Winning

Two years ago, I went for my bone density scan and Prolia injection. The doc told me my osteoporosis was getting worse and it was time to consider alternatives. “Give me a year,” I pleaded. “I’ll change my diet and I’ll exercise,” knowing I would rather have a root canal than go to the gym.

I hired a personal trainer, James, whom I had seen training “older” women at the gym. He asked me about my goals. People seemed to like him so maybe he would be tolerable. I told him, “I want my bone density to improve but I also want Michelle Obama’s arms.” Regardless of your politics, you have to admit her arms are great. He smiled, never once telling me that I was crazy. “I can deal with that,” he replied. 

Our first session was terrible and even one-pound and three-pound weights were difficult. He had to figure out what I could do and what my limitations were. I’ve had three knee surgeries, one shoulder surgery, and two back surgeries, and I don’t intend to go under the knife again. Safety was key for both of us.

Knowing I needed more than two days a week, I started walking on the treadmill. I learned I could read on my Kindle and walk. I could walk three miles a day, maybe read three books a week, and could help my bone density. I started to make friends at the gym and decided I could definitely make this work.

Epsom salts became my best friend but I stuck it out. James somehow knew if I laughed as I struggled it wouldn’t make it quite as bad and I’d work a little harder. He told me I was working hard enough if the glasses on the top of my head were fogged. We joked how I had to literally roll out of bed after leg day. He laughed and said I was melodramatic. Maybe I was, and we took the trash talking to a new level and it helped the time go by faster.

And get better, they did. Eight-pound weights replaced the three-pound weights and eventually we got up to twenty-pound weights, though sometimes I still need the three-pound ones. The leg press went from forty pounds to 130 pounds, more than even my weight. The weight increased on other exercises, as well. My posture improved and my clothes fit better. “What about my arms?” I asked him. “You’re making me do all kinds of stuff that aren’t helping me get Michelle Obama’s arms.” 

“One day you may need to lift your husband off the floor.” I couldn’t disagree.

James pushed me harder and harder, with a different routine every day. Leg day is hell, but back and shoulders day isn’t much better. I whined and James kept adding weights. The “I can’t do that” excuse has been eclipsed by a determination to prove that I can do it and to continue to get stronger. No matter what he throws at me, I try my best. 

I’m about to have a birthday and I’m very close to turning seventy. I didn’t start weight training in great shape, but now I’m in the best shape of my life. Besides the weight training and walking at least four miles a day. I know I need to work on my diet. It’s getting better but I have a long way to go.

I still have osteoporosis but my bone density improved six percent last year. I don’t quite have Michelle Obama’s arms, but I can wear sleeveless dresses without feeling self-conscious and James has become a good friend and someone I trust. He has even earned himself a place in my upcoming novel, “Karma on the Tarmac”.

I’d say I’m winning.

Coyote Hunting

I’m going coyote hunting. The wild animal coyote, not the Bugs Bunny one and not the human ones on reality TV. I’m honestly going to go out and hunt coyotes with my personal trainer, James, but just for research purposes. 

I have nothing against hunting although I am not a hunter. I’ve always been curious about hunters and why anyone in their right mind would go sit in the woods in the cold and dark, early in the morning, hoping to kill Bambi. But just because I don’t do it and I don’t understand it doesn’t mean I want to impose my beliefs on anyone else.

James loves hunting and fishing. We had a plan for him to take me deer hunting but I don’t do anything at 0500 if it involves me opening my eyes. While I was game to go with him in the middle of the day if it was seventy degrees and sunny, deer hunting requires cold and early mornings. He tells me spaghetti made with deer meat is good and that I wouldn’t know the difference. He says deer steaks, if properly cooked, are delicious. I’ve never tried either. In my mind, I don’t like deer meat, though he brought me some deer sausage and it was surprisingly delicious.

When I started plotting out my current thriller, “Karma on the Tarmac,” I needed to figure out how to “dispose” of a decent character in my book. I worked through the usual car accidents and falls off the cliffs. I thought about guns and knives and how he could be clobbered over the head with any one of a number of different kinds of heavy objects. Poison? Road Runner cartoons ran through my mind. 

My training sessions are challenging and I whine less and work harder when we’re trash talking or having some other conversations to keep my mind off the pain. James is a smart guy and I began bouncing ideas off him. He threw out an idea that I needed to explore and it involves hunting. I came up with three viable options. 

