Sara Myers

Blerg

noreply@blogger.com (Beanhowser) — Tue, 30 Jun 2009 04:35:00 +0000

Whelp, hi. How are you? I’ve been <insert words friends and family have called me of recent (i.e. distant, non-communicative, absent, uncaring, etc)>. In all seriousness, here’s the scoop:

I have a job.

And, in all seriousness, I apologize ‘cause I know I’m a better person when I’m not work obsessed. I am a better person because I can treat those around me the way they want to be treated. Basically, it means that I am a better person when I am at others’ beck and call, not some corporation’s beck and call that deems me completely replaceable at the drop of a hat, which I am. We all are. And if you think differently, you’re living in a nice, cushy ignorant life. Everybody is replaceable. My first real boss told me that and I respect that truth.

I, on the other hand, know that there is no other Sara Myers out there like me and that makes me happy. In my own little world, I am not replaceable as I am the only Sara Myers that counts—in my world. <End ego-boost rant>

So, I’m reading that Tucker Max book right now and I won’t say a darn thing negative about it ‘cause that’s what the STD-ridden, little-boy wants. Am I offended by his writings? Not at all. Not by him. Good for him. I am more offended (but, not really)…by the stupid girls who still continue to perpetuate his truth about “skanks” and “hos” and give him the best material to write about. Seriously, he meets the dumbest girls…ever. That is if he’s not James Freyin’ the non-fictionality of his “memoir.”

Ouch.

Happy summer. Be safe.

This is my Butter-Bean nephew, Walker, and has nothing to do with the post, but I figured...he just makes me smile.

CLEANERS

noreply@blogger.com (Beanhowser) — Thu, 23 Apr 2009 01:16:00 +0000

My dry cleaner is holding my pants hostage. It’s been almost two months since I’ve dropped them off and the last three times that I have gone in there to pick them up, I am met with the same response: “They are not ready yet. Come back on Monday.” So, this Monday, on my lunch break and on my way to the dentist, I stopped into the cleverly named “CLEANERS” building. It was packed. The line was out the door. Apparently, on Mondays at 1:30 p.m., everybody in Littleton has an appointment to go and drop and/or pick up their dry cleaning (suburbia is so predictable). I understand the draw to this dry cleaning place, really I do. They are inexpensive. I mean like really cheap. The only catch is that you have to prepay in cash or check…and, as I’ve learned, it could take them up to two months or so to clean your pants.

However, when I was met with the same response for the fourth time, I loudly protested in front of the entire line (now spilling out onto the sidewalk), “But, my pants have been here for almost two months! Did you lose them?” The small, olive-skinned woman behind the counter looked up at me, blinked a couple of times, and then turned on her heel and disappeared into the back behind the masses of saran-wrapped clothes. I stared after her in disbelief, unsure of what just happened. I grew even more agitated and started to bite my hang nail as I imagined the entire line of people behind me (arms full of clothes) mentally drilling obscenities into my back for being obtuse (Shawshank) and causing a delay in their soccer-mom schedule.

Thankfully, in less than minutes, “small woman” reappeared, scurrying out of the columns of washer-and-dryer-shy clothes, and in broken English assured me that, yes, they still have my pants but they won’t be ready until next Monday. Afterward, she smiled and loudly yelled “Next!” to a bobbed-blonde, middle-aged customer all while successfully avoiding eye contact with me. Unfortunately, I am, hands down, not a very confrontational person and on the rare occasion that I get the gumption to be confrontational, I certainly don’t like audiences. So even though I know I was/am being d*cked around with by “CLEANERS,” I still bent over, took it up the a@@, and walked out the door…feeling like a chump, of course.

You know what the funny thing is? Part of me still, stupidly, believes that they might actually have my pants and that they didn’t ruin them or accidentally give them away to another customer. That’s how gullible I can be sometimes, I suppose.

On a completely different note, I have a job now. Went back to the world of advertising (God save us all). The last thing that I’ve wanted to do is to come home and sit down at a computer and write, but today was different. In addition to writing, I am behind on friendships, relationships, family, volunteer obligations, laundry, litter box, dishes, working out, running, manis/pedis, cleaning, etc. But I have managed to love on my nephew, hang with an old friend J. Moore, learn to play golf better, go completely brunette, and buy a house.

I’ll keep you posted on the pants.

Happy Heart Day

noreply@blogger.com (Beanhowser) — Sat, 14 Feb 2009 18:11:00 +0000

http://www.informz.net/heart/archives/archive_729890.html

Run Stroke Girl...Run

noreply@blogger.com (Beanhowser) — Wed, 11 Feb 2009 06:45:00 +0000

There is a point in every marathon that I've done so far where I want to buckle over, fall down on my knees, and cry. But, honestly, it has nothing to do with the physical pain. It’s a thought. It’s a thought or a feeling that is so overwhelming that just makes me want to smack my hands against the road and wail. It's not because I am sad. It's more of an awe feeling, a feeling of disbelief about what I am actually accomplishing. Everyone runs for different reasons and I think there is a moment on the course when it just reaches up and punches you in the face.

Last Thursday, February 5, I went back to the same gym where I stroked to lift weights with Kristen. I haven't been back since last March. I stroked by lifting a light weight over my head, which, unbelievably, tore a vertebral artery in my neck. So this was a huge day for me; thank you Kristen for understanding this and coaxing me back on to the horse.

There is a faint scar scattered across my forehead that appeared while I was on Coumadin, which is a drug that thins your blood to help prevent any more clots from forming. Since my artery has healed and I've been taken off the drug, the scar has not faded and I am told it won't. Although not the most attractive thing to have permanently on one's face, I suppose it's a good reminder to be thankful for life, for each day, for the ability to be independent, for the ability to talk, for the ability to walk...for the ability to run.

Around mile 16, I heard a very enthusiastic woman scream, “Run, stroke girl, Run!” I did a double take and looked back into the crowd and smiled, remembering that I was wearing a shirt that read: I Live to Run…Stroke Survivor.

20 Weeks Done

noreply@blogger.com (Beanhowser) — Wed, 14 Jan 2009 20:53:00 +0000

It’s official. Today, Janya and I capped off our 20 weeks of marathon training with a light four miler. We’ll rest tomorrow and Friday and then loosen up with a two miler on Saturday before the big 26.2 on Sunday.

Although PF Chang’s Rock ‘n’ Roll marathon will be my fourth, there are always the nerves, the mind game, the phantom pains, the excitement, the sleepless nights starting last night in which you run every which case scenario through your head that could happen during the race, good and bad. The big question: Will I finish? The second big question: If I finish, will I meet my goal time? This go around, I’ve told every one that I have no goal time (“I just want to finish,” I say; “I am just happy to be able to run,” I answer) but I do. I always do. You always do. There’s always a time.

