and I needed emergency back surgery, I was devastated. But when I started the outline for this post, I realized that despite the super shitty way 2015 ended, A LOT of great things happened between ages 40 and 41. I've spent the better part of a year working with a great therapist who is helping me overcome my fear and identify what triggers my self-doubt. He never lets me go to that "I suck. I've always sucked. I'll always suck." place that I've spent most of my life retreating. And once I started letting go of that fear, great things began to happen.

Okay, I'm also getting older but still...

For starters, I got a great opportunity to start learning the ropes of producing theater. Last January I saw an off-Broadway musical about teens at a weight loss camp, produced by my friend Michael. Michael's one of those annoying people that sees the possibility in every situation and is super positive all the time. If he weren't so awesome, I'd hate him. When I called him to ask if I might borrow lyrics for a future blog post (about my own experience as a teen at weight loss camp...stay tuned for that one), the phone call turned into a live meeting, that turned into introductions to industry professionals, like producer Kari Lynn Hearn, who is a human ray of sunshine and with whom I clicked immediately. She encouraged me to attend workshops at the Commercial Theater Institute, which I did, and where I met even more great people.  20 years ago, I moved to New York for acting and, largely due to my lack of belief in myself, never made anything of it. To come full circle and once again be a part of the industry that brought me here, is an exciting possibility. The old me would have never had the courage to call Michael and ask to use those lyrics. When I saw him last week - having last seen him two weeks prior to surgery when I was so very blue - he said, "I can see a change in you. I don't see the fear." It felt wonderful hear that and to know that I'm radiating positivity.

Kari Lynn, whom I totally want to be when I grow up!

On the fitness front, I joined the Prospect Park Track Club at the encouragement of my friend and fellow PPTC member, Tony Ellis. Because I spent nearly two years as Tony's patient he knew that the social element of a running club (of ANY club, really) scared the hell out of me. He also knew that it would be a great way for me to overcome that insecurity and be a part of a positive, like-minded community. And I am so glad I did! Even though I was only able to participate in one group run before I lost my feet to nerve damage, I got so much support from the club members after my surgery. I went to the annual awards dinner - by myself, on a cane, barely knowing anyone in the club, super nervous and awkward, but I did it anyway - and it turned out to be a wonderful experience. I met Michael K. and Nicole and Juan, all of whom were once overweight and are now fit, healthy running machines. I met Geoff, who came back to running after breaking BOTH ankles in a climbing accident. I met Denis, who had footdrop (just like me!) and no longer has it. And I met Michael Ring, who hates to be called "an inspiration" but truly is. Michael was diagnosed with Acute Motor Axonal Neuropathy, a rare variant of a rare disease called Guillain-Barré syndrome, and basically in 24 hours went from being a marathon runner to being wheelchair-bound. I stumbled upon Michael's blog right after my surgery, when I was crying every day and feeling like the world had come to an end, because my feet died. I loved his honesty, his anger, his humor, his willingness to express himself un-apologetically, and his will to fight when others (me) would have given up. When I finally met him in person, I asked him how he got through the first year without wanting kill someone (or himself). He said, "I just don't get that mad about stuff I can't control." And now I hear those words every day, as  I go for my walks and my stupid feet flop awkwardly onto the pavement. I don't have the urge to cry anymore because...I just don't get that mad about stuff I can't control.

Micheal Ring: inspiring me, one laugh at a time.

Michael encouraged me to join the Brooklyn chapter of Achilles International, an organization that "enables people with all types of disabilities to participate in mainstream running events in order to promote personal achievement".  I'll be participating in my first run/walk with the Brooklyn chapter next month.  If I had let my insecurity win, I never would have joined PPTC, and I would have missed out on being part of a community that I need. And that I hope, needs me.


In addition to joining the track club community, I reconnected with Marisa, one of my fellow fitness models from the Brazil Butt Lift segments on QVC. We recently got together to talk about our blogs and brainstorm ideas for nutrition and fitness collaborations. But we didn't just talk about business, we talked about everything. We talked, and laughed, and probably would have cried if we had had more time. Having grown up in a house with a single dad and two brothers, building relationships with women has been challenging for me, but as I get older, I realize the importance of female connections, and the past year has seen a swell in my friendships with women. Again, shedding the fear that I'm somehow not worthy or likable has opened up a world of human connections that have been sorely lacking. I need my sisters!

