Anita Swanson

Snow

Today I rec'd my first notice of the UCLA fall catalog for writing courses and as always I greet every new quarter with excitement and anticipation. This year, however, I am presented with a dilemma. I was told last spring that come the fall semester I should be registering for the advanced class. This makes me very nervous. In my mind advanced means really hard and if not really hard at least very good. I'm going to have to study the courses offered for a few days and then built up my courage before I register for anything that doesn't that doesn't start with the word, "Beginnners."
Here is an essay from last year. The instructor gave us a list of words and said, "Choose one of the following and write me two pages. Here are your words: blood, bed, hands, books and finally snow."
SNOW
Bright shining stars filled the dark night sky to overflowing. I commented to him that I thought the sharp coldness of the air made them shine even brighter. The wind, at least for the moment, had subsided. Mounds of old winter snow lay piled high by the side of the road. New snowflakes had already begun drifting down. We both knew that the snowplows would be back by morning. Tall pine trees in the open field across from the house where I grew up glistened with shards of light cast off by the moon. Snow crunched under our feet as we walked together hand in hand, and though we did not know it, this would be our last Christmas together.
He had surprised me with a knock at the front door, a Christmas present in hand, and a request that we go for a walk. He was sixteen. I was seventeen. It was 1960 and we were in crazy, mad, teenage love. His love had been a gift to me in ways he would never know. For he had been born into a socially successful, overachieving family, and I had been born into an alcoholic home that wreaked of dysfunction. I never told him about my abusive homelife. I thought he would reject me if he knew, but that was only part of it. In truth, I had been a secretkeeper for so long that it was now woven into the fabric of who I was. The longer we dated the more rigid my secretkeeping became. On the day he became student council president, my mother and I had an argument so intense, it almost ended in physical blows. It was after the argument that I knew with a certainty I had not known before. When I left for nursing school in the fall, I would not return. I never told him. I only wanted to see myself through his eyes, and for him I wanted to be perfect.
The longer we dated, the angrier my mother became. She never loved my father; she screamed at me one day in an alcoholic haze, 'Why should you have someone who loves you?!' Over time her ridicule and sarcasm escalated, and the Christmas holidays traditionally only added more fuel to her already raging anger.
When he came to the door that winter night, I knew I had ask her for permission to leave. If I didn't ask and I went on the walk, by the time I returned home, there would've been no rest for me at all. And so I asked. And I waited. She was in the kitchen cooking, but could see the wrapped present in his hand. Finally, she let out a deep sigh. 'Fine. Just go,' she said with a wave of her hand. Bundled up for winter, we sat on the cold cement front steps as I opened the gift that had been perfectly wrapped in royal blue paper and tied with a royal blue ribbon. I lingered over the name of the store, known for elegance and fashion, embossed in silver scroll on the corner of the box. My heart was pounding as I gently lifted the top of the box and reached inside the tissue paper. It was a scarf. A long, white, sheer silk scarf. It was delicate and feminine. A symbol of everything I thought I wasn't and I loved it.
'Don't you want to put it on?' He sounded tentative.
'I'm afraid I'll ruin it.' I said, as he watched me slip it onto my head. When I started to tie it under my chin, he stopped me.
'No. No.' He laughed. 'Just wrap it and let it fall on your shoulders. It's supposed to be pretty. Not very useful, I guess.'
I did as he asked. I felt awkward. I felt loved. 'Perfect.' He whispered as he took me in his arms. 'It's perfect.'
We felt the snow begin to fall as we walked down the road and heard the neighbor's dog barking, but those things did not really exist in our world. In our world there was just the two of us, and in our world I felt safe, and loved, and beautiful.
I didn't realize then that it was only going to be temporary, and, within a few months, it would all be over. His parents announced in early spring they would be taking him to Europe for the summer, and naturally my parents were delighted with the news. That meant I could focus full-time on earning money for my nursing education in the fall. But it would take years for it to be over. I mean, really over.
I never forgot the about scarf or the boy who gave it to me. With every move, I packed and unpacked the scarf. With every move, I wore the scarf until it became yellow and frayed with age. And with every move I would remember. I would remember that night in December when a boy came to my door with a gift in the Christmas season, and we were both in crazy, mad, teenage love.

My Mother Had Good Days

Most of the writing we did at UCLA was started in class and finished at home as part of our homework assignment. Obviously, some of the writing exercises were more difficult than others and much of the difficulty came from trying to decide if you were going to write fact or fiction. Memoir or novel. Some of us created genre we called "faction." In other words a fictionalized account of some truthful event in our lives.
You might try the same approach for the following excerises: 1) write a half a page on the Sounds of Summer 2)write a half a page on the Smells of Childhood 3) write a half a page on What Happened to You at 3 AM on the Night You Couldn't Sleep 4) write a half a page on The Touch of Forgiveness
Here is my Smells of Childhood
My Mother Had Good Days
My mother had days, weeks, and months when she was crazy and not in a fun way.

It was easy to figure out when she was in her in right mind because on her sane days she baked. If you've ever walked into a bakery and smelled the aroma of bread as it's ready to come out of the oven, then you know the fragrance that filled our house on my mother's good days. All other days were measured against my mother's baking days.
I learned that my mother could be kind because she baked. I knew she could smile because of her cinnamon rolls. I knew my mother could dance the Charleston because of her apple pie. The smell of a coffee cake baking or bread dough rising made me feel warm, secure, and comforted.
I've thought a lot about this over the years, and I don't think I'm the only one who feels this way about bread because of what I've noticed in the restaurants. Restaurants have changed over the years. Before it was simply good service and great food that brought customers back, but lately I've noticed some of the restaurants have added a little something extra. Many will place breadbaskets in front you almost as soon as you sit down, and now it's not only bread that appears. Recently, they've added boutique oils for different types of breads, and I have to confess to an odd thought I have when I look at these breadbaskets.
They still make me feel comforted, of course, but that isn't all. Serve me warm bread in a basket with side boutique oils, and I often find myself wondering, 'Oh, I wonder if my mother is having a good day.'

Second Chance

Before leaving UCLA I asked my instructor, Steve Wolfson, if I could use some of his writing prompts and post a few of my essays that I'd written as a result of the work I'd done in his class. He was not only pleased with the request , he was hopeful that other would-be-writers would find them helpful as well.
Here are the writing prompts: Write about what you like to read and why. Name one movie, one song that you really like and write about it. Write about what frightens you. Write about what you do to pay the bills.
Put on some music. Write to 4 different types of music for three minutes. (You get to choose the genre)
Pick one out of the 4 that you especially liked. Now write two pages on the one that you picked.
Here is my essay on the one that I picked. Just one special note: You may write fiction or nonfiction. It's your choice and your secret.