Janya and I parted our ways by congratulating each other. It’s a huge sense of accomplishment crossing off the last training run, and with no injuries (with the exception of a lost toenail). I believe the real race happens during training. Training, for me, is the real feat. Think about it: 20 weeks versus four hours; 491 miles versus 26. However, ask me that question at mile 20 on Sunday and I may change my tune. My bib number is 3765 and the marathon is set for Sunday, January 18 at 7:40 a.m. (Arizona). For now, I have become the strongest person that I can be.

HoMedics

noreply@blogger.com (Beanhowser) — Tue, 13 Jan 2009 22:29:00 +0000

Now, I am not sure how much trouble I will be in with my dad for repeating this little story, but my mom gave me full permission to tell from her perspective. When she relayed this to me over the phone at the beginning of December, I nearly collapsed on the floor in a fit of laughter. I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to remember to blog about it actually. Sorry dad, but it’s a funny one.

My dad has been experiencing a lot of pain in his back (not the funny part). In response, mom decided she would get him this fancy little massage thingy that fits in your chair and vibrates for Christmas. She saw an ad for it one afternoon in a commercial or in a brochure or something and quickly wrote down the brand name on a piece of paper as a reminder. She left the reminder on the counter for the next time she ventured out on a shopping trip. She was elated that she finally had found something to get for the impossibly-hard-to-shop-for dad or, in her case, husband.

So, of course, the next time she left the house, she completely forgot the piece of paper. There the reminder sat, waiting on the counter. Luckily, she did remember that she forgot the piece of paper and was reminded as to what she had written down. Thus, she didn’t forget to pick up the massage chair while she was out running errands. And, while she was out, her cell phone rang.

“Hello?” she said.

“Hello,” dad said, flatly.

“Well, how do you do?” she said, kiddingly.

“Do you want to tell me something?” my dad inquired, sounding annoyed.

“Eh, um. No, no…not that I can think of. Why?” she carefully but curiously asked.

“So. I take it you are not going to tell me what a home dick is?” he curtly questioned.

“A WHAT!?!” she screamed, incredulously.

“A home…dick,” he repeated with emphasis.

“WHAT’S A HOME DICK!?!” she yelled back, horrified.

“Well, Pam, I’m asking YOU what a home dick is, as you’re the one who has home dicks written down on your To Do list,” he accused, sarcastically.

Mom went silent, thinking...home dicks? Home dicks? Where would he get home dicks from? Perplexed and somewhat amused by the entirety of the conversation she continued…

“Bill, I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about. Why in the world would I write down something like home dicks on my To Do list?…,” she started to defend when all of a sudden a box caught her eye in the rearview mirror. There in the backseat of her car was the box that held the massage chair.

The brand name read: HOMEDICS.

Adios 2008

noreply@blogger.com (Beanhowser) — Wed, 31 Dec 2008 20:36:00 +0000

I’ve never been one to look so much forward to the future. Usually, I try to be in the moment, not living in the past or living so much for the future that you are blinded to the now. But, since March 31, 2008, I have been anticipating the new year with much fervor. I think most of my friends and family (my only loyal readers, thank you) all know why I am so ready to leap out of 2008 and spring into 2009 with great expectations…so I won’t be redundant in trying to explain it.

I sat down to blog today with nothing really to say. Mostly, I only blog when I feel compelled; I don’t want to force anything. I wish I had something profound to say on this New Year’s Eve. I wish I could sum up an “interesting” year with some great sentence that wrapped everything up so neat and tidy, like a present…but that would be trite.

This past year, I’ve met people and grown friendships in different ways that has changed my life forever. I am grateful. Some, I never would have met had I not experienced “the event”; some I’ve known for a long time. Great people. Strong people. Amazingly, resilient individuals. Thank you. Thank you for your support and encouragement and basically just having a tolerance for me.

I’m not perfect. I am not a saint. There is so much about me that is inconsistent and complicated. But, I am happy. I choose to be happy. I am extremely appreciative. I choose to see how luck has been on my side since I was born. And, I love. I have lots of love. It’s a downfall in the same right that it’s a gift, but if my only crime is this…then burn me at the stake.

See, when I don’t have a point to make, my thoughts and writing are all over the place. So let me reel myself back in. Happy New Year to you all. 2009 holds hope and promise and signifies an end to a period. In honor of that, the next time I blog…I will remove the “Young Stroke Survivor” tag underneath my name. My resolution is to not be defined by my stroke, but to just embrace it and get on with my life.

Health, love, and happiness to all.

-Bean in GLP watching snow fall over the lagoon.

Curious

noreply@blogger.com (Beanhowser) — Wed, 17 Dec 2008 17:05:00 +0000

“I froze. It was not guilt that froze me. I had taught myself never to feel guilt. It was not a ghastly sense of loss that froze me. I had taught myself to covet nothing. It was not loathing of death that froze me. I had taught myself to think of death as a friend. It was not heartbroken rage against injustice that froze me. I had taught myself that a human being might as well look for diamond tiaras in the gutter as for rewards and punishments that were fair. It was not the thought that God was cruel that froze me. I had taught myself never to expect anything from Him. What froze me was the fact that I had absolutely no reason to move in any direction. What had made me move through so many dead and pointless years was curiosity.”

-Kurt Vonnegut 1922-2007

Starting Now…

noreply@blogger.com (Beanhowser) — Thu, 11 Dec 2008 21:16:00 +0000

Deep in my mind, handicapped by my thoughts, I ran in front of a truck just twenty minutes ago. It was a very, very large pickup truck with a very, very large trailer attached. He braked, and I stood still, like a deer in headlights. I actually just stopped. I didn’t keep running like the obvious might assume. Nope. I stopped and felt nothing. No fear. No anxiety. No thought. I was blank; emotionless. I had no reaction. My arms hung heavy and limp down at my sides while Ingrid Michaelson’s lyrics ”…I wish you never came into my world…starting now…” fittingly blared in my ear.

The man behind the wheel wore a red baseball cap and had a stubble beard; he was nice looking too--sort of outdoorsy. That is what I noticed when I stood motionless, face-to-face with his grill. Those would have been my last thoughts had I been hit. Nothing profound, nothing amazing. No bloodcurdling scream. Life didn’t flash before my eyes (it didn’t when I stroked either). It was all very matter of fact. Very rational. Sort of like—okay so here we go; this is how it is. Acceptance, perhaps. Acceptance.

In all but a matter of seconds after he slammed his brakes down, we locked eyes; we had a moment. He didn’t yell at me. He didn’t flip me off (or as Janya’s kids call it: “the hate finger”). I didn’t scream at him. I didn’t kick his truck (I was close enough to). It wasn’t his fault. What may have been a look of relief or shock coming from him, felt like compassion to me. As if he had read my thoughts just moments before he snapped me in half. Like he understood. He saw something holding my mind captive and stopped my wheels from turning by bringing his to a screeching halt….