Just a few the women that inspire me. (And Michael, the world's happiest producer.)

And despite still not being able to run, I have made incredible strides since my surgery three months ago. I can walk fast and I can walk far. I walked five miles the day before my birthday! My longest walk to date. I have been cleared to do all normal exercise - except running (obviously), jumping and weighted squats - and am now doing regular workouts in addition to my daily physical therapy exercises. And just 12 weeks after undergoing major back surgery, I did this:

Imagine what I'll be doing in 12 months. There's so much possibility for me. Finally, I believe that. I am excited, and not even a little afraid, about what this year has in store for me.   

Underneath It All...I think I'm Afraid When There's Nothing Wrong

(artist:Cyndi Lauper/song: Fearless)

I skew slightly crazy. My friends and family know this to be true. I am the queen of irrational fear. For example, my fear of flying is not your run-of-the-mill fear of flying. Mine only started after I got engaged and finally had something good happening in my life; I convinced myself something awful would happen before I made it down the aisle. My then-fiancé put it to me best with, "If God hates you so much, why is he taking 200 other people?" Touché. My pretend-mom, who I have to call before every flight, always says, "Al (she calls me Al), is this a rational thought?" NO! But I still can't control the fear.

And that trick is called "Xanax".

So when I was cleared for PT and able to go outside on my own, I was terrified. I just knew I would be violently attacked - most likely with my cane - while I was taking my daily 10-minute walks. I was hyper-aware of my surroundings and suspicious of everyone. They all wanted to maim me. Especially that 4-year-old kid that rides his scooter in front of his dad's bodega. I felt so exposed, vulnerable and weak, and overwhelmingly afraid. So in addition to overcoming the physical limitations of back surgery, I would have to overcome the mental ones. 

During one of my PT sessions, my therapist pointed out that I was walking really stiffly. I told her that I was afraid of doing something that might hurt my back and land me in the hospital again. Then she sat me down and explained that, although we are conditioned to believe that our spines and backs are extremely fragile - whether through adverts for pain meds or stories of woe from our achy friends - they are actually very strong and malleable.  Since it only took about half a session for her to pick up on my brand of crazy, she told me that this was yet another irrational fear and that I should stop walking like a robot. Then she promptly added exercises that forced me to twist and turn my spine.

I was so scared my spine would snap like a twig. It didn't...

And guess what, I didn't break in half. Nor did anyone attack me on on the street in my most physically vulnerable moments. (I've also never been in a plane crash.) Now, if I can apply that same rational thinking to my overall life, the scared girl that wrote this post on her 40th birthday, might be damn near perfect by her 50th. Imagine that. 

If it's on a greeting card, you know it's true.

This Is Your New Thing Now

(song: New Thing Now/artist: Shawn Colvin)


I had an epiphany of sorts during therapy (psycho, not physical) this week.

In 2011, I got an email from Beachbody®, telling me about an audition two days later for the Brazil Butt Lift® infomercial. Without hesitation, I went, got the job, and one week later I started a three-month intensive that would change my body - and my life - for the better. Had I been able to mull over the decision, knowing how hard it was going to be, I would have been way too scared to do it. Because of the time-sensitivity, I wasn't allowed to let my head talk me out of it.

It was so hard. It hurt a lot. I cried, I cursed, I wanted to quit sometimes. But I didn’t quit. I was focused and determined and disciplined, and I finished. I learned that I’m so much stronger - physically and mentally - than I had ever given myself credit. And I got an unimaginable new lease on life that led to great opportunities and experiences. Being fit became my thing. Five years later, it's still one of my things.

And I've got the Facebook (and Instagram!) page to prove it. 