Second Chance

She ducked her head in through the doorway and caught the waiter's eye. It was four o'clock in the afternoon and the small restaurant was empty. Her request, a table by the window, was easily granted. She had one desire that she wanted fulfilled above all others . She wanted to stare out at the sea and take in the brilliant sunlit blue domes that dotted the hillside. This island, where all the buildings were painted white, and this restaurant with it's small wooden table and and black and white linoleum floor remained exactly as she had remembered them. A gentle breeze lifted the delicate lace curtains off the window sill. Pavarotti's voice wafted through the doorway and out onto the patio. In years past the sound of his voice had made her weep and it effected her still. She let her mind drift. How can I possibly leave all of this beauty now that I've only found my way back, Doctors aren't always right are they?
A waiter interrupted her thoughts. 'A bottle of water? A glass of wine? A menu?'
She cleared her throat and asked only for a glass of white wine. Her loss of appetite had been one of the first symptoms signaling to her that something was wrong. Now it was an effort to eat the simplest of things, but on most days she managed. Today was not one of those days. She'd been too excited and too tired from traveling. Wine would have to do, at least for now.
Two months ago her therapist had asked her a question. 'Do you have anything you'd like to do with the time you have left?'
'Travel. Maybe. I don't know. No. I do know. I want to go to Greece one more time. Jim and I went there on our honeymoon. He'd always promised to take me back but...well you know the rest. Do you think I'm too old to go by myself?'
'Too old?'
'Well, I don't really mean that. What I mean is do I look too much like a widow?'
'Are you afraid to go by yourself?'
Embarrassed by her lack of independence in this computerized world she simply nodded her head.
The therapist reached into her drawer and pulled out a business card. 'Here,' she said as she got up and handed her the card. 'It's a Woman's Travel Agency and don't be put off by the name. I know the owner and she's very capable.
'Women on the Loose? That's the name of the travel agency? Women on the Loose?'
The therapist smiled. 'Just call her.'
As she was leaving the therapist hugged her and then gently added, 'Please remember you're still alive.'
It didn't take long before the very capable owner of the travel agency had her trip all sorted out and she, along with ten other women, was on her way to the Greek Islands. The plan had been simple. Get on the plane in New York and get off the plane in Athens. There they would be met and transported to their waiting ship. The plan had worked so smoothly that once she was on board she found herself suddenly filled with an unexpected jolt of self-confidence. ' I didn't know I would ever be such a world traveler.' She delighted in sharing with the other women at the dinner table that night.
Her adult children had been horrified when she told then of her travel plans.
'What if something happens to you?' Her daughter had asked.
'Do you think you're well enough to travel?' Her son had asked.
'Do you even know this woman who'd making all these travel plans?' Her sister had asked.
'This is so unlike you.' More than one neighbor had said. Their concern only added to her own fears until she remembered the only response that seemed to calm everyone down. 'At least for now, please remember that I'm still alive.'
Three weeks before her departure she sat on her bed and stared at the airline tickets. 'I don't want to visit.' She sighed and then whispered to herself. 'I want to stay.'
When Jim was alive they'd talk of it often. They'd even saved for it and the money was still there. They'd called it: The Second Honeymoon Account.
Over the next few weeks without much effort a plan slowly began to take shape in her mind and quietly she began putting things in storage. Clothes she no longer wanted she gave away to charity. She saw her attorney and had him prepare any necessary legal documents...just in case she never came back. She didn't tell him she wasn't coming back, of course. He would have though she was being reckless and notified her children immediately. As far as her attorney was concerned this was simply good planning.
On the morning of her departure letters of explanation were written to her son and daughter and left on the kitchen table. She'd been so meticulous that in the end when the airport cab pulled up
to her house the only thing left to do was turn the key and walk away.
She felt a spring in her step as she walked the length of the front sidewalk and in an instant she knew that her far-too-expensive new walking shoes were going to work out just fine. Her luggage held only summer clothes. She'd felt certain whatever else she needed she would be able to get on one of the islands. She waved to her neighbor as she climbed into the cab and let out a deep sigh as she settled into the back seat. 'JFK, please,' was the only thing she needed to say to the cab driver. She was on her way.
The waiter arrived to refill her wine glass for the third time but she waved him off with a smile and a question. 'How do I get to the beach from here?'
He pointed to the stairs leading off the stone patio.
Even though the buildings on the island had charmed her, it was the surrounding turquoise sea that had seduced her. The sun was setting low in the sky as she made her way down to the sand. She could see her ship from the water's edge. They were scheduled to spend one more night in port before setting sail late the next morning, but her mind was already made up. When the ship sailed she wouldn't be on it. She would tell them she wasn't feeling well enough to travel any further and then produce the paper her doctor had given her. They'd be concerned, of course. She would reassure them. They would want to take her to a local clinic. The captain would remind that the ship would have to leave on time. She would promise to catch up if delayed. She would wait to call her children until she saw the sails of the ship leaving the port. Now, none of this had been committed to a plan of action. These were only thoughts roaming around in her head, but when the time came the next day to put everything into motion, it had all worked. It had worked perfectly. Late the following afternoon when the clinic discharged her, as she knew they would, the only thing she asked for was a referral. Could they direct her to a small hotel that over looked the sea? The nurses looked surprised by her request but she reassured them. 'I am in remission.' She reminded them. 'I only want to rest up before rejoining the group.'
Walking down the slopping gravel road that ran parallel to the sea, she felt her spirit lighten for the first time in months. Jim wasn't really there she knew that, and yet she felt him everywhere. 'I'm still here,' he whispered in the early evening breeze. She quickened her pace and found herself smiling when she glimpsed the small hotel in the distance. The smell of garlic and roasted lamb co-mingled with the sea air wafted in her direction leading her onward. At last she knew what her heart had been trying to tell her all along, that she wasn't too old and she wasn't too late. She was right on time for her second honeymoon was about to begin.

Good Books

So many times I've been asked, "Reading anything good?"
I thought it would be great to share the reading list I've been working my way through for the UCLA class I took on Writing the Healing Journey. So here it is. Happy summer reading!