I mouthed “sorry” and “thank you” before continuing on my way toward the downhill on Simms Street. Free of thought and with a bounce in my run, I changed the song. Starting now…it’s my mind.

“Wake” Up

noreply@blogger.com (Beanhowser) — Mon, 24 Nov 2008 23:59:00 +0000

Dumb, dumb. Rookie mistake. I don’t know what is going on with me. I just applied for a job, hit send, and then realized that not only had I grammatically used “you” instead of “your” incorrectly, I then forgot to include my salary requirements as indicated…all while touting myself as detail-oriented. Great. My cover letter and resume will hit the trash receptacle faster than I can blink. Maybe it was a subconscious plot to thwart my one and only chance of working in accounting. Can you even imagine…me working at a CPA firm? That’s actually quite hilarious. Numbers are hard for me. Accounting? What was I thinking.

The wedding is over and it was a blast. Dancing, drinking, chatting up old friends and family, hanging with my nephew—everything went off without a hitch and Barb looked beautiful, of course. Can’t complain about a week down in the Keys, although, coming back to 70-degree weather in Colorado was a nice little surprise.

What wasn’t a nice little surprise, however, was how I unexpectedly learned what hitting another airplane’s “wake” felt like.

Approximately, an hour into our flight back to DIA from MIA, our plane felt like it had been hit by a bomb. Not kidding.

With a sharp jolt, I woke up from my semi-snooze. At first, I thought, it had been a dream—you know one of those half-sleeps where you feel like you’re falling and you wake up suddenly and your heart is racing. Except, I could hear gasps from the other passengers and when I opened my eyes people were swiveling their heads every which way. Wide-eyed, I looked at Rich and he grabbed my hand. Not typical and certainly not comforting, as I am the one who usually digs my fingernails into his skin on take off or during any strong turbulence.

“What was that?” I asked him.

“I dunno,” he said looking out the window and squeezing my hand harder.

“That wasn’t turbulence, was it?” I asked rhetorically.

“Uh, no, that definitely was not turbulence” he whispered.

As other concerned murmurs drifted about the cabin, a flight attendant scurried past me up to the front of the plane. Never a good sign.

“Should we tell the flight attendant?” I asked.

“I think she felt it too. I think everyone felt it,” he responded with slight annoyance.

Silence.

Everyone seemed to be just holding on, waiting for the other shoe to drop. I kept looking past Rich out the window at the engine (as I always sit in the aisle), pleading with it to not fall off—as this was, of course, the next logical thing to happen in my head.

“Attention passengers…,” the captain announced.

I am just guessing here, but if you’re in a plane and you suddenly feel as if you’ve just been hit by a missile and then the captain comes on the intercom… it may possibly, perhaps not be a good thing. I tried to put both hands over my ears and hum loudly (because denial is so much better), but Rich held firmly onto my left hand, preventing my regression back to eighth-grade antics.

Immediately, my thoughts started to domino: This is it, I thought. Oh my god. This is it! We’re gonna have to emergency land and we’re over water. Unwelcomed visions of the horrific plane crash in Cast Away paraded into my head. I knew it. I always knew I’d go out like this. I just knew it. Damnit to hell. It better be quick and painless. (It’s so much easier to make demands rather than to give into complete surrender.)

“…What we’ve just experienced was the wake of another jet approximately 22 miles in front of us…” he continued.

My first thought was why the hell are we that close to another plane? I can run that distance. Then I flashbacked to the movie Pushing Tin with John Cusack and Billy Bob Thornton playing air traffic controllers and imagined them urgently screaming, “United 1583 descend to 3-2-0 thousand, NOW!” Except, apparently, our captain didn’t listen and descend. Nope instead he flew right into the “wake” of the airplane directly in front of us. Nice job. Now what?

“…Everything is okay; there’s nothing to worry about. The aircraft is intact. Thank you, relax, and enjoy the rest of your flight.”

Like nothing happened at all, Rich released my wet, clammy hand and put his headphones back on to continue watching the in-flight movie, Journey to the Center of the Earth.

I, on the other hand, took my cue from the guys in front of me and the woman across the aisle and ordered a vodka tonic.

Glad to be back, on the ground, in Denver.

Halloween in Vegas

noreply@blogger.com (Beanhowser) — Tue, 04 Nov 2008 00:36:00 +0000

…Otherwise known as the world’s biggest adult costume party. I am two days recovered from a three-day jaunt to Las Vegas and it was worth it. Fun. Have never laughed that much, consecutively, ever.

Rich was the Joker (the scary Heath Ledger kind), I was Bat Girl, Kristen was Twister (the board game), Ann was a sexy referee, and Farrah was a flapper. Halloween night, Rich stole the floor with gasps and stares as we walked out of the elevators in to the casino of the New York, New York hotel on our way to BOA Steakhouse in Caesars (a good recommendation from my soon-to-be-bro-in-law). He did his own “Joker” makeup and had the real flesh wounds flanking both sides of his smeared red smile. I was heckled at with “I’ll be your Robin!” (so not creative), Kristen was touched on left-hand blue and right-hand red (I think she liked it), Ann met her referee boyfriend bartender (what a cutie), and Farah flapped fabulously in her mini-fringe dress (although she should of gotten Colin’s digits).

I’d even venture to say that although CU, FSU, and the Broncos all lost their respective games this weekend, it didn’t hurt as much as it normally would have due to the previous, two-night adventures.

And, I’ll leave it at that as we all know “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.”

Lori, one of my blog followers e-mailed me the sweetest e-mail, asking where I’ve been for the last three weeks. I responded with the excuse of being a lame blogger, which is true. I have been absent, but it’s been a good thing this time. Lately, I’ve been so wrapped up in my life and have been pleasurably experiencing some extremely happy moments. Perhaps I’ve been waiting to “process” before I sit down to write again. So, thanks for checking in Lori (and motivating me). I do appreciate it. I am doing okay. In fact, I am doing better than okay. I am doing fantastic. Here are some reasons why:

1) Obviously, the Vegas trip.

2) My sister is getting married in a week and we are all jetting down to the Florida Keys to celebrate.

And, 3) I got my eight-part blood test results back in regard to my stroke and I checked out normal and fine. The blood test was the last hurdle of this whole recovery (aside from the emotional hurdle I suppose) and I cleared it with flying colors. What this means is that I do not have a blood clotting disorder, the Coumadin has officially left my entire system and I have no lasting effects, and I don’t have to get heart surgery. Could I be any happier? Could I of asked for any better news? I am on cloud 100. I still have my neuro’s message on my voicemail and I play it over and over again: “Hi Sara, your blood tests came back normal…”. (I’ll probably never erase that one.) My treatment now is one aspirin a day for the rest of my life. Hey, I can live with that. I can certainly live with that. I can happily live with that.