So as I was chatting with my therapist, I thought out loud, "Perhaps this is a formula that works for someone that overthinks EVERYTHING". Because of the dangers associated with a crushed nerve, I didn’t get to mull over the decision to have back surgery. I just consented and was under the knife 48 hours later. And it sucked. And the work I have to do is so hard. It hurts a lot. I cry. I curse. I want to quit sometimes. But I won’t quit. I’ll stay focused, and determined and disciplined. And just maybe this is the catalyst to another new lease on life, that leads to even greater personal growth and experience. Unlike 2011 me, I already know I'm capable. 

Now recovery is my thing.

Light bulb!

I Love The People Of My Village

(song: People of My Village/artist: Rusted Root)


New York City can be a hard place. It's expensive, it's fast, and everyone is busy. I have to schedule my son's play dates weeks in advance to work around the sports/Mandarin/chess lessons of his over scheduled 8-year-old city kid counterparts. When disaster struck without warning and rendered this staffless housewife unable to fulfill her daily duties, there was a slight panic. I don't often find myself wishing I still lived in my hometown, but this was the exception. I needed my pretend-mom, my cousin, my core girls, my people. I needed help.

Pretend-mom and cousin: my go-to girls.

Because I still struggle with the whole self-worth issue, I'm not the kind of person that expects help. In fact, I'm the kind of person that feels weirdly uncomfortable when people do nice things for me. (I know, totally fucked up. Just one of many things I'm working on in therapy.) But then, something incredible happened, people helped. My mother-in-law stayed with my son and husband during the week I spent in the hospital. One sister-in-law took over the pre-Christmas duties; chief among them, taking my son to see Santa. Another sister-in-law took time to come sit with me at the hospital every day, and she advocated for my room change when my first roommate proved to be an epic nightmare. When I came home, friends delivered homemade meals and groceries, parents from my son's school pitched in with pick-up and drop-off, and invited my son for play dates so that the disruption to his life was minimal. Friends and family near and far sent goodies, flowers, books, magazines, DVDs, and loads of supportive and kind messages. I was overwhelmed by the kindness and support.
 

My Georgia girls know that chocolate covered Oreos advance the healing process.

During my first post-hospital week, my husband worked from home. He was incredible; juggling his busy work schedule while caring for our son and helping me do EVERYTHING - dressing me, helping me use the bathroom, standing guard while I showered so I didn't fall, walking me around the block for my doctor-ordered daily movement, and doing the household chores. (I had to teach a 44-year-old man how to use a washing machine, but I'm willing to overlook that given he listened to me weep endlessly. But honey, feel free to run a load or two anytime the mood strikes you.) 

I didn't ask, people just did. And it means the world to me to know that kindness  and selflessness still exist in our increasingly busy and self-entitled world. It inspired me to reevaluate my own behavior and make more time for friends and family whose presence in my life I often take for granted. If these are the values Ted Cruz was talking about, then I am proud to call myself a New Yorker.

Thank you to everyone that called, messaged, visited, sent provisions and gifts, helped my family, helped me.  

Food, flowers and laughs. The perfect recovery trifecta.

No More Turning Away From The Weak And The Weary

(song: On The Turning Away/artist: Pink Floyd)


A couple of weeks ago I took my son to Whole Foods here in Brooklyn to get a cake for my husband's birthday. It was my first time in a public errand-running setting since the surgery. Naturally I chose one of the busiest times - the after school/pre-dinner rush - to go to the grocery store for the first time. What my son didn't (and shouldn't) know is that I had been feeling extremely anxious about public outings, so going in I was a silent mess. I'm feeling so vulnerable and exposed with this newfound handicap. 

Before we got out of the car we discussed our plan of attack: Go straight to the bakery, pick out a cake, get the hell out of there. My son got a small rolling cart, while his crippled mama hobbled behind him on her hospital-issued cane. We go straight to the bakery, pick out a cake, put it in the rolling cart and...oh yeah, we need milk too. We head over to dairy, get the milk. Oh yeah, we need eggs too. I grab those. Oh yeah, a few yogurts too. And this package of cheese. I instruct my son as I hand him the items one-by-one to add to the cart. Take out cake, put in eggs and milk and yogurt and cheese, put cake back. 