One Saturday, James took my husband and me out to his hunting property so I could see what a deer stand looks like. Another day, he brought a different kind of tree stand out to our house and attached it to a tree in our back yard. I hoped no one from the HOA would see it and report us to the self-important HOA troll. The stand wasn’t in the tree for too long so we didn’t get caught. 

Deer season ended and James told me about coyote hunting. Coyotes live in all counties in Georgia, and will kill rabbits, cats, small dogs, poultry, and even a deer fawn, if the opportunity presents itself. I guess I’m okay with someone hunting coyotes, and one of these warm spring evenings, I’ll go along and find out just what coyote hunting entails. 

So what happens to this unnamed character in my book?  Could it be a hunting accident? Could it be a car accident? A plane crash? No spoilers here. You’ll have to read my book and find out!

My Abortion Was Not a Choice

January, 1990. At thirty-six years old, I had a happy family with three healthy children and a successful career. My life was seemingly perfect, except for some ongoing nausea, dizziness, and shortness of breath. I was pregnant. While I did not plan to have more children, this pregnancy delighted me. My best friend at work was pregnant and our babies were all due at the same time. We shopped for maternity clothes and baby clothes planned our nurseries. Despite being an unexpected pregnancy, I was excited. The shopping and the planning were fun.

But something wasn’t right. Since this pregnancy was considered geriatric, my doctor recommended an amniocentesis. He assured me there was less than a one percent risk of complications, though complications didn’t really cross my mind. I worried about the health of my baby, but I was also worried about what was going on with my own body. I’d always been healthy but my sudden limitations were frightening. I ran a half-marathon during my pregnancy with my oldest. The doctor told me I shouldn’t worry, that my blood pressure was high but I should enjoy my pregnancy. Go shopping, he said. That would take my mind off things. 

The amniocentesis was not nearly as painful as I had imagined and I left the doctor’s office feeling optimistic. Halfway home, though, my panties felt wet and they were getting wetter. I tried to move around as little as possible and called the doctor as soon as we walked in the door. I was actively bleeding. The doctor ordered complete bedrest and told me to come back to the office the next morning. I was terrified as I continued to bleed.

I returned to the doctor. He told me to spend the next two weeks in bed and to check in on a regular basis. My blood pressure climbed and I continued to lose amniotic fluid. As more blood and fluid leaked, the prognosis for me carrying the pregnancy became increasingly grim. I laid in bed and cried as I felt fluid, blood, and hope leaking from my body. 

My follow-up appointment was on Martin Luther King Day. I remember there was almost no traffic, a rarity in Atlanta, and we made it from Fayetteville in record time. The doctor said the results from the amniocentesis were not back. My blood pressure was concerning but not terribly high and I had traces of protein in my urine. He wanted to wait for the test results. At that point in time, I wondered what he might have seen (or not seen) on the sonogram. His manner was grim as he told me to go back home and wait.

The phone rang as soon as we walked in the house at nearly five o’clock. “We need to talk,” the doctor said. “Come int tomorrow morning.” He wouldn’t go any further until we were face to face. I cried myself to sleep, steeling myself for bad news.

We arrived at the office and were immediately escorted into an exam room. The doctor told me my baby had defects incompatible with life. There was virtually a zero percent chance the baby would live and, given the health problems I was already having, he wasn’t sure I would survive the pregnancy. The safest option for me was an abortion. He left the room so that my husband and I could have some privacy. It didn’t take long to arrive at a decision. Abortion was the only option. My three children deserved to grow up with their mother. 

My husband held my hand as the doctor inserted the laminaria in my cervix and I went home for another restless night. It had been three weeks since my nightmare began. The nightmare wouldn’t end the next day but it changed.

I grieved hard. I felt I had failed my baby though I knew I hadn’t done anything to cause the baby’s problems. I knew I had made the right decision. My three children, ages 3, 9, and 13, needed their mother. I can’t grasp the fact that there are people who think I, and women in similar circumstances, should willingly sacrifice my life for a baby who would survive. The decision to get pregnant is a decision a woman needs to make in consult her doctor, without the interference of the government.

Let doctors practice medicine and let women have the right to control their own bodies.  

Bladder Cancer – A Family Experience

The memory of my grandfather standing in our powder room struggling with his ileostomy bag is indelibly printed in my brain.  My grandparents had come to visit with my parents and the bag had leaked.  PawPaw never had a cross word for anyone and he didn’t talk much.  Andy always said PawPaw was a lot like God.  He didn’t have a lot to say, but when he did say something, you needed to listen.