Although challenging sometimes, I really believe in the power of positive thinking. Sure, I can be hard on myself, a smidgen of a cynic, and self deprecating at times, but underneath…throughout my core, I have hope on most everything. I am truly, truly a lucky girl. I am very fortunate. It’s how you view your situation I suppose. Perspectives are important and, news flash, they are a choice. I choose to have a positive, open perspective (at least for today…hardy, har, ha).

A few months back, I received an e-mail from Ron Gardener, author of Take Brave Steps for Stroke Survivors and Families. He personally wrote some inspiring words to me and suggested his book for reading. As an avid reader, I ordered it right away. Ron’s story is a great one. He’s a young stroke survivor as well and prior to his stroke his profession was a motivational speaker in general. Now, post-stroke, Ron’s honed his motivational speaking toward a particular demographic—stroke survivors. He speaks to the positive thinking that I was mentioning above and provides great exercises to catch yourself in the negative and pull yourself back into the positive. I recommend his read to anyone that has been touched by a stroke (i.e. caretakers, family members, even friends). It’s a great reminder of how powerful thoughts are and a deeper insight into the bigger picture of life. Plus, he speaks to the emotional aftermath stroke survivors go through (are going through) and may help close ones understand the emotional highs and lows (outbreaks) better.

Well, I am off to take down my Halloween decorations and put them away until next year. It’s November now and another great set of ghoulish memories has been stored away. Tomorrow I will look forward to hosting a 2008 Presidential Election Results dinner with friends. Happy as a stumble bee… .

(Kristen, Ann, Me, Farrah, Rich--Halloween in Vegas 2008)

Calm After the Storm

noreply@blogger.com (Beanhowser) — Sat, 04 Oct 2008 17:51:00 +0000

Today I packed a suitcase. Yesterday I went semi-brunette. Last night tequila did me wrong. Haven’t had margaritas in awhile so it seemed like a good idea – until I wanted McDonald’s and then it went downhill from there. Woke up at 2 a.m. Then woke up at 8 a.m. Then went for a five-mile run. Never did get my McD’s. A good thing. It’s evil, but goes really well with tequila.

Now I am waiting for Rich to come home.

It was a nice, overcast morning and for once felt like fall during my run. There were lots of bikes out and about and not one yelled out “on your left” before they passed so they all nearly made me crap my pants as they whizzed by. After the third time, I had a catty thought: I should get a shirt made that says “I am not a weekend warrior…I do it every day.” Today is Saturday and the warriors were out in abundance.

Rich tells me that when a Lance Armstrong-road-biker wannabe whizzes by you with no head’s up, it’s called “snaking.” Did I mention I hate snakes? I hate snakes. And, just last week, I saw three. So when someone nearly takes off your shoulder on a path made for a golf cart, I think it’s quite fitting they would be called a “snake.”

I saw a couple running together, toward me. The guy was pushing a baby in one of those off-road, supe'd-up strollers, and the woman was being dragged along by her two incredibly energetic, large-sized dogs. How nice I said to myself. How outwardly looking perfect. I wish Rich ran with me. At least we still bike together. The couple threw two huge pearly, white smiles my way and waved as they passed me at my 2.5 turnaround point. I said “good morning” and waved back, thinking darnit now I’m gonna be breathing down their necks for the duration of my trot. So, I stopped. Waited and stretched a bit until they were in the distance so they didn’t think I was eerily following them. Settling back into a rhythm, I zoned off again until the couple stopped ahead, turned around, and started running toward me again. As we passed each other for the second time, I smiled and caught the woman giving me an odd, concerned look. Quickly, I tried to telepathically communicate “not following you, just turning around, just like what you guys just did.” Looking back she probably just caught a strange whif of tequila.

So my suitcase is on my bed, waiting. I am loving my new hair color (thanks Dawn). And I am wondering if Rich and I are going to watch the FSU vs UM game at Wings.

Savannah Hollis

noreply@blogger.com (Beanhowser) — Thu, 25 Sep 2008 21:32:00 +0000

Fate. As cheesy as it seems sometimes, I believe in it. I also believe in flukes. My stroke was a fluke. Stumbling across Savannah Hollis was fate.

Approximately two weeks ago I was at King Sooper’s picking up a few things with Rich. Normally, as we stand in the checkout line, he drives the cart while I drift off into the magazine and candy section. My usual, last-minute magazine purchases can range from US Magazine or InTouch to Self Magazine or Real Simple. But that day Kate Hudson was on the front cover of the October 2008 issue of Cosmopolitan. I love Kate. I hate Cosmo. I was at a crossroads. My dislike for Cosmo stems from the fact that these types of headlines are splashed across the front cover on a monthly basis: ‘Guys Talk Sex: She Did What?! Outrageous Things Chics do in Bed’; ‘How to be Bitchy Just Enough’; ‘15 Date Ideas He’ll Be Into’; ‘His Body: The Nonverbal Clues That Let You Read His Mind’; ‘Plus, How Long Guys Want Sex to Last’; and ‘Beauty News: Scents That Seduce Any Man.’

Actually, every single one of these headlines graced the cover of the October issue. I’m not kidding.

Hands down, I am not a feminist in any sense of the word, but just in those titles alone there are six references to a man and how you can please him or his and what he’ll be into or how he wants sex. And, the only time a reference to a woman is made, we are referred to as a “chic” and a “bitch.” What? Are men writing this magazine or something? Get my point? But, like I said I love Kate and decided to set my personal problems aside (just this once) and quickly read her interview before the cashier saw me and gave me that eyeballed look of: If you read it, you buy it. I most certainly did not want to buy it. Thank you very much.

As our food items began to move across the scanner, I estimated that the interview was probably somewhere in the middle of the magazine. Hurriedly, I parted the glossy pages, hoping that I would save time by miraculously landing directly on the interview before our total was tendered.

I landed on page 184. Noticing that it wasn’t the “Kate” interview I slammed the magazine shut with a disappointed huff. Shoving the Cosmo back on the rack, my brain oddly registered that I had just read the words “I” and “Had” and “Stroke.” Seeing Rich pull his wallet out of his back pocket, I reached for the magazine again and scrambled to find the same page. Why would Cosmo have an article about strokes, I thought. Desperately fanning the pages, I started to doubt myself. Maybe it had read “I had Sex” and I am just seeing “stroke” everywhere like a lunatic.

Page 184 reappeared before my eyes and read “I Had a Stroke at 21.” To the left of the header was an upper body shot of a very attractive young woman with the caption: “Savannah Hollis, two years after her stroke.” Underneath that caption was another picture of the same girl with the following caption: “Electrodes jolt Savannah’s muscles as she relearns how to talk and swallow.” I slammed the magazine shut again, but this time I threw it onto the moving belt, triumphant that my brain had gotten it right. Swiping his credit card, Rich looked out of the corner of his eye and humorously raised an eyebrow at me. “I’ll tell ya in the car, “ I whispered, before shooting a smirk at the cashier lady.

