Pneumonia in the Caribbean

My goal for 2012 was to spend only as much time working as I would need to fund a year of amazing travel. That was exactly what I did. My consulting gigs were picking up so I spent a majority of the year on various vacations.

In February, friends and I spent a week on St. Thomas touring the surrounding islands while in a near-constant state of inebriation. We rented an amazing house that came with a barely-road-worthy vehicle. The beaches, the water, the food, the entertainment and, of course, bars were the best I ever experienced. I came home from that trip certain that I would never have another trip as amazing as that one.

Barely back from that vacation, my family convinced me to go on a Caribbean cruise with them. Always the agreeable sort, I wrapped up some work and repacked my suitcase. I booked an interior room in an area of the ship that I can only describe as a single's lounge for that was indeed the idea behind this set of rooms. My room had mood lighting ranging from sultry red to moonlight blue.  I rarely slept alone as my nieces liked to share my room with me which was so small that I could touch the bed, shower and bathroom all at the same time. The stops were amazing; St. Thomas (it was like returning home!), St. Maarten (my favorite...if I ever go missing, check there first), and The Bahamas (went on a snorkeling excursion here). I had to make a quick visit (no more than 5 minutes tops) to the infirmary while I was on the boat for an ice pack for my shoulder. It was still painful from my fall and the crowded bed was less than comfortable.

The water was pretty rough the day of the snorkeling excursion. My shoulder made it difficult to do a lot of swimming but since my sister is deathly afraid of the water (ocean, pool, pond, puddle....she saw Jaws, ok?) I agreed to take the two younger ones out with me. It was exhausting and a little chilly. Getting back up on the catamaran required you to tread water in line while waiting for the ladder. Waiting to climb up next the guy in front of me fell off the ladder and directly on top of me. Panicking, he flailed a bit and managed to keep me submerged for what seemed like hours. Had I been prepared I would have been able to take a deep breath and swim away. Instead, I swallowed a small amount of seawater and wanted to beat him with my snorkel.

When we disembarked in Miami at the end of the week, I was feeling a little more tired than usual. I chalked it up to trying to keep up with my nieces and nephews. I still had a couple of days at my sister's house before I flew back home. Shortly after the two hour drive from Miami, I laid down in my niece's bed and fell asleep. I woke up a few hours later and was feeling feverish. My mom gave me some water and some ibuprofen and I went back to sleep for nearly 36 hours. I developed a slight cough on the flight home and couldn't wait to be back in my own bed.

The next day, feeling even worse, I called my doctor and she asked me to come in. She suspected I had bronchitis, gave me an antibiotic and an inhaler and sent me on my way. After four days of sleeping most of the time, I woke up the next morning to what I would describe as delirium. My entire body was shaking violently, I was freezing cold, pouring sweat and barely able to get out of bed. With a little assistance I was able to get up and call the doctor. She ordered a chest X-ray and confirmed that I had pneumonia.

Did I inhale seawater during that awful snorkeling trip? Nah, I would have noticed that immediately. Did I inhale some awful virus in the short amount of time I was in the ship's infirmary getting my ice pack? That sounded ridiculous. I stopped wondering and gave in to the crushing fatigue. I fell into bed and didn't rejoin society for at least two weeks.

The Marathon

Q: How do you know if someone has run a marathon?
A: Don't worry, they'll tell you.

Guilty.

Thanks to my best friend Karen, I was in great shape. She dragged me out of bed every morning before the sun rose and took me to a trainer that enforced a program that strengthened and toned every muscle in my body. Running, swimming, cycling and weights - they all became an integral part of my routine. The goal? The Las Vegas Rock 'n' Roll Marathon...26.2 miles run at night and most of it along The Strip. Karen and I had run the half the year before and loved it. I was determined to finish the full marathon. Despite an unfortunate fall down some stairs just before the race, I was in top shape.

I remember being the absolute last runner to cross the start line because we were late getting there. Once I caught up to the pack I settled into the familiar rhythm from my training runs. It was daylight when I started and soon the sun set and stars set out a brilliant display for my run. Soon after the halfway point, the full marathoners joined the half marathoners on The Strip for the last half. I ran just over a half mile before I caught site of my friends, wildly waving signs and yelling encouragement. Shortly after that a strange euphoria set in that allowed me to run the next 10 miles with little to no recognition of what I was doing.