Memoir

Writing and reading decrease our sense of isolation. They deepen and widen and expand our sense of life: They feed the soul. When writers make us shake our heads with the exactness of their prose and their truths, and even make us laugh about ourselves or life, our buoyancy is restored. We are given a shot at dancing with, or at least clapping along with, the absurdity of life, instead of being squashed by it over and over again. It's like singing on a boat during a terrible storm at sea. You can't stop the raging storm, but singing can change the hearts and spirits of the people who are together on that ship.
- Anne Lamott

Abercrombie, Barbara. Writing Out the Storm, New York: St. Martin's Press, 2002
Courage & Craft, Novato, California: New World Library, 2007

Allende, Isobel. The Sum of Our Days, New York: Harper Perennial, 2009

Alvarez, Julie. Something to Declare, New York: Algonquin, 2005

Angelou, Maya. Wouldn't Take Nothing For My Journey Now, N.Y.: Random House

Athill, Diana. Somewhere Towards the End, New York: W.W. Norton, 2009

Barrington, Judith. Writing the Memoir, Portland: The Eighth Mountain Press, 2002

Baszile, Jennifer. The Black Girl Next Door, New York: Touchstone, 2009

Beard, Jo Ann. The Boys of My Youth, New York: Little Brown and Co., 1998

Beck, Martha. Expecting Adam, New York: Berkley, 2000

Blunt, Judy. Breaking Clean, New York: Knopf, 2002

Bauby, Jean-Dominique. The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, New York: Vintage Books, 1998

Casey, Nell, Ed. An Uncertain Inheritance, New York: William Morrow, 2007

Cisneros, Sandra. The House on Mango Street, New York: Vintage Books, 1991

Cooper, Bernard. The Bill From My Father, New York: Simon & Schuster, 2006

Datcher, Michael. Raising Fences, New York: Riverhead Books, 2001

Didion, Joan. The White Album, New York: Simon & Schuster, 1979
The Year of Magical Thinking, New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2005

Doty, Mark. Firebird, New York: Perennial, 1999,
Heaven's Coast, New York: Harper Collins, 1996,
Still Life With Oysters And Lemon, Boston: Beacon Press, 2001
Dog Years, New York: HarperCollins, 2007

Dubus, Andre. Broken Vessels. Boston: David R. Godine 1991

Dunn, Samantha. Not by Accident. New York: Henry Holt, 2002
Faith in Carlos Gomez, New York: Henry Holt 2005

Ephron, Nora. I Feel Bad About My Neck. New York: Knopf 2006

Finnamore, Suzanne. Split, New York: New American Library 2008

Gilbert, Elizabeth. Eat, Pray, Love, New York: Penguin Books, 2006

Ginzburg, Natalia. The Little Virtues, New York: Little Brown and Co., 1989

Gallman, Kuki. I Dreamed of Africa, New York: Viking, 1991

Gebauer, Phyllis. Hot Widow, McKinleyville, CA: Fithian Press, 2008

Gornick, Vivian. The Situation and the Story, New York: Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 2002

Grumbach, Doris. Life In a Day, Boston: Beacon Press, 1996

Hall, Donald. The Best Day the Worst Day, Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 2005

Harrison, Kathryn. The Kiss, New York: Random House, 1997

Hathaway, Katharine Butler. The Little Locksmith, New York: The Feminist Press, 2000

Hendra, Tony. Father Joe, New York: Random House, 2004

Holloway, Monica. Driving With Dead People, New York: Simon & Schuster, 2007
Cowboy & Wills, New York, Simon & Schuster, 2009

Jones, Daniel, Ed. Modern Love. New York, Three Rivers Press, 2007

Jurgensen, Genevieve. The Disappearance, New York: W.W. Norton, 1999

Khan, Mahvish Rukhsana. My Guantanamo Diary, New York: PublicAffairs, 2008

Kingston, Maxine Hong. To Be The Poet, Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2002

Kitchen & Jones, ed. In Brief, New York: W.W. Norton, 1999

Knize, Perri. Grand Obsession, New York: Scribner, 2008

Kooser, Ted. Local Wonders, Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2002

Lamott, Anne. Bird by Bird, New York and San Francisco: Pantheon Books, 1994
Traveling Mercies, New York and San Francisco: Pantheon Books, 1999
Grace (Eventually), New York: Riverhead Books, 2007

Lindquist, Ulla-Carin. Rowing Without Oars, New York. Penguin Books, 2007

Lynch, Thomas. Bodies In Motion And At Rest, New York: W.W. Norton & Co. 2000
Still Life in Milford (poems), New York: W.W. Norton & Co, 1998

Lopez, Steve. The Soloist, New York: G.P.Putnam's, 2008

Maclean, Norman. A River Runs Through It, Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1976

McKeithen, Madge. Blue Peninsula, New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2006

McBride, James. The Color of Water, New York: Riverhead Books 1996

Moehringer, J.R. The Tender Bar, New York: Hyperion 2005

Murdock, Maureen. Unreliable Truth: On Memoir & Memory, New York: Seal Press, 2003

Nash, Jennie. The Victoria's Secret Catalog Never Stops Coming, New York: Scribner 2001

Norris, Kathleen. Dakota, New York: Mariner Books 2001

Obama, Barack. Dreams From My Father, New York: Three Rivers Press, 2004

Oliver, Mary. Blue Pastures, New York: Harcourt, 1995
Long Life, Cambridge: Da Capo Press, 2004

Perry, Michael. Population:485, New York: HarperCollins, 2002

Queller, Jessica. Pretty Is What Changes, New York: Spiegel & Grau, 2008

Raban, Jonathan. Bad Land, New York: Vintage Books, 1997

Rechy, John. About My Life and the Kept Woman, New York: Grove Press 2008

Richards, Susan. Chosen By a Horse, New York: Harcourt, 2006

Romm, Robin. The Mercy Papers, New York: Scribner, 2009

Sebold, Alice. Lucky. New York: Little, Brown and Company, 1999

See, Carolyn. Making a Literary Life, New York: Random House, 2002
Dreaming, Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1996

Sheff, David. Beautiful Boy, New York: Houghton Mifflin, 2008

Snyder, Don J. The Cliff Walk, New York: Little, Brown and Company, 1997

St. John, Linda. Even Dogs Go Home To Die, New York: HarperCollins, 2001

Tharp, Twyla. The Creative Habit, New York: Simon & Schuster, 2003

Thomas, Abigail. A Three Dog Life, New York: Harcourt, 2006
Safekeeping, New York: Anchor Books, 2001
Thinking About Writing Memoir, New York: 2008

Villasenor, Victor. Crazy Loco Love, Houston, Arte Publico Press, 2008

Walls, Jeannette. The Glass Castle, New York: Scribner, 2005

Wickersham, Joan. The Suicide Index, New York: Mariner Books, 2008

Yang, Kao Kalia. The Latehomecomer, Minneapolis: Coffee House Press, 2008

Zackheim, Victoria, Ed. The Other Woman, New York:Warner Books, 2007
For Keeps, Emeryville, CA: Seal Press, 2007
The Face in the Mirror, New York: Prometheus Books, 2009