We head to the check-out line. As we pass the hot food bar, the cart topples over. Out comes the cake, eggs, yogurt, cheese and milk. My sweet little boy says, as he falls to his knees and scrambles to collect the runaway groceries, "I'm sorry, mommy, I'll pick it up. The eggs are broken, will we get in trouble?" I'm not mad at him, but I'm so anxious and visibly agitated and I can't bend down and help him. And no one, I mean NOT ONE SINGLE PERSON, stopped to help an almost-crying child and his cane-using mother. 

No eggs were harmed in the writing of this blog post.

Now that I'm a full-time cane user, I've noticed that people who walk past me don't make eye contact for very long, if at all. And I've come to realize that's exactly how I looked at the disabled before this happened to me. We are taught not to gawk: however inadvertent, we treat the disabled as invisible because it makes us uncomfortable to imagine ourselves in a similarly compromised position. 

Perhaps the assumption that handicapped people don't want special treatment is what drove every person that walked past my son and me not to stop and offer help. What I know is that I will no longer assume that help is not needed if I find myself in a similar situation. My awkwardness at coming face-to-face with someone that has a handicap is no match for what it feels like to need help and not be offered it. We as humans can do better. I'll go first.


 

Or at the very least, by lifting others' groceries. 

Condition: Grounded, But Determined To Try

(song: Learning to Fly/artist: Pink Floyd)



Jan. 5, 2016

Today was my 3-week follow-up with Dr. Rawlins, my surgeon from Hospital for Special Surgery.  You might recall that we didn't have a lot of time to get to know each other as I only met him 48 hours before he sliced into my back, so it was nice to see him under slightly better circumstances. We reminisced about the day we met. He said, "You were essentially paralyzed when you came in." And we laughed and laughed...

A hell of a lot happier and ready to make recovery my bitch.

I update him on my post-surgery progress. Three weeks after surgery:

• I am now able to slide my feet into my shoes all by myself! (Seriously, I couldn't do that for the three weeks prior to surgery.) My toes have feeling and they can mostly grip again. I still can't use my toes to ease my shoes off the back of my foot, but I'll get there. 
• The tops of my feet are no longer numb! Hopefully this is a positive sign that means I didn't sustain permanent nerve damage. Cautiously optimistic. 
• My shins are still numb.
• My lady business is still numb. (If you're a medical professional, this is called saddle paresthesia. If you've ever sat on a bike seat or had a Brazilian bikini wax, it's that whole area...)
• I still have footdrop. Though it's not as pronounced as it was before surgery, it's still there, and that sucks big time. 

Now that I'm used to being asked about my bathroom functions, when that subject comes up, I tell him that while I get the sensation of needing to go to the bathroom, I am now able to sleep through the night without getting up to pee. If you've ever given birth vaginally and/or you're over 40-years-old, you know that's not normal. (In 2008, I was diagnosed with stress incontinence after I peed through my Spanx while dancing to Jump Around at a wedding, so yeah, my newfound ability to go for more than eight hours without peeing raises a flag.) For this and the other remaining numbness, he refers me to a neurologist for further testing of the nerve damage.

He was happy with my progress but warned that "some of the numbness may never go away". And while I do not find this remotely comforting, if it only means a lifetime of pain-free bikini waxes, that's pretty much like gaining a superpower so I can totally live with that outcome.

Then he cleared me for physical therapy! He says, "Getting the strength back in your legs is completely up to you now." No shit. It's going to be so fucking hard and tedious and frustrating and I just wish I could blink myself one year into the future a la "I Dream of Jeannie", but I can't, so I'm going to work my ass off because I hate being like this more than I hate hard work. So...here I go!

Is it 2017 yet?!