The final three miles though were hellish. "It's only a 5k" I kept repeating to myself. With two miles to go I saw my friends again, this time on the opposite side of The Strip and in varying degrees of inebriation. I stopped to get a picture with my friend wearing a powder blue polyester suit holding a "Sweaty women turn me on" sign. I felt what I can only describe as "cement" filling my legs and I knew I had to keep moving if I wanted to finish. It was at this time I noticed that the temperature had dropped and a light rain had begun.

With one mile to go my lungs started burning. I desperately wanted to stop and walk the rest of the way; however a race official appeared out of seemingly nowhere and said "you're almost there...you've got this! Get into this lane and finish strong." I looked up and saw the finish archway. The timer in bright yellow was showing 04:16. The euphoria returned and I broke out into what was surely the ugliest sprint in history.

I crossed the finish line and was immediately wrapped in a mylar blanket and a finisher's medal. The wind had picked up and the light rain had turned to sleet. I hurried through the recovery area, grabbing a bagel and some bananas. I started shivering and panic set in when I couldn't find my friends at our meeting spot. I sought refuge in a port-a-potty and waited until I could feel my fingers and toes before venturing out again. I finally was able to reach my friends with my cell phone and we grabbed Karen and and hurried to our waiting, heated vehicle to hit the nearest bar.

We celebrated with wings and our favorite cocktails. Both Karen and I were exhausted and delirious. We were so proud of ourselves and each other! When I got back to the hotel I took a long, hot shower while barely able to support myself. I crawled into bed and slept the sleep that I'm sure only dead people know.

When I returned home, I had planned to take off at least 4 weeks from workouts to allow my body time to rest and recover. I put my running shoes in my closet with a promise to see them soon. Little did I know that my body was hatching a nefarious plan of its own.

The Art of Feeding

When I was young there was nothing I looked forward to more than spending time with my Grandma. Among a whole list of things, she was a caterer. There were times that I would go to her commercial kitchen and sit on the stainless steel table learning how to ball melon. I also enjoyed playing with the large, rusty can opener slamming it up and down until one of her sisters - Aunt Rita, Aunt Maxine or Aunt Cathie - would ask me to stop. How I never cut myself with that is still a mystery to this day. Other times we would work in her kitchen at home and I would be lucky enough to use the Kitchen Aid mixer. She had an entire kitchen of dishes, gadgets and tools that complemented her chosen profession. I loved watching her, so skilled was she in the art of feeding.

I can remember sitting at her kitchen table with hundreds of index cards and an electric typewriter - the fancy kind that typed in script. I would beg her to let me type up the cards, with her precious recipes on each one. I loved these cards because of the uniqueness of the type. Little did I know that I would one day long for them to be written in her flowing, beautiful handwriting instead.

I believe that one of the greatest gifts she bestowed upon me is my love of cooking. I often imagined that having me in her kitchen, all clumsy and inaccurate, would have been irritating at the least; but I found that teaching children to cook is truly special. The look in their eyes of pride, satisfaction and happiness is inspiring and I find myself sharing those same feelings with them. Whenever I have the opportunity to share this craft with others I do so with great eagerness.

My fondest memories of my Grandma - and trust me, there are too many to count - are always of us in her kitchen. We always had stimulating conversations and I was more than eager to learn. You could see that to her cooking was a way to show great affection to those that were lucky enough to share a meal with her. When I was in my twenties, I spent an evening catering a dinner party with my Grandma and her sister, Maxine. It was a small affair, but I loved the intricacies of that service. The menu was astounding and put together with such thought and care. Grandma and Aunt Maxine taught me a great deal about what it means to feed people - both body and soul - that evening. That lesson is what stands out to me the most all these years later.

I feel a special connection to her now when I'm in a kitchen. She passed away too soon - as people like her often do. And when she did, my Grandpa gave me her recipes boxes. There are hundreds of cards and scraps of paper in her handwriting and typewriter script, like so many love letters, that comfort me when the pain of missing her grows too much to bear.

I'm Fine

It felt so important to remain positive through the endless tests, medicines, needles, and doctors. I thought long and hard about the children I would have. I wanted at least one boy and one girl. But what if I had multiples because I was, after all, doing IVF!?!? This Amazonian body would be used as it should be...carrying a litter! I decided to pick out six names just to be safe.