Zinsser, William. Writing About Your Life, New York: Marlowe & Co., 2004

Poetry:

Carson, Anne. The Beauty of the Husband, New York: Vintage Books, 2002

Carver, Raymond. A New Path to the Waterfall. New York: The Atlantic Monthly Press

Clifton, Lucille. An Ordinary Woman, New York: Random House, 1974

Collins, Billy. Sailing Alone Around the Room, New York: Random House, 2001

Emerson, Claudia. Late Wife, Baton Rouge, Lousiana State University Press, 2005

Hall, Donald. Without, Boston: Beacon Press, 2002

Kenyon, Jane. Otherwise, St. Paul, Minnesota: Graywolf Press, 1996

Keillor, Garrison, ed. Good Poems for Hard Times, New York: Penguin Books, 2005

Kooser, Ted. Winter Morning Walks, Pittsburgh: Carnegie Mellon Press 2000

Oliver, Mary. New and Selected Poems. Boston: Beacon Press 1992
(and all subsequent collections of her poems)

I wrote to find beauty and purpose, to know that love is possible and lasting and real, to see day lilies and swimming pools, loyalty and devotion, even though my eyes were closed and all that surrounded me was a darkened room. I wrote because that was who I was at the core, and if I was too damaged to walk around the block, I was lucky all the same. Once I got to my desk, once I started writing, I still believed anything was possible.

- Alice Hoffman

I have forced myself to begin writing when I've been utterly exhausted, when I've felt my soul as thin as a playing card and somehow the activity of writing changes everything.

- Joyce Carol Oates

My Heart Wears Crutches

Last fall I had a repeat Echogram to see if my failing heart was getting any better. It was.
It was doing so well in fact that I begged and pleaded with the cardiologist to discontinue my heart medication.
'Why,' she asked me in her perfectly measured vocal tone, 'would you ever want to get off the very drugs that are saving your life?'
You might think this question would cause me to ponder. It did not. 'Because, ' I said using my most earnest-I'm-a-reasonable-woman-but-I-need-you-to-see-it-my-way-voice, 'the medication makes my ears ring and my legs feel like lead. Sometimes the ringing gets so bad it feels as if I have a whole symphony percussion section in my head with wind chimes and everything.' I knew I had overstated my case but I was feeling desperate. I wanted off these drugs.
And then I waited. She looked through my chart. And I waited. She went back to her computer screen. And I waited.
Finally she spoke. 'I am willing to reduce the dosage, but that's all. If you get symptomatic again everything goes back to your original dosage schedule.'
The news made me so happy I almost hugged her, but the look on her face told a simple 'Thank You,' would suffice.
She let out a deep sigh as she closed my chart and said, 'Call me if you have any problems, and sooner rather than later would be better for both of us.'
I left her office in an almost altered state of well-being. The drugs were working! There had even been a dosage reduction. What happened to me and my heart had just been a freak thing and now it was all going to be behind me. I was going to be normal again.
I enrolled in writing classes at UCLA and started making weekly treks down to the campus. I loved the classes. The instructors were great and the energy of campus was contagious. The ringing in my ears diminished and I could think again. My legs no longer felt like they were stuck in glue and life was good. Even the Los Angeles freeway traffic didn't bother me.
Three months later as I dashed to catch a pedestrian green light on the corner of Westwood and Wilshire, I ran out of air before I made it across the street. I stood at the corner sucking air, on the edge of panic, and prayed. 'Please God, Please. I want more than three months.'
It was not to be.
By the end of the week the enormous cardiac 'thuds' that were with me when I was first diagnosed came back and this time with surprising ferocity. And still I didn't call the cardiologist.
Two more weeks passed. Two weeks of fighting for air. Two more weeks of feeling my heart throw extra beats. Two more weeks to get myself ready to accept the inevitable. I made the phone call only after I knew I could live with the diagnoses but I couldn't live without the medication.
I have now finally accepted that I am officially a cardiac patient and with the acceptance comes an understanding. I understand that my heart wears crutches and it's not the worst thing in the world. Even if it was a fluke thing that happened it is here to stay. The side effects have returned but there is little that can be done. And I'm pretty much okay with that, too.
I have now left Southern CA and once more returned to our summer Northern CA lake house with my new realization. My diagnoses probably means my legs won't carry me through another summer of waterskiing but this begging and pleading thing seems to work pretty well for me and I think I've pretty much got my husband convinced. An inflatable trampoline for the lake just might be the ticket for a summer-fun-for- everyone, and if we get it, I'm going to be the first one to jump in because I know the water's going to be just fine.

"And we're walking"

August 18th

'Well, I've Never been to Spain but I Kinda Like The Music.'
By Waylon Jennings

As the weeks progressed my ability to tolerate the heart drugs improved, but the fact still remained I was a cardiac patient. I was still short of breath and found that my heart pounding 'thuds' continued to unnerve me. I called the doctor for reassurance. She didn't give me much.

'You're still in heart failure. Remember when I said your ejection fraction had to come up?'

'Yes.'

'Well, if it doesn't and these 'thuds' as you call them continue we'll have to put a internal cardiac defibrillator in place. How are you doing on your walking?'

'My walking? Oh, I'm doing pretty good.'

'What exactly does pretty good mean?' She was probing for information. Her voiced sounded like she was smiling.

'About 45 minutes a day.' I didn't know why I was being so vague. I do remember I had a nagging feeling that my casual walking days were about to end.

'I need you walking ten thousand steps a day. Your heart muscle needs to get stronger and the Japanese have done studies that show ten thousand steps a day is what you need to be doing. Get yourself a pedometer and check in with me on your next visit.'

When I told my husband what the doctor had said I distinctly saw his eyes light up when I mentioned the word pedometer. I felt compelled to give him a word of caution. 'Oh, no you don't. We are not doing another flow sheet.' He opened his mouth to say something but then closed it again. 'Wise choice,' was my indelicate affirming response.

Within forty-eight hours I became the proud owner of a new pedometer and started walking almost immediately. It didn't take me long to figure out that unless I started every morning with a five mile walk, the longed for goal of ten thousand steps would simply remain a fantasy number on some study from a Japanese doctor's research lab.

'These hills are hard!' I wailed one day as we moved onto mile number five. I would love to say that my husband had sympathy for my plight and offered to go get the car. He did not.

He has offered to walk with me, he said, not carry me. He believes his job is to encourage me, not give in. He then goes on to tell me we still have trips to take together. He tries to lift my spirits by telling me that the world is waiting for us and it's just over the horizon or 'in your case after the next mile.'

He needs me, he tells me, to be travel ready. He reminds me that we have traveled well together. It is probably the thing we have always done best. Africa is waiting. Greece is waiting.