I'm Only Sad In A Natural Way

(song: The Paris Match/artist: The Style Council)

I think the most difficult part of this  temporarily (hopefully) life-altering injury and surgery are the extreme emotional swings I'm experiencing.* I'm the first to admit that I skew more dramatic than others; I feel every emotion with my whole self. And man, was my whole self feeling super sad when this nightmare started in November. It was as if my flame had been snuffed out. The 17 days I was in-waiting before my first appointment at Hospital For Special Surgery, were dark days. I simply could not find any joy. I appeared emotionless. I was so scared. I didn't know what was happening to my body and I sunk to an emotional low I hadn't experienced since postpartum depression punched me in the gut after the birth of my son. After the surgery, that sadness persisted but it was different. Whereas the sadness prior to surgery was fear-based, after surgery, I felt like I was grieving a loss. And well, I was. I am. I lost the use of my legs. I lost my ability to run. Though it's better, I still have foot-drop so I walk like a duck. I can't play with my son. I can't walk him to school. I can't hold him on my lap. I couldn't take him to see Santa. I couldn't decorate my house for Christmas, or wrap my son's presents. I couldn't go to the bathroom on my own. I couldn't shower or dress myself without assistance. I am walking with a fucking cane! I'm angry and I'm sad. I'm scared I'll never be the same. 

Chair in the shower. Because I'm a fall risk now.

The first two weeks after surgery were by far the worst. The physical pain and the emotional pain were pretty much equal. I sobbed every day. Multiple times a day. (Never in front of my son.) When I woke up every morning and realized I still couldn't walk, I cried. When my husband had to help me onto the toilet - that feeling of utter helplessness and dependence was crushing to me - I cried. When my friends or family called or came to visit, I cried. I cried a lot.  

Here's the thing, y'all, I've only been fit for the last 5 of my 40 years on this earth. I just got into running in 2013. To go from running my best 5K race to needing a wheelchair in just 10 days, was devastating. And I was just coming out of the fog of my whole mid-life crisis thing. Good things were starting to happen; Work opportunities, exciting projects, and involvement at my son's school. I could see a path. It just felt like everything that makes me happy - outside of my family - was swiftly and violently, taken away. Then the path got foggy again.

November 15. My last race. (For awhile.)

 Listen, I haven't lost perspective. I know I'm not the only person in the world going through a shitty experience. Last year a good friend suffered an unimaginable loss when her husband died tragically, another lost her son,  a fellow neighborhood mom is fighting cancer like a champ (and she came over - with a homemade meal - to comfort me in my hour of need), two of my friends are in horrible custody battles, and my very own dad is battling COPD. So yeah, I get it, IT COULD BE WORSE. But just because I'm not dying doesn't devalue my feelings or my experience. And this is not the worst thing that's ever happened to me. It's the worst thing that's happening to me now and it just sucks. It sucks a lot. And even though this loss may be temporary, it needs to be grieved all-the-same. It doesn't mean I'm not going to work my ass off to get well, it just means I'm going to allow myself to feel what I feel when it comes up. 

My light will come back. I don't just believe that, I know that. Oh great, now I'm crying again.

Oh, sidewalks of Brooklyn, how I miss you.

 

 *For the record, I started writing this two weeks ago but sitting up too long is uncomfortable so my time at the computer is limited. I'm feeling MUCH better now, and I'm happy to report that I use the bathroom and shower all by myself now! And I only cry every other day...

I'm Much Obliged For Such a Pleasant Stay

(song: Ramble On/artist: Led Zeppelin)


If you're just joining us, my last post was all about the events that led to my emergency back surgery. Welcome.


My adventures at Hospital For Special Surgery: December 14 - 19

All smiles before surgery.

On oxy(gen) and Oxy(codone) after surgery.

Continuous leg massage. Heaven.

Timber!

The Bad:
A not uncommon but potentially dangerous complication during surgery meant I was on strict bed rest for 4 days. The first two days, I was on a liquid diet. My husband put a napkin under my face and literally spoon-fed me. Often while singing the Yankee Bean song from that  episode of Seinfeld. He's good that way. 

There was a lot of spit-taking.

I also had to be sponge-bathed (Hey Lidia!), and I sported a catheter all week, so I was totally Porky Pigging it the whole dang time.  And I was hopped up on Oxycodone which made me sweat profusely which then left me freezing while trapped in my saturated linens. 

And, the pain. Good lord, the pain.  Turns out, getting your back muscles sliced open hurts like a bitch. When I was lying on my back it felt like there was a lacrosse ball embedded in my tailbone. Two people had to help turn me because it was excruciating to turn myself.