I am not going to tell you what the article said about Savannah Hollis because I am attaching it to the end of my blog for reading at leisure. But, I will tell you that you should read it even though the piece didn’t do her complete justice, in my opinion. Either Zoe Ruderman can’t write very well, her editor got chop happy, or the publisher poorly planned layout. I mean who is the genius at Cosmo that gave a 4-page spread to ‘This is What It Means…When Guys Cry’ in the Man Manual section and only a 3/4-page to a young stroke survivor’s story that could potentially save more young lives. It’s a pity. Nah, it’s just stupid.

Anyway…now that that tangent is out of the way. Savannah’s story is amazing. Her survival and recovery is incredible; inspiring. On one side I am irritated that Cosmo only printed three paragraphs of her story…a blurb if you will But, on the other hand, I am impressed that they did, in fact, publish anything at all unrelated to sex, men, sex, or…men.

Upon returning home from the store, I did the obvious and like any other stalker searched for her name on Facebook. Not surprising, I found a Savannah Hollis. Hoping that this was the Savannah Hollis, I wrote an e-mail and held my breath while hitting send.

The next day I received this response:

“Yes, this is the same Savannah... thank you so much for the encouragement! I am so glad that you are recovering well… .The article did end up being super short considering the interview lasted an hour and a half, but I am just thankful they printed it. Before mine, I had no idea someone my age could be affected, and thinking that others may be in the dark as well is horrifying! So, that is all I wanted to accomplish by agreeing to do the story, I just wish they had included more facts and symptoms so people don't have to research it all on their own. I do not know what your stroke was caused by (I will probably find out reading your story after I send this) but there is an amazing organization with a ton of information and personal experiences. I was shocked when I realized how many people are impacted by stroke. It is http://www.angiomaalliance.org/(they have actually funded a biobank for genetic testing to investigate the inheritable causes of stroke). … Thank you again, and I hope we keep in touch. It sounds like you are doing great, and I'm sure things will continue to improve!”

Since her kind response to my impulsive e-mail, Savannah and I have officially become Facebook friends and continue to correspond with each other about every other day or so. In fact, I feel the newfound, electronic friendship has helped me become a much stronger and braver person. I suspect (hope) that we’ll continue to keep in touch and share experiences, encouragements, and information (not all necessarily revolving around the journey of surviving a stroke either). Perhaps one day we’ll seriously set our sights on becoming touring motivational speakers. Hey, you never know… .

Fate has a funny way of getting your attention and steering you in a particular direction. Had I never picked up that Cosmo…. Huh, now that I am thinking about it, I never did get around to reading that Kate Hudson article… .

Read Savannah's story (Click on the link)

Bruiser

noreply@blogger.com (Beanhowser) — Mon, 15 Sep 2008 21:45:00 +0000

Warning: The picture at the end of this blog may be a bit gross -- if you are at all squeamish (but, it's really not that gross). Basically, it's a picture of the back of my leg and its newest addition, Bruiser. Now bruises are usually not a big deal. This one really isn't either; it's just plain ol' ugly. And the reason why I am posting it is because of how I got it. Unbelievably, I got this little guy from sitting on a bar stool watching FSU beat Chattanooga this past Saturday. Where the lip of the stool met the back of my thigh 'caused Bruiser. Typically, I am not the easily bruising kind (like Kristen; she bruises if you poke her), but this is the result of a little pill called...yep, you guessed it, Coumadin. Apparently you shouldn't mix blood thinners and bar stools. Who knew.

No worries though, 'cause I only have 17 more days to go. Yay. If this is my last parting gift from "the poison," then I will take it gladly.

My Marathon (26.2 miles) Results

noreply@blogger.com (Beanhowser) — Wed, 10 Sep 2008 20:12:00 +0000

2005 San Francisco Nike Marathon: 4:09:59 (age 27)
2006 Denver Marathon: 4:00:00 (age 28)
2007 Toronto Waterfront Scotiabank Marathon: 4:02:15 (age 29)
2008 Took year off.
2009 Arizona P.F. Chang Rock 'n' Roll Marathon: 4:10:52 (age 30)

Gettin' pysched.

24 Days

noreply@blogger.com (Beanhowser) — Mon, 08 Sep 2008 20:10:00 +0000

And the countdown begins. Today, I have 24 days left to go until October 1st.

Stoked

noreply@blogger.com (Beanhowser) — Mon, 08 Sep 2008 04:06:00 +0000

No, I didn't misspell "stroke." Lol. I am STOKED, like excited, 'cause I just registered for my 4th marathon set for January 18th, 2009, in Scottsdale, AZ. Janya motivated me to actually sign up and start training. So here we go once again. I just finished my first week of training, starting 20 weeks out. Following Hal Higdon's training schedule, I enojyed my Sunday with a 7-mile run. Unusually, it felt good (even the hills), and I am stoked for PF Chang's Rock 'n' Roll Arizona Marathon. Glad to be back on schedule. :)

Brandi

noreply@blogger.com (Beanhowser) — Thu, 04 Sep 2008 23:23:00 +0000

I decided that I needed a facial...badly. I haven't had one since the stroke and I used to get them regularly about every two months or so. What's worse is that the infamous Coumadin has really started to take its toll. So far, I know I've been lucky with side effects so I am not complaining; however, the recent appearances of dark scars on my forehead and around my eyes, dry patches of skin, and acne like a freakin' 13-year-old are buggin' me out. These are common side effects, according to research, but really disheartening during intimate, magnified mirror time. Therefore, in that August 31st (this past Sunday) was my 5-month anniversary since the ever unforgettable experience, I decided that I needed some face-time love. And, some love I got. Her name was Brandi and she was absolutely, hands down, a bucket of sweetness. She not only revived and cleaned every single pore on my face but also relaxed, humored, and encouraged me.

She started out with a foot massage. Supposedly, it helps relax clients and get them feelin' comfy. Usually, I just give myself over and turn to butter. But, this time I nervously popped my leg out straight and engaged thigh muscles to stay in position while she massaged. She noticed my rigid-ness immediately and gave my leg a gentle shake and said "Relax." When I couldn't relax, she asked me what I was so tense about. Bad day? No. Stressful job? Lol, no. First-time facial? Not a chance. For a millisecond, I debated about whether or not I should be candid about my nerves.

Here's the thing: Nobody has touched my neck in months, except for my neurologist. The other day Rich was sitting next to me and tenderly put his arm around my neck to pull me to him so he could innocently pat a kiss on my cheek, and I immediately grew stiff, froze, and anxiously asked him to never do that again. "What!?! I can't kiss you?" he asked, looking hurt and pissed. (Okay, he just looked pissed.) I sincerely clarified that I welcome his kisses (and thank you), but please don't pull my neck. You know my neck where the artery is that isn't 100% healed...the same artery that is still 10% torn. You know that neck!