'Florence' I said. 'Isn't Florence waiting?'

It has now turned into a game we play. 'Hmm, yes.' He says slightly out of breath himself. 'Wait a minute. We've already been there. How about Spain?'

'Spain? Spain sounds good. There's so much of Spain we haven't seen. Remember that amazing Fada music we heard in Barcelona?'

Annnd, we're walking....

Don't Leave Home Without One

Don't Leave Home Without One.

When my husband and I were first married 22 years ago, he shared so many daily suggestions with me about how he thought I could manage the household better or organize my time better, or manage the children better, that I finally came to the end of my tether and decided to put him on a limit. It wasn't that they weren't good suggestions, many of them were, it was just that I found my ability to listen diminished as the number of suggestions increased.

'Three' I told him one night at dinner.

Three what?' he asked with genuine curiosity.

'Three tips for daily living is all I can deal with on one day. After that I'm going to have to ask you to suffer in silence.'

His nod with a smile was the only silent assent I needed.

Now you just might find yourself thinking, that's mildly interesting but what does that have to do with anything? Well, let me explain.

One of his suggestions on how to manage my 'crappy diagnoses' was to ask me to keep a record of my cardiac drugs and how they affected me. A physics major by education and Sr. Vice President by achievement my husband has never met a flow sheet, chart, or graph he didn't like.

I have personally witnessed this rather spectacular ability that he has to sit in his office for hours-on-end marking up contracts and/or proposals that come to him for his comments and suggestions. He is, in short, in love with fine print. While I, on the other hand, have always tended to look for the bigger picture and in the interest of total honesty, I feel I must tell you, I actually felt a certain thrill when they finally brought Cliff Notes for the Literary Classics into bookstores. I am not, however, here to discuss the relative merits of how opposites attract much less stay married but I do think you need to have some background so that you won't be offended when I tell you that I now have a new name for husband: The Medical Nazi.

For the past few weeks he has dutifully drawn up flow sheets with columns for all my cardiac drugs, their dosages, when they're to be taken, and a special side space for any additional comments I might have. He also has added extra columns for my blood pressure and pulse morning and night. Now, if he'd just drawn up the flow sheets and handed them over to me to fill in the missing blanks that would've been fine but that is not what he did ...oh no...

First he handed them over to me, then we sat down together, much like you would for a class project, and went over them column by column. He wanted to be sure that I understood 'everything.' The word tedious comes to mind but I dutifully paid attention for I knew one thing was for certain, he would be asking questions later.

Even now with my failing heart, I know that he did all of this because he loved me. I also know that he did this because it was his way of having some control over a situation over which he had very little, if any, control.

And so, for weeks now I've been dutifully filling in the blanks and making comments. When I ran out of paper (AKA graphs, AKA flow sheets) he was always there to make sure I'd filled in the appropriate spaces before he gave me a new one. When I told him I felt too lighted headed to write or the drugs had left me feeling whipped or my extra thuds were making me nervous, his answer was always the same, 'Write it down.'

So, that brings me to July and the visit with the UCLA cardiologist. My husband has now decided to go with me on every visit. When I protest his answer is always the same, ' Doesn't matter. You went the first time alone and got tough news to handle. From now on I'm going with you.' Secretly, I have seen him put the flow sheets in a folder and I know him. He's going to wait until just the right moment and then he's going to whip them out for the cardiologist to admire. My husband knows this academic territory and much like a small school boy he's on a quest: he's gone looking for the teacher's approval. He doesn't have long to wait.

The cardiologist asked us to come in and have a seat. The office is small and very clinical but again she is warm and engaging. Her white lab coat is oversized for her small frame and I marvel at her ability and skill to put others at ease in such difficult circumstances.

'Well,' she says as she glances back and forth between the two of us. 'How has everything been going?'

I watched as my husband opened up file folder he just happened to have in his hand and listened as he said, 'I thought it would be helpful to see how my wife's numbers have been looking since our last visit and in addition to the numbers on the flow sheet I have graphed out the last two months so you can get a better idea of where we've been and where we are now.'

The big pay-off came for my husband in a big way. The cardiologist smiled broadly as she reached for the folder and said, 'This is so helpful. Thank you so much for doing this. It makes my job so much easier.' My husband returned the doctor's smile. At last he had an audience who truly appreciated his gifting.

By the end of the visit we had a plan. The cardiologist looked happy with 'my cardiac numbers.' My husband looked happy. His contribution has been dutifully noted. And, I was, if not happy, at least somewhat relieved. It appears that the drugs are having some positive effect.

My young doctor stood up and extended her hand. 'We'll know more when they repeat the Echogram in October. You're ejection fraction has got to come up, but if you keep bringing me those great flow sheets I think you should feel encouraged.' Handshakes and smiles all around.

I still have my 'crappy diagnoses' of course and how love works it's way out is different for every family, but over these past few months I've become a believer. Now, here is what I think, at least when it comes to Medical Nazi's, if you should happen to have the misfortune of courting a serious illness: 'Don't leave home without one.'

"Yes! We Have No Bananas."

My husband was freaking out. Right there in the middle of the produce section of our local grocery store he was having a panic attack. 'They only have green bananas!' he whispered to me so loudly over his cell phone that I was sure the entire store might have been interested in knowing why the absence of ripe bananas was posing such a crisis in this man's life.

I tried quickly to figure out what was really going on. 'So?' was the only word that came to mind as a verbal diagnostic tool.

It didn't get us very far.

'I'm telling you they only have green bananas and I don't know what to do!'

'Hmmmm,' was my second shot at figuring out what was really going on and then suddenly a lightbulb burned brightly in my head and I knew.

As a way of background explanation here's what you need to know. My husband and I had long ago adopted the expression between us that declared, 'We're living in the green banana zone.' The expression, as we understood it, meant that people 'of a certain age' had better buy only ripe bananas because if you bought green bananas you never knew if you were going to live enough to eat them. I admit it's sort of black humor but in the broadest sense we took it to mean: If you want to do something...don't put it off...do it ASAP.

We'd adopted the expression during the first few months of post retirement when we'd gone looking for something we could enjoy doing together (ASAP), and that something had turned out to be traveling. Since then we've hiked in Italy, run rivers in the U.S. and Costa Rica, and even built a house on a lake so the we could water-ski every summer, and while we've always known that life was finite ...we certainly didn't think finite meant now. Which brings me back to my husband's standing in the produce department unable to buy the one thing I had put on the grocery list...bananas.

'Oooooh, so are you thinking that if you buy green bananas I won't live long enough to eat them?'

There was several seconds of (excuse the expression) dead silence. Finally he said, 'Yes.'