That would be their last visit to our home in Fayetteville, Georgia.  PawPaw would leave us about five years later, with my stepfather at his side.  His cause of death would be bladder cancer and chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, complicated by medical malpractice.  He would have died, anyway, but his doctor’s incompetence hastened his death and deprived my grandfather of the comfort he deserved.  

The night my grandfather died, he watched his nightly quota of Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy, then looked over at my stepfather and told him he was going on a trip.  He asked if my stepfather was going with him.  My dad said no, and PawPaw told him he would be waiting for him.  In a few minutes, PawPaw was gone.

Now my husband is fighting bladder cancer.  The doctor who diagnosed him said that treatments had changed and my grandfather’s cystoscopy “was likely performed with a candle.”  I thought that was rude and unnecessary, and a bit cavalier.  He told us that the standard of care for Bob’s type of bladder cancer was treatments with BCG, but said he could not get the drug since it is in scarce supply.  

I am not one to sit back, so we called Dr. James Bennett, who successfully treated Bob for prostate cancer more than 10 years ago.  Dr. Bennett said yes, there is an international shortage of BCG, but he could get some for Bob.  BCG infusions are done weekly for six weeks and are followed by a cystoscopy every three months for the first year.

Dr. Bennett knows I am a nurse and has allowed me to observe during the procedures.  During his second procedure, six months after the completion of the first round of BCG treatments, a new tumor was evident.  In the midst of Covid, Bob was admitted to Emory Midtown and his bladder was resected.  Once his bladder had a chance to heal from the resection, he underwent another series of six weekly BCG treatments.  These were much worse than the first, and he was sick after each one.  He’s finished the six treatments but he is still having issues.

As I sit here and wait for his tests to be completed, I am trying to channel the stoicism of my grandparents.  It isn’t working but I’m trying.  Bob is so calm and is taking everything in stride, while I internalize my stress.  

I wish I could predict the future.  I wish I knew what lies ahead.

Bladder Cancer – A Family’s Struggles

The memory of my grandfather standing in our powder room struggling with his ileostomy bag is indelibly printed in my brain.  My grandparents had come to visit with my parents and the bag had leaked.  PawPaw never had a cross word for anyone and he didn’t talk much.  Andy always said PawPaw was a lot like God.  He didn’t have a lot to say, but when he did say something, you needed to listen.

That would be their last visit to our home in Fayetteville, Georgia.  PawPaw would leave us about five years later, with my stepfather at his side.  His cause of death would be bladder cancer and chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, complicated by medical malpractice.  He would have died, anyway, but his doctor’s incompetence hastened his death and deprived my grandfather of the comfort he deserved.  

The night my grandfather died, he watched his nightly quota of Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy, then looked over at my stepfather and told him he was going on a trip.  He asked if my stepfather was going with him.  My dad said no, and PawPaw told him he would be waiting for him.  In a few minutes, PawPaw was gone.

Now my husband is fighting bladder cancer.  The doctor who diagnosed him said that treatments had changed and my grandfather’s cystoscopy “was likely performed with a candle.”  I thought that was rude and unnecessary, and a bit cavalier.  He told us that the standard of care for Bob’s type of bladder cancer was treatments with BCG, but said he could not get the drug since it is in scarce supply.  

I am not one to sit back, so we called Dr. James Bennett, who successfully treated Bob for prostate cancer more than 10 years ago.  Dr. Bennett said yes, there is an international shortage of BCG, but he could get some for Bob.  BCG infusions are done weekly for six weeks and are followed by a cystoscopy every three months for the first year.

Dr. Bennett knows I am a nurse and has allowed me to observe during the procedures.  During his second procedure, six months after the completion of the first round of BCG treatments, a new tumor was evident.  In the midst of Covid, Bob was admitted to Emory Midtown and his bladder was resected.  Once his bladder had a chance to heal from the resection, he underwent another series of six weekly BCG treatments.  These were much worse than the first, and he was sick after each one.  He’s finished the six treatments but he is still having issues.

As I sit here and wait for his tests to be completed, I am trying to channel the stoicism of my grandparents.  It isn’t working but I’m trying.  Bob is so calm and is taking everything in stride, while I internalize my stress.  I have friends and family who are praying, and for that, I am grateful.

I wish I could predict the future.  I wish I knew what lies ahead.