And then...Marlene moved in. Marlene Rabinowitz* sounded like Harvey Firestein and was practically deaf so her cell phone conversations were always at an 11 and she talked exclusively on speakerphone. The night they wheeled the old bag in, she proceeded to call her pal Tony... at 12:30 in the damn morning, y'all. That was the moment I knew I had died and gone to hell. She screamed at her daughter for not coming to visit her, but the conversation would later reveal that her daughter HAS CANCER and was wildly sick from her chemo treatment. Anyone, I mean any one - she told a flower delivery guy how miserable she was - that passed her bed, got an earful of Marlene. I asked to be moved and was immediately accommodated. On my way out of the room, I heard Marlene say, "Where is she going? She was such a good roommate. So quiet. I hope I don't get a crazy one." Oh, Marlene. Bless your heart.

Ear buds, white noise app and a sleep mask still could not drown Marlene.

My next room had a way better view but the roommate was only slightly better. Andrea Friedman* spoke at a softer volume but her whiny nasally voice made her equal to Marlene on the annoying scale. She sounded like Estelle Costanza  and endlessly complained of pain. From the constant rotation of people she summoned to her bedside, I was able to glean that Andrea was a seasoned pill-popper and not satisfied with the measly strength of the hospital-administered pain meds. Luckily she brought a Ziplock freezer bag full of narcotics from her private collection. "Methadone, Oxy, Xanax", were among some of the names being bandied about. Mercifully, Andrea was moved to another floor and my last night was spent enjoying the silence and soaking in this view.

If you gotta be in the hospital, this doesn't suck.

The good: 
It turns out what the radiologist and the surgeon thought was a cyst was in fact just a part of the ruptured disc. My surgeon said it was one of the worst herniations he had ever seen. But hey, no cyst.

Hospital For Special Surgery was incredible from check-in to discharge. And even though it sucked not being able to lift my head, or pee in a toilet, the staff was wonderful! I had the best nurses and care aids. At the end of every shift, I felt like I had a new friend -- Hey Janet! My girl, Amy! Helga and Carol, I see you. 'Sup, Kryshnann. Lidia gave the most gentle sponge baths and preserved the sliver of dignity I had left as she somehow simultaneously bathed me and changed my sweat-soaked linens. The care I got far outweighed two shitty roommates. If I had to do it again, I'd go right back to HSS.

And I got so much love from family and friends. My sister-in-law, who lives near the hospital, visited every day and she made me stand up for myself when Marlene was driving me to the brink. I had hospital visitors and got flowers and goodies and messages, and all of it made me feel so loved. 

Feeling the love.

Honestly, for a housewife, it was like an all-inclusive vacation. I had a room with river view in a facility where people catered to my needs 24-hours-a-day. And they gave me drugs every three hours. Why would I ever want to go home?

On day 4, I finally got to raise my head. First 30 degrees for a few hours, then 45 degrees! I didn't get a splitting headache so I was cleared to take my first post-surgery steps. 

45 degrees!

A physical therapist guided me on my first walk. With the aid of a walker, I took my first steps toward recovery. As I walked out of my door and towards the nurses station, I began to sob. I felt so small and vulnerable and fragile. Broken. A massive wave of grief struck me when I didn't jump right out of bed and sprint down the hallway. I just kept thinking, "This is going to be so hard."

Cleared for take-off.

And, she's up!

On my last day, I was an emotional wreck. I sobbed intermittently all day. At noon, my friend Marisa walked into my room and it was if an angel had appeared. Marisa is a dancer, fitness model (we met when we did QVC spots for Brazil Butt Lift) AND she's a nurse. If she weren't so nice I would hate her for being so accomplished and so hot. She is also a back surgery survivor and completely understood how devastated I felt. She listened and nodded while I wept, and assured me that what I was feeling was normal and that it would get better. She was exactly who I needed to see on my last day. After she left, I had my last sponge bath - This time sitting up in a chair in the bathroom! - got myself dressed and reentered the real world.

High as a kite, homeward bound and scared shitless.

*Names changed to protect the annoying.