'Okay, so here's the deal. Go ahead and buy the green bananas and I promise you I'll live long enough to eat them.'

'Thank You.' He said with a sigh.

It was long after that phone conversation had transpired, perhaps not until days later, when I finally fully realized just how frightened my husband had been. My cardiac diagnoses had unhinged him. He'd never showed it. I never knew it. I don't think he even knew it himself. It wasn't until he came face to face with the dreaded green bananas in the produce section of our local grocery store that he realized something he hadn't realized before, that time for one of us just might be running out.

Just The Two of Us

May 29th

I scheduled an appointment with my regular cardiologist and followed up four hours later with a consultation for a second opinion with the 'new' doctor.

If one saw the old cardiologist as night. The new one could be called day. Her whole manner was engaging. She directed her questions with a smile and went looking and listening for answers.

She referred to studies and statistics as if they were part of family. It was from her that I learned that the heart meds don't always work. 'In a third of the cases they work. In a third of the cases the patient stays the same and in a third of the cases the patients fail to show any improvement whatsoever. We won't know if you'll respond for several months. The rule of thumb is six months.'

I asked her about my 'thuds.'

She responded. 'Actually, I was going to ask you if you were experiencing anything like that. Your cardiac ejection fraction was so low I would've been surprised if you'd said no. That's something that we can fix by putting in an internal cardiac defibrillator. I think you should have one but we'll know for sure after your next echogram in October. Until then I don't think you should travel out of the country.'

I greeted this news with mild alarm and some skepticism. 'But, that's another surgery.'

She broadens her smile. 'We prefer not to think of it as surgery.'

'Weeell, what do you call it, then?'

'We prefer to call it a procedure.'

Clearly, as I left the office that day I knew the news wasn't all good. And yet I felt like a weight had been lifted. At least, I thought, as I walked down the hallway towards the elevator, my burden would be shared. I left with three different avenues of contact for her. I could E-mail her. Contact the office or page her. 'For better or worse you can always reach me.' At last, I didn't feel so alone in this new world of dis-ease in which I'd recently taken up residence. '

I'll get by with a little help from my friends.

May 14th

Even though I'd been attending a Women's Bible Study church regularly, I'd yet to share anything with them about what I was going through. Everyone else seemed to have such pressing needs and praying for other people was so much easier than praying for myself. But, I was losing confidence in my doctor daily and I sort of felt like I was running out of options. Finally, it got to the point where I felt that if I didn't tell them and ask for suggestions on how to handle my cardiac care I didn't know where else to turn.

What was stunning about their response was how many women were on cardiac drugs and if they weren't on them personally they knew of someone who was. One of the women handed me a card with her cardiologist's name on it and said, 'You're going to love her. Just go for a consult and see if you like her before you decide. Besides, it can't hurt.'

'It can't hurt,' seemed like a phrase that was popping up in my life a lot lately.

One Good Thump Deserves Another

I can't make the Coreg work. My body hates it. My heart pounds. My head swirls and I'm always on the edge of panic. I've quit taking the medication and called the doctor to tell her so. If she says, 'Hmmmm, that's very strange,' one more time I'm going to scream.
She told me there's another drug I can take but she doesn't like it as much as Coreg.. At this point, I don't care what she likes. I've read so much stuff on the internet that I now understand that even if this other drug isn't as effective as Coreg it still works pretty well. IF, that is, it's going to work at all. The new drug she gave me was called Toprol.

WIthin two hours of starting on Toprol I knew it was going to work. Well, that's not really true but at least my heart didn't pound and even though I was still light headed it wasn't as bad as before.

And, that's when it happened. Right in the middle of the first moment of confidence I'd had in almost three weeks ...my heart turned a somersault inside my chest. Now, my heart had done gymnastics inside my chest before but never like this. This was a full-on somersault off the uneven parallel bars. This was the kind where your eyes bug out of your head and you scan the room to see if anyone else noticed anything strange going on. And just as quickly as it came it was gone. 'This can't be good.' I whispered to myself.

I called the doctor and this time she got right back to me. (Well, okay maybe not right back but five hours later wasn't bad in my book.) She was very calm in her response to the story of my heart's gymnastics. 'Oh, those are what we call PVC'S. They're heart beats that occur outside the normal electrical circuit and they're nothing to worry about unless they start to come more frequently.'

'Really? There's nothing to worry about?'

'That's correct. Unless they come more often or come in groups. We'll check everything out at your next appt.'

Alrighty then...if she's not worried...I won't be worried. But, I knew what a PVC was and this sure felt strange.

"The Valley of the Shadow"

April 20th 2009

'The Valley of the Shadow'

Since I mentioned prayer earlier, I think this would be a good time to say a word or two about how this diagnoses has affected me at the very core of what I believe. And here's what I've discovered...at least about myself. I'm afraid of dying and if I don't respond to the meds, I'm afraid of living. There have been days and nights when I've been so incredibly anxious I couldn't think, let alone sleep or eat. I've cleaned the floors at 3 AM. Done laundry at 4 AM. (Not on the same night) I did not, however, ever get around to the oven. I seems that even in extremis it would take an act of God to get me to clean the oven.

Finally, one day in attempt to quiet my nerves, I filled out a piece of paper with my name, address and telephone number on it then taped it to the nightside table in my bedroom. 'That should do it.' I told myself. 'Just in case I ever have to call 911. And I can't think of who I am or where I live.'

I began to wonder what new life lessons I was supposed to be learning through this illness and prayed ( if you can call scattered one-liners prayers) that God would stay with me no matter how this thing turned out.

I'm stunned that my normal I've-got the-answers-and-am-in-control personality has failed me and I find myself truly in my own 'valley of the shadows.' I have apologized to God a thousand times. I should be stronger. Believe harder. I have zero confidence that the meds will work and strongly doubt that God still has a plan for my life. I know I'm moving through Elizabeth Kubler Ross's five stages of death and the last stage of acceptance seems just corner and at the same time a long way off.

I talked to my therapist yesterday and she said that everything I'm experiencing is normal. 'Normal,' I say 'for other people, maybe, but not me.' I am crying as I am telling her this.

She wants to know if I've restarted the meds. 'Yes,' I tell her. 'But I still feel really yucky. I feel like I've got the flu all the time and one of them still makes my heart pound. The good news is I've stopped coughing. The one new medication that works on lowering my blood pressure doesn't make me cough like the other one did.'

My therapist is not a medical doctor so there's little she can do to reassure me and yet talking with her does make me feel better.

The one thing that continues to soothe is music. My husband has bought me an ipod and loaded it with tons of c.d.'s. When all else fails there has always been and always will be music.

