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.)

Learning To Face The Path At Your Pace

(song: Watershed/artist: Indigo Girls)

Greetings from the coastal south! I'm in the beginning of my annual summer eat-a-thon, I mean, summer break in Georgia. My son is my traveling companion and he's a super one at that. We drove from Brooklyn to St. Simons Island with very few grumbles from the backseat. Modern technology makes two-day drives far more tolerable than the days of the license plate game.

Anyway...with the whole sick/dying dad thing, I've been a bit distracted but I have a few back surgery/nerve damage updates before I (mostly) unplug for the summer:

April was big month for my new back and me. I had one last follow-up with my surgeon, Dr. Rawlins, who informed me our relationship is officially over. Sad, right? But seriously, I told him how great I'm doing in PT and that my back doesn't hurt and he was all, "You're awesome." And I was all, "I like your accent." And then it got awkward so I asked him to take a selfie with me.



Hate to say goodbye but...hope I never need your services again.

Just kidding! The accent thing happened before the surgery. Really, he told me how pleased he was and that I'm good to go. (He had thought he may want a post-surgery MRI but that was based on how fucked up I was when he first saw me.) He agreed to the selfie if I agreed to write my story for the HSS website. Who could say no to that face?! Here's the story. 

The same day I saw Dr. Rawlins, I had another follow-up with Dr. Leung, my neurologist. She too was very happy with my progress. The only thing I still can't do is walk on my heels. Not exactly a life-limiting illness, but an indicator of remaining nerve damage. (I also trip frequently. Especially when I'm tired.) There's still numbness in my shins and "saddle area" but I'm fully functional, for the most part. She tells me to keep doing PT and schedules another follow-up for mid-December, which will be the first birthday of my new back. Upon my telling her that I slowly jogged a mile in March,  she reiterated that I need to be patient (the same advice she gave during my previous visit).  She tells me that I should NOT run at all. She's happy I'm not in pain but reminds me that my back surgery is just a few months old and that ideally I should give it at least a year to fully heal. I begrudgingly oblige. She's absolutely right, and I know it. We didn't take a selfie together.

And last, but not least, I finished my last round of physical therapy sessions at Hospital for Special Surgery. I'm officially doing my physical therapy on my own. My sweet therapist, Lauren told me on our last day, "You don't need me. You just come because you like me." True. And I like having another person holding me accountable. But I have the tools and determination to keep working till these floppy flippers of mine are completely back on line. 

From a wobbly cane-user to a master of Thera Bands in just 5 months!

Now that I'm "on my own", my network of support is more important than ever. In April I joined Achilles Brooklyn - my local chapter of Achilles International, a community for athletes of all abilities. Michael Ring, a fellow Prospect Park Track Club member, talked me into joining. As I mentioned here Michael has been fighting his way back from Acute Motor Axonal Neuropathy, a rare variant of Guillain-Barré syndrome, which nearly killed him about two years ago. Achilles Brooklyn brought me together with a group of kind people, with varying athletic abilities and/or injuries. We meet every Thursday evening and walk or run the loop of Prospect Park. We start as a group, and we leave the park as a group. Nicoletta Nerangis runs the Brooklyn chapter of Achilles and is the heart of our motley crew. She is a warm and bright spirit that made me feel welcome immediately. It was an absolute thrill to cross the finish line with Michael and Nicoletta at my first Achilles - Hope & Possibility 4-miler last month. 

When I walk with my Achilles family, I'm not thinking about my former pace or any of the races I've run in the past. I focus on the joy of being in the moment with a like-minded group of active individuals who accept me, floppy feet and all. I've found a place to heal my body and spirit. My only goal is to keep getting better. I'm so happy to be a part of the Achilles community; I can't wait to pay it forward.

That's Michael and Nicoletta in the middle. I'm the extremely excited one on the far left.

  

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.   

I've Seen This Room And I've Walked This Floor

(song: Hallelujah/ artist: Leonard Cohen)

I started physical therapy on January 14th. Prior to being cleared for PT by my surgeon, my only sanctioned activity was walking for 10 minutes at a time. That usually occurred in and around my apartment while wearing pajamas.

My first photographed PT walk. I was so high on pain meds.

I can go anywhere for PT but because I loved my experience at HSS, I decided it's worth the twice-a-week schlep from Brooklyn to Manhattan's upper east side to stay at the facility "where the world comes to get back in the game". I've been to PT many times before, for back and ankle issues. I knew HSS would have everything and everyone I needed to ensure I come back stronger and better.

See! It's right there on the logo.

When I first started, I couldn't even do a bridge without severe cramping because my poor glutes and hamstrings had been dormant for 6 weeks.  My physical therapist had me do "mini squats" (because there was no way I could press myself up from a real squat) and, oh my god I could not believe how dead my leg muscles were! I was exhausted after one set of 10. (If the Butt Master saw me now, his heart would break. There's no way this ass could pass the pencil test.) I practiced the staircase, and then got sent home with some simple exercises to do between sessions.

Jan 14th, 2015: First day of the rest of  my life.

At home, being the best PT patient ever.

                     

Graduated to Bird Dog by session 5. BOOM!

Because I'm determined to be the best PT patient ever, my 7 sessions of PT have seen me graduate to heavier resistance bands and more advanced leg work. I'm getting stronger. Balance is an issue but that's part of the nerve damage stuff as well as lack of strength. I have to be patient. Which is so damn hard for me.

Pretty much.

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.