And so those names would be recited each time I received test results, had blood drawn, or had some horrible chemical injected into my body. I would imagine their red curls or flaxen wisps of fine hair and bluish-green eyes watching me climb up on that table one more time. And they became the reason why, in spite of my logical and emotionally-guarded mind, I kept showing up day after day and week after week.

Until I didn't need to go anymore. "...many levels are not ideal...reaction to Clomid was poor". And I laid my head to the side of the table silently weeping as one by one those cherub-faced darlings that I longed to hold faded away. I stopped hearing anything that sweet doctor was saying but I could see he was still talking with a genuinely concerned look in his eyes.

Somehow I got myself dressed. And with each piece of clothing I put on, I felt a hole being drilled into my heart that would surely never be filled again. I signed out and tried to ignore the overwhelming sadness in the eyes of the nurse checking me out, asking "Is someone here to take you home?" I heard the robotic, steely voice that I would come to recognize as my own whenever talk of my up-until-now-questionable fertility was raised and I felt the false half smile and sad eyes filling with tears that were tempted to spill directing toward her and knew that this would be my reaction from now on: 'Oh poor soul, I will keep the truth from you to spare you participating in this grief. My fake smile should assure you that I'm fine'. With that disingenuous look on my face I lied to this poor woman who only wanted to comfort me, "No, but I'll be fine."

I somehow made it out to the parking garage. I sat in my car and proceeded to throw a violent temper tantrum the likes that most people would never see; pounding my fists on the dashboard, screaming at the tops of my lungs, stringing a slew of curses together that didn't even make sense. People saw me and I wanted to dare them to make me stop. Go ahead, call the police about the insane woman falling to pieces in the parking garage. I composed myself when I realized that instead of the shock, panic and disgust that I expected, almost all of them were shaking their heads slowly, in understanding. No one was indignant and shaming.  Almost immediately I felt the fake smile assume its rightful position and heard the robotic voice say to myself, "I'm fine."

Permission Granted

I haven't spent my whole life dreaming about kids. But one day I found that it was all I could think about. Before I knew it, my whole world revolved around fertility - in my case, a lack thereof.

Depression crept in.

I forgot things that I enjoy, I put them on hold and eventually forgot why I ever enjoyed them to begin with. I replaced those things with hope for a baby. If I don’t have a baby I can’t feel happy. I needed a baby like I needed air. But there is no baby and there will never be a baby.

Instead, there are times of grief. A lot of them.. It’s okay if I don’t want to get out of bed every once in a while - I've given myself permission to not be okay.

I Hope You Never Understand

I'm doing it again.
I know it when I'm doing it.


But nothing can stop me.


Nothing.

I pour my glass of sweet tea. I lean back and take a sip; hoping, wishing and praying it reaches my heart and fills the pain that is there. That pain, created by the ultimate betrayal of self. The pain that will never be explained or released. The pain that, if inflicted by anyone else, would be unforgivable.

But it's my own body that is the attacker. It goes about itself finding ways to crush my spirit once again. I try to appease it by taking good care of myself. I take all the required medications, supplements and vitamins. I exercise in various ways that are supposed to make my body stronger and more resilient. But that's not what happens.

Instead my body wages war against itself. Over and over again I go through the motions of finding the latest reason for my ailment. And each time the answer has been: auto-immune disease. My thyroid trouble, my endometriosis-induced infertility, and now this latest as-yet-identified ailment that has robbed me of my motor skills, energy and motivation. The diagnoses that are being batted around frighten me. But instead of fear, I feel pain.

So I write. I cry. I write what I feel and all I feel is PAIN. It just hurts so fucking bad. So I cry. Raw, animal-sounding cries.

And then...it's time for him to come home and I haven't moved. Haven't combed my hair. Haven't cleaned up the mess I've made from doing nothing. The clutter visible from every angle.

Do you want to know how it hurts? The sharpness of it? The totality? The emptiness? The pain? I can't spend too much time with anyone because they'll know. They will figure out I just want to die. I'm embarrassed that anyone would know the depth of my pain. So I hide behind sarcasm, false optimism and self-deprecating humor. I feel like everything has been destroyed. I've gained ten more pounds.

Pray to God you never hurt like this. I've had my ass kicked and then some. LET ME GET UP ALREADY! FUCK! WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?