I'd like a do-over...Please.

I was so angry with my cardiologist and yet as I sat on her exam table I felt so dependent on her. This was her territory. She held all the answers. All I held was annoyance and questions. She entered the room with a look of sympathy.

'You've had a hard week since the angiogram I hear.'

'Yep.'

'Well, when I spoke with the Emergency Room physician we both agreed that it was best for you to discontinue all medication until you and I could talk about what was going on. And again let me just tell you how sorry I am that your phone calls weren't returned. It's just not the way things normally get done around here.'

I stared at her trying to decide if this whole thing was an act or if she was genuinely concerned. I couldn't tell. 'Can we just roll this whole thing back to a week ago when you came into see me after the angiogram? Can we start there?'

She nodded her head. 'Sure.'

'I am grateful that angiogram went so smoothly. Truly, I am. But the results turned me into a brand new cardiac patient. Ten days ago the only thing I thought I needed to do was bump up my workout a little more and here I am stuck with a diagnoses that I can barely wrap my head around. I would think that you'd have some information to give me or this office would have a nurse practitioner who could answer my calls. Instead, what I got was you dashing into my room after the heart cath to tell me what was wrong and that if I had any problems taking the heart medication that I should just call your office. AND when I told you that I wasn't used to taking medication you said my meds were such low dosages that it shouldn't really be a problem. So, would you just slow this whole thing down and start over again?'

'You know I understand that we no longer have a relationship built on trust and I would completely understand if you found another doctor but in my defense I have to say that I waited for at least two hours before I came back in to speak with you after the angiogram and you have always struck me as a rather sharp individual.'

Almost everything this young woman said stunned me. What I wanted to say was 'Did you take communication skills 101 in the morgue where none of the patients talked back?' Instead what came out was, 'I do flatter myself that I'm rather sharp individual but I was seriously drugged when you came back to talk to me and so what I'd like you to do just tell me from the beginning what's wrong with me, how these drugs can help me and what's going to happen to me if I can't tolerate either Coreg or Zestril. And, I need the diuretic dosage dropped...a lot.You've got me on way too much.'

And, so she did. She explained everything. And after she was done I agreed to try the drugs again. 'But,' I said, 'I'm not going back on the Zestril. It makes me cough all the time and if I can't tolerate the Coreg I want to know if there's anything else you can give me?'

'You know I'm not surprised you can't tolerate the Zestril because there seems to a high incidence of coughing as a side effect with this drug especially women. I was just hoping you could tolerate it at a low dosage because it is our drug of choice for your particular diagnoses. However, I must say, your initially reaction to the Coreg is very strange. It's a beta blocker which means it's supposed to lower your heart rate not speed it up.' At this point she simply looked at me.

'The way you're looking at me makes me think you don't believe me.'

'Oh, no, That's no it at all. I'm just hoping that you'll give these drugs a chance because they really are your best hope.

Now it's my turn to stare. 'Yes, I'll give them a chance. What do you want me to try instead of Zestril.'

'It's called Diovan and though I don't like it as much as Zestril it's pretty effective at keeping your blood pressure down.'

'Fine.'

I didn't want to remind her that my blood pressure wasn't even that high. She already knew that. And, I didn't want to ask her what exactly were the blood pressure numbers she was aiming for. The truth of the matter was this: I was done. I was tired of this extremely bright, capable cardiologist dismissing me and making excuses for herself. I'd succeeded in getting half my medications changed and she'd reduced the amount of diuretic I had to take. I wanted to see if I could make some improvement now that I'd gotten involved in my own case.

She looked at me and smiled. 'I'd like to see you again in two weeks and be sure to call if you have any problems.'

I uttered a small prayer as I walked out of the office. 'God, please don't let me have any problems.'

What Lies Ahead?

Last night I was free from night terrors. My blood pressure is fine. My heart has stopped pounding. I'm off my meds. I have an appointment with the cardiologist in two days.
I have no idea what can be done now but am so relieved to be feeling better that for the moment I don't want to think about what lies ahead.

The Emergency Room is my friend.

The night terrors haven't quit but at least I'm not as freaked out as I was at first. But the morning was going really badly. I felt lighted headed and as one hour bled into the next I found it harder and harder just to catch my breath. I checked my blood pressure. It was 190/90. My pulse was pounding at 88.

I hated going to bed. No matter how bad I feel I'm not going back to bed. Every time I go to bed I think I'm going to die. Suddenly the phone rang. It was my youngest daughter. 'How 'ya doin', Mama?' She asked in her normal sunlit voice.

'Hmmmm, well, I've been better but I think if I just hang in here eventually things will work out.'

'Do you need me to get off work?'

'Oh Honey, that won't be necessary.'

'Sure?'

'I'm sure.'

I hung up the phone and checked my blood pressure..again. It was 140/80. 'Better' I told myself but my heart was still pounding and my anxiety was off the charts. I wanted to get off to these stupid cardiac meds and I 'd begun thinking that things were definitely going from bad to worse.

Suddenly there's a knock at the door. It's my son-in-law. 'I'm here to help. What do you need me to do?'

'Take me to the Emergency Room.'

This relationship is going nowhere ...fast.

The doctor finally returned my call but failed to reach me. She did, however, leave a message. 'I'm so sorry that I haven't gotten back to you. For some reason your message was misplaced. Do call if you still have any concerns.' I didn't return her phone call. It was just too much work trying to get through to her.

Weighing The Odds.

I feel off. My heart continues to pound after each dose of Coreg in the morning and it seems to take forever before everything settles down. And I've started coughing. (I think I'll add that to my list of questions) The doctor still hasn't returned my call. It's Good Friday, I think to myself, and maybe her office is closed. Still, I call again. Again a message is taken.

My husband and I are in a dilemma. We have a house in Northern California that we've put on the market and the realtor has called. She wants to hold an Open House at the end of April and we've been gone all winter. He needs to get back home and attend to the property but doesn't want to leave me. What should he do? I want him to go and I want him to stay. In the end we decide that I am well enough for him to go. He leaves after Easter Service on Sunday. I promise him that I will try to stay on the meds but truly I have my doubts. I've begun to weigh the odds of going off everything and letting the disease run it's course. I just couldn't see myself doing this for longer than a week to say nothing of a lifetime. (Whatever that now meant.)

Morning

By morning I was feeling better and my husband and I had decided to go for a walk. The weather in Southern California was beautiful and somehow 'we'll just take it easy' sounded comforting but when we returned home I announced, 'I need to call the doctor my chest feels funny again.'

I called the doctor but she was unavailable. I left a message and waited. And waited.

This is not what I signed up for.