I agree. My response to Rich's spontaneous gesture completely sucked. However, I am just crazy anxious about that part of my body. I can't relax about it until I get the 100%-healed, A-okay from my doc. Which is why I have no idea how I completely forgot that they massage your neck during a facial! Duh!

During that millisecond of pondering, I decided to just ask Brandi not to massage my neck during the facial. And, of course, she asked, "Why?" To which I simply replied that I have an injured neck and it's healing. Her eyes grew wide and she asked further questions that eventually prompted the entire story. Probably for her safety as well as mine. Turns out, during the facial she succeeded in relaxing me enough to where I was comfortable letting her massage "the neck" ever so delicately. Baby steps, baby steps.

After about ten minutes in, I learned that Brandi goes to my gym. The same gym that I haven't stepped foot into since March 31st. She also attends the same classes that I do. The same class that I stroked in. She is also semi-friends with the instructor. The same instructor that was teaching the day of the event. She was also adamant that I go back into the gym and talk personally to the instructor about my experience; just to let her know what had happened to one of her weekly regulars. Huh. Interesting, I thought. This certainly wasn't a hurdle that I expected to clear for at least another year, possibly never. I've only stepped foot into one gym since. And it's not even really a gym; it's called The Bar Method. I told her I'd think about it. Which I will.

Later, as she applied a cool, tingly mask to my face (I imagine that it was sea green), we dipped into conversation about family and sisters. She divulged that she didn't have a sister but she had a cousin that was just like her sister. Their kids play together; they shop together -- all that good sister stuff. I commented that her "sister-cousin" must love the perk of professional facials. And she replied that "Susie" was allergic to Aveda products (her specialty) so she has someone else do her facials. Then she elaborated on how Susie looks amazing for having five kids (some from her first marriage), but now has tons of help because her husband is a pro golfer. Hmm, I thought...second marriage, five kids, pro golfer, and lives in Colorado. I slowly asked, full-well knowing what her response would be, "Is the pro golfer David Duval by any chance?" And, I was met with an enthusiastic, "Yes!" I smiled and told her that I personally don't know David Duval but my parents have known him tightly since he was in diapers. And she replied with..."So you must be from Florida?" Yup, I must.

Clicking off the steady hum of the steamer, indicating the near end of my pampering session, her sweetness really shined through when she verbally boosted me with a "Just think, Sara, next year...this will all be in the past, you'll be off Coumadin, and you'll get back to where you want to be. You've come this far already and you're being way too hard on yourself about your face."

She's right.

Thanks Brandi. More than a facial, perhaps I just need to believe that.

Walker

noreply@blogger.com (Beanhowser) — Thu, 28 Aug 2008 06:27:00 +0000

I am back in Denver and I love Walker, my nephew. I just spent seven days with the little booger and he is the cutest almost-three-month-old baby I know. Hands down, I am NOT a baby person. I was never a babysitter either. Maybe it has something to do with being the youngest, who knows. My "bio" clock hasn't really ticked either. Okay, I admit, it ticked-tocked for a brief moment when I was 28 over a holiday dinner with tons of wine, but it passed shortly thereafter. Should I be worried? I mean we certainly want kids, but I just haven't felt the feeling that so many women talk about -- the obsession. I mean I still get the spins when I walk into a baby store to buy outfits for Walker. My husband is not pushy (so patient), and we both agree that it's nice being selfish and able to travel at the drop of the hat.

For now, today, I am content being an aunt. It's actually one of my favorite things being una tia.

However, Barb says that the fact that I was so infatuated with Walker is the beginning of the "tick." Hmm...we'll see.

I did feel extremely natural with Walker -- not scared or anxious like usual. It's probably due to the fact that it's my sister's kid and I feel comfortable around her. Plus she's not a crazy, neurotic, new mom. She's very trusting and generous of allowing Walker to be "social." When you walk into a room, she's the type of mom who puts Walker into your arms like it or not. I think that's awesome. Not too overprotective and certainly not too neglectful. Just perfect in my opinion.

Walker doesn't coo and cah; he grunts and snorts, which makes me melt. He's also a tank and sweats a lot, which makes me love him and squeeze him more. He spits up and is an all-day squirmy worm, which is endearing. He's got a muffin top and cheeks to match, which Barb taught me how to bite ever so delicately. We think he's got our family's eyes, which grow really, really big when you lean in to kiss him on the nose and then when you pull away fast -- he smiles with this huge, photogenic grin. He pooped on my running shorts when I rocked him and peed on me when I bathed him, which I cleaned up with indifference. He pulled my hair with a twinkle in his eye and farted and burped like an old man, which both were hysterical. He never wanted to be put down, which I loved because it gave me an awesome arm workout. I couldn't of had a better time and I say that with total and complete seriousness. Walker's just awesome. Am I biased? Of course. Am I ready to be a mom? Is anyone?

Peace & luvs to everyone.

"Just Smile and Wave"

noreply@blogger.com (Beanhowser) — Mon, 18 Aug 2008 23:05:00 +0000

Met Janya at 6 a.m. for a run. The short, four miles felt like fourteen. The route we took today was a basic rectangle of street with a soundscape of morning traffic. Nice huh? Not our favorite route, but we have to switch it up periodically. I've found that when you're running, walking, cycling, or otherwise not driving, drivers can be funny. Sometimes mean, but mostly funny. By funny, I mean the people who drive by and crane their necks to watch us run. Sometimes, when I am driving, I catch myself doing this too, craning to see the runner, walker, cyclist, or the person just standing there waiting at the bus stop. I have no idea why I do this. There's a slim chance I would actually know the person. It's probably some human nature thing -- curiosity built within. Although I admit to craning, one thing I can honestly say that I don't do and have never done is honk, hoot, or scream obscenities at complete strangers as I whiz by them. Now that is just completely ridiculous, in my opinion of course.

Which reminds me of when Rich and I were running around Lake Harriman last year (Yes, this is the actual name of the Lake -- Lake "Harry Man") and we heard someone yell "faggots!" as a car filled with teenagers careened past us.

"Did that car just yell 'faggots' at us?" I asked as I glanced out of the corner of my eye, dumbfounded at Rich. He responded with a matter-of-fact "yep," which made me double over with laughter. Obviously, I don't find slurs funny, but in this situation the intense bravado that overtakes some individuals once they get behind a wheel made me laugh. Then I thought how my reaction was probably the complete opposite effect the carload wanted to have over us, so I laughed harder and waved.

Rich taught me the wave. He's an avid cyclist and a very good one to boot. He could fill a book with personal experiences of driver misbehaviors from when he's been on the road. "When they try and piss you off, just smile and wave like you know 'em," he told me once. Okay, I get it. It's sort of like the "kill them with kindness" theory -- and I like it. Plus, they are in a car and you are the extreme underdog. So, now I just smile, wave, and mutter "asshole" under my breath.

Also, great to hear from SLP and Jeremy. Thanks for the comments! Off to San Francisco... .