3:00 AM

I awoke from the worst nightmare. Guns firing. Knives flashing. And everything had one goal. To make certain I died. My heart was pounding. My chest hurt. I got up and went into the living room and turned on all the lights. Next came the television set. I didn't care what was on. I'd watch reruns of Bravo's The Real Housewives of Atlanta until morning if I had to but I wasn't going back to bed. How, I wondered as I turned down the volume on the remote control, am I ever going to survive this?

"Sooner or Later"

My husband and I are in the midst of an argument. He wants me to take the cardiac meds that have been prescribed for me and I don't.

I'm was trying my best to convince him that the meds are nothing but a waste of time. That the doctor had lied. I knew that patients with cardiopathy all died sooner or later and mostly sooner.

And,how did I know all of this with such certainty? Because forty years ago, I told him, I'd worked in the surgical cardiac intensive care unit at the University of Minnesota and all we did was take care of people who, with one diagnoses or the other, all died from heart surgery and the patients with cardiopathy did the worst. Some patients lived of course, but everything was still so new that successful heart surgery at least on a routine basis was unheard of. And, I went on, I had worked with some of the best doctors in the entire country. We had patients come from all over the world just to see them!

He listened and then pointed out the obvious. That all of my history was just that... history. I agreed that I knew nothing of the changes in cardiac medicine up close and personal. I also knew that most of my nursing career had been focused on Emergency Room nursing and that usually meant shipping patients off to the Cardiac Care Unit after we'd completed the diagnostic tests to rule in or rule out the possibility of the patient having a heart attack. BUT on that Tuesday morning after I'd been diagnosed I was convinced that I was going to die. Cardiac meds weren't going to work for me and even if they did work for me the side effects that I knew about were so awful that my life was basically going to be a living hell from that point on. So, I stared at the bottles of pills on the kitchen counter, then stared at my husband and the morning dragged on. Finally, I said, 'Okay here's the deal. I'll call the Doctor and talk to her and see what she has to say. I mean she did say call her if I had any problems. And this is a problem. Right?' My husband nodded.

So, I called the Dr. but when I couldn't get through I agreed to talk to the nurse.'Oh, I love the drug Coreg." She definitely did sound sincere. "It's a fabulous medication. We've had such success with it in the office.'

'Success?' A light had begun to flicker in my crazed brain. 'In what way has it been a success?'

'At rebuilding your heart muscle.'

'My heart muscle can be rebuilt.......really?'

'Yes. Absolutely.'

'And what about this other one Zestril.'

'You need to take both of them.'

'And the side effects?'

'According to your chart we've started you on such low doses that I don't think you're going to have any problem.'

My husband handed me a glass of water as I hung up the phone. My cardiac rehab had begun...or not.

"This is the best we could've hoped for."

Now technically I realize that one doesn't fail a stress test nor does one technically fail an Echogram. You either complete a stress test or you don't and the Echo is only looking for information, but If one could've failed then I would have qualified. The stress test lived up to it's name by stressing me so much I begged to quit and the Echogram produced numbers that were so low everyone wondered how I had avoided cardiologist's office for so long. But, be that as it may, I had been relatively symptom free most of my life and my appalling test results shocked everyone...including me.
The angiogram (AKA heart cath) was scheduled for the following Monday and suddenly it didn't make any difference how many years I'd spent in nursing (thirty-one in case you find yourself wondering) or how many years I'd actually worked in the very same UCLA Cath Lab in which I was now going to be a patient (that would be two ) by the time Monday morning rolled around I was tense, nervous and sleep deprived.

The admitting/pre-op nurse turned out to be my old charge nurse and she made everything easy, easy, easy. Some people are just gifted at what they do and she is one of the truly gifted ones. Before I knew it my Intravenous was in and drugs were running through my veins. Soon the cardiologist was at my bedside and I was being wheeled into the procedure room. I knew that even though I had been given drugs to 'help me relax' and drugs to 'ease the pain' my anxiety was still running high. What were they going to find? Would I need heart surgery? And the most important question of all...could I live with what they found?

A couple of hours later as I lay in the recovery room for post-catherization patients the doctor walked in and told me what they'd found. 'You're in heart failure. You have cardiomyopathy and when we don't know the cause it's called idiopathic. Are you sure you don't drink?'

'No. I don't drink.'

'You're sure you don't smoke?'

'No. I don't smoke.'

'Have you ever been to South America.'

'Ahhhhh, that would be no also.'

'Well, it's certainly puzzling. We'll do a few more blood tests but until then I want you to get started on these prescriptions." She laid the Rx tablet on my beside table. 'This is the best possible outcome you could've hoped for. If you have any problems just call the office or you can always go to the Emergency Room. Otherwise, I'll see you in a week. I'm on my way to share the good news with your husband. Is he in the lobby?'

I nodded my stunned, sedated head. And, then she was gone.

Best possible outcome? I thought. Just who was she trying to kid.

"You don't have the luxury of time."

I was in big trouble and I didn't even know it. Well, 'I didn't even know it,' wasn't quite true. Something in my body had suspected something was going on for several months but as with many other things in my life communication with my brain had hit an all time low. My body had been sending out signals but essentially I'd either misinterpreted them or better yet...completely ignored them. Ignored them, that is, until one week in March when I went in for a routine GYN check-up at UCLA and happened to mention to the doctor at the conclusion of the visit that growing old was really a pain.

The doctor, who had had been writing on my chart at the time, stopped her pen in mid-air. 'Pain?' she said and shot a look in my direction. 'In what way is it a pain?'

Her serious look alarmed me and unexpectedly I found myself trying to laugh it off. 'Oh you know. The usual stuff. Hills leave me puffing when I walk and I've started to avoid steep stairs. I think I just need to bump up my workout.'

'Maybe. Maybe not.' She responded with a smile 'But just in case why don't you stop in and see the cardiologist on the next floor and make an appointment.'

'Really? You really think it's that serious?'

'Can't hurt.' She said as she handed me referral.

And so off I went. But, I must tell you that for the most part I did feel fine. Yes. Steep stairs were getting to a problem. And yes. There were days when I couldn't explain a sudden weight gain. And yes. Climbing hills was getting tougher and tougher but wasn't this all just about growing old? My last birthday had qualified me for Medicare and I'd greeted this news with a month long depression.So, when I gained a little extra weight, albeit overnight, I thought well this is just more thing I have to hate about growing old. That was my thinking at the time. That was my thinking as I walked into the cardiologist's office one week later. That was my thinking at the conclusion of the stress test (which I failed), and the Echogram (which I also failed). And, that was my thinking when the cardiologist turned and said to me, 'You need to have a angiogram and you don't have the luxury of time.'