Acclimate, Recharge, Center -- and Travel?

noreply@blogger.com (Beanhowser) — Wed, 13 Aug 2008 20:45:00 +0000

Spending two weeks on the east coast makes running three miles back in Colorado feel like I have asthma. I guess it's par for the course as running at sea level was a breeze. Get it? Breeze at sea level? Okay, cheesy, I know.

My time on Groton Long Point (known as "The Point" to locals and "GLP" to my family) was nothing short of pleasurable. Luxuriously, I indulged in the freshest of fresh seafood all around New London from restaurants, farms, and markets such as Fisherman's, The Seahorse, and Olio's in Groton to Skipper's Dock in Stonington to Captain Daniel Packer Inne, Mystic Market, Whittle's Farm, and Grossman's Fish Market in Mystic. Luckily, I had running, kayaking, biking, tennis, and golf to help balance out all of the goodness (calories) that we savored (devoured). Oh, and I also bought a boogie board while I was there, but didn't have the chance to use it as I impulsively grabbed it on my second-to-last day -- a possible subconscious denial of my soon-to-be departure back to Colorado.

Sadly, it was time to get back, however.

Although short and painful, my run today helped me answer a question that I often ponder: Why do I choose to still live here in Colorado aside from the awesome summers, the mountains, great athletic opportunities, genuine friends, and one of the best stroke hospitals around (Swedish Medical Center)? Being a person who grew up in water, it's odd that at the age of 30, I am still happily here. But, what's here for me other than me? I live smack dab in the middle of the country with no family. Honestly, there are no real ties for us (my hubs and I) living here other than our mortgage and friends. But those ties aren't a constant; they are changeable. Dearly appreciated, but changeable. Right?

When we first moved here it was to satisfy our craving for "real" snow and snowsports. Coming from DC, we said "three years tops." Then we would continue moving west -- back to the water. It's now been almost seven years.

I know why we came, but have always questioned why we continue to stay. Until today.

Even though I was practically gasping for air during my run, these thoughts (feelings?) floated around in my head: Colorado is my balance, Colorado is my center, Colorado is my base, Colorado is my challenge. I have been traveling a lot, and thus far whenever I have returned to Colorado, I fall back into a routine. A routine that makes me feel grounded. A routine that pushes me. A routine that seems to make sense and that seems healthy and that seems fun. Out here in the middle of the country -- it's a routine that somehow manages to get me back to me. Maybe the word "routine" just scares me a little. Maybe I've accepted it finally.

Then I get a phone call from my sister and gladly find myself ready to travel all over again. I leave a week from tomorrow. This time, I head west where my little-more-than-two-month-old nephew is waiting to get hugs and squeezes (unbeknownst to him). Watch out you lil', red "hot tomato" here comes Tia Sara -- acclimated, recharged, and centered. Mwah!

Two Weeks in GLP

noreply@blogger.com (Beanhowser) — Thu, 24 Jul 2008 02:05:00 +0000

Well, I am stoked. I head off to GLP (Groton Long Point) tomorrow early, early in the a.m. Mi avion leaves DIA at 7:00 a.m. A.M.! It takes me an hour to get to the airport, which is basically in Kansas; therefore, I have to set my alarm for 4:30 a.m. Argh. Hopefully, my lack of sleep will override my anxiety of flying and I'll just sleep the entire way. There's a connection in Philly and then I finally land in Providence, RI (PVD). From there, I'll rent a car and road trip it 95 south to one of my favorite get-away's in the world: Hodges' Lodge, my Gramps place.

Technically, it's now my mom's place in that Gramps passed away a couple of years ago. He willed it to her and now we (as a family) maintain this precious, little cottage. I affectionately call it a "cottage" because compared to the McMansions that now reside on the Point it is quite small. Oh, sure, we've refurbished the place with updates, but all-in-all the integrity of the place has remained securely intact. I hold these visits extremely near and dear to my heart for two reasons: 1) I miss my Gramps and I can always "find him" out at Sea Flower, watching over us and 2) I miss the ocean.

Robyn kicked my a@@ at boot camp this morning. This is my punishment for oversleeping on Monday, I get it. Although torturous, I felt great afterward. Once home, I flipped on Fox News; and discovered that not even two miles away from my home...there was a bank robbery happening at the Bellco Credit Union. Wow, I thought, so that's what all the cops zooming by me on C470 were rushing toward. Intrigued, I glued myself to the tele, taking occasional breaks to run outside trying to get glimpses of the news choppers overhead.

Then, some guys with bullet-proof vests on and a dog were outside my house, questioning my neighbor across the street...we're talking JeffCo SWAT team here So, being the nosey neighbor that I can be, I ran upstairs to spy through my blinds. I couldn't hear a thing, but I did see my neighbor allow the SWAT team into his house. Hmm. Then they all spontaneously left. Unfortunately, I can't report anymore gossip other than that they put us on "lock down" and told us to be aware of any suspects. Candidly, I thought it was all quite exciting.

Which is why I left my home and went to Starbucks (I listen well, apparently).

Then it got sort of ugly -- no not with the bank robber, but with a stupid, stupid anxiety attack where I thought I was stroking again. Ugh...I hate these darn things! They come out of nowhere, and this one completely and utterly sucked. I started to domino when I felt a similar pain in my neck that I had felt right before the actual "event" in March. The neck pain started to grow up the back of my head, I got dizzy, started to have trouble breathing, and lost complete awareness (in hindsight, all self manifested -- I think, I believe). Ultimately, I got through it, but was completely exhausted afterward. See, the thing is, even though you may be lucky enough to convince your brain that it is not real, your body doesn't always follow suit, so it semi-reacts as if it's the real thing -- adrenaline overload. Exhausted, hell yeah. I hope you never have to understand or even comprehend this.

They caught the guy, the bank robber. He surrendered...somewhere around the lake that I run on a regular basis. Kinda cool that our little neck of the woods was on national news, but I never wish experiencing something so life-threatening and scary as this on anybody (bank robbery or "phantom stroke"). It's a crazy world. Fun one, but crazy.

I'd say it's about time I took a little va-cay to the ocean...to Gramps.

Mile High Music Festival

noreply@blogger.com (Beanhowser) — Mon, 21 Jul 2008 23:31:00 +0000

I missed boot camp this morning and feel like a complete slug. But, I e-mailed Robyn and truthfully confessed that the reason I overslept was due to the fact that all-day yesterday I could be found happily indulging in beer and good music, which when combined usually results in some kind of ridiculous dancing, at the Mile High Music Festival outside of Dick's Sporting Goods Park. I believe it was worth it too... .

Getting tickets was a spur-of-the-moment, last-minute idea. A spontaneous splurge and it felt good (I've been doing a lot more of those types of things since "the event."). We met up with our good friends Kristen and Farrah and proceeded to the 4:00 p.m. band, Rodrigo y Gabriela. They played on the main stage and they were awesome. However, after about twenty minutes Kristen made a point that it would be better to go to one of their shows when/if they play in a smaller, more intimate venue. We all agreed and sincerely hope that Rod y Gab come back to Denver and play again -- perhaps in a smaller place <crossing fingers>. Refilling our beers we headed off to Flogging Molly. This band was probably my favorite band of the day as there was plenty of room to dance, you could see them clearly on stage, and the music was easily heard. This is also where the festival started to get interesting.

Ponder this: If the Past walks by you, do you leave it in your past or do you stop it, say "hi," and bring it into your immediate present only to make it part of your past once again? Hmm. I wonder. I guess it depends on the past situation. Was it a good Past, bad Past, indifferent Past? Is it even considered a Past if it's standing right in front of you -- in the now? Okay, okay, guilty: I am reading Ekhart Tolle's The Power of Now and apparently it's making me a horrible philosopher. Is that even considered philosophy? I don't know. I also just caught myself thinking it was Sunday. Weird.

Any-waaayyy. So, more than a couple of my Pasts presently walked by me throughout the day during the festival. And, I am hands-down just not the type of person to not say anything. It's impulsive. Good or bad Past, I must say something. I have no idea where this sudden urge tends to come from. Indifference is lost on me.

If I am lucky enough to see the Past before It sees me, I like to sneak up behind It and scare It -- or walk really, really close beside It until It recognizes me (with relief) that I am not some weirdo invading Its personal space (shush it). Nine times out of ten, I get a scared/shocked/confused response quickly followed up with a smile/laugh and a hug (the latter part only happens with the good Pasts, obviously). Yesterday, there was the manager Past. The co-associate Past. The friend-of-a-friend, worked-with-my-husband Past. The local Wing's bartender Past (actually, he's also part of my future), and the couple-who-caught-my-bridal-bouquet Past. Seemingly, all pretty good Pasts to stumble upon, one would think.

Amidst a beautiful, summer Colorado day with music filling the air from all angles, I'll admit it was a little jarring to find out that one particular Past was not glad to see me in the present -- AT ALL. This Past couldn't even feign civilities. Out of left field (seriously, we were actually standing in left field), this Past (in five words, no less) accused me of ruining "a friendship," said the word "again" twice, turned on Its heel, and ran away. By accident, I bumped into It one more time by the trash can and before I could duck It threw a perfectly, perfected eye roll at me. Don't laugh like I did. No really, I chuckled. When I am uncomfortable or, apparently, when I am completely unaware that you're deeply pissed off at me and are holding a grudge bigger than Mauna Loa, I laugh. I still have no idea whose friendship I ruined? Ours? Its with someone else? Someone else completely? Wtf? I've no idea. Without doubt, this present was quickly became a bad past. To answer my own question asked above, in this particular instance, I should of left this Past in the past.

My feelings are this: Grudges are a waste of energy. They hold you back, make you angry, give you bad health. It's like never throwing your garbage out; keeping sh*t stored up in you all the time is toxic (literally). I'll probably never know what I did to this "Past gone terribly bad" but for what it's worth -- I am sorry that It feels I am responsible for Its anger. I have been through A LOT in the last four months and post-stroke, grudges seem masochistic. Life is so short and unpredictable, it's useless living in the past, especially if it's a bad one. I try to practice this type of thinking in regards to the events of my stroke: accepting what has happened, forgiving the situation; the elements surrounding the situation, trusting my body again, having faith in my brain, appreciating simple things such as walking, breathing, talking, driving, HEARING, and seeing in a whole new way. The alternative is ugly, mean, and angry. The alternative is crawling into a hole scared sh*tless just waiting for the next stroke to happen, wondering what part of the brain will this clot hit? Will this one kill me? Will this one cripple me? Will this one kill me... .

The night ended with Dave Matthews; the highlight for me was the song "Crash Into Me" off his Crash album (perhaps one of my all-time favorite songs). Smiling, laughing, drinking, under the stars, outside, good friends, warm night, flip flops, sundress. I choose this. Yeah, it was worth missing boot camp.

It's Pro Time Today!

noreply@blogger.com (Beanhowser) — Thu, 17 Jul 2008 16:07:00 +0000

Yipee-ki-yay. Yep, that's right. Today, I make the every-two-week trek to my doctor's office to have my finger pricked for pro time, otherwise known as Prothrombin Time. If you're on a blood thinner (anticoagulant) like me or have ever been on one before you are all too familiar with this little drill.

As I mentioned before in a previous blog, I am on a gross amount of Coumadin. I don't even want to put it in writing how many milligrams I am on because it scares me and I feel ashamed about it for some reason (let's just say they don't make a single pill with enough milligrams in it for me). Rita, my doctor's medical assistant, who administers my pro time and whom I absolutely love and adore, assures me it's because I am (was?) healthy and ate a lot of Vitamin K (green, healthy stuff) before Coumadin; therefore, it takes more for me to thin my "healthy" blood. I half believe her and half know she's just very sweet and trying to keep me from freaking out for the the next three months of treatment (October 1st and it's over baby!).

I don't know a lot, but I do know that I am on Coumadin to thin my blood for the sole reason of preventing any more blood clots, which ultimately lessens the possibility of having another stroke. I also know that the reason why I am on such a HUGE dosage of Coumadin is because my PT/INR results will not cooperate and get up to par. My primary care (I'll call her Dr. G.S.) ideally wants me to score between a 2.8 and 3.0. For the past three months, I've been clocking in at 1.5, 2.4, 1.8, 1.7 and so on. There was a scary 4.3 thrown in there somewhere, but that's not good either because scoring higher is dangerous for bleeding reasons (I was actually told to stay away from the kitchen and knives for a couple of days, which is one of my passions -- cooking). On the flip side, scoring too low means my blood isn't as thinned as they want it, which could mean...well, I'll let you figure out the rest of that equation. Scary? I should think so. My life is in the hands of these little pink pills. I should love them, care for them, feed them, water them.... Yeah, right. I resent the little f*ckers.

Okay, so the last time I confided my Coumadin dosage, I was met with the rebuke of "You need to get off Coumadin right away -- You know it's rat poison, right?!?" I maturely reacted by putting my hands over my ears, squeezing my eyes shut, and loudly humming a song. Just finishing off that last sentence, I flashbacked to a time when my older sister used to drive me to school (7th grade) in her red, convertible mustang blaring Led Zeppelin. Embarrassed, I would scrunch down into the red leather seat and do the same thing (i.e. put my hands over my ears, squeeze my eyes shut, and loudly hum a song). As she pulled in to a rolling stop, I'd leap out and run to homeroom. As soon as she caught on to my odd little routine, the closer we came to school the louder she'd turn up the volume simultaneously throwing a big grin my way. Humiliating? Yep. Why? Because. At the time, oh my gosh...if it wasn't MC Hammer or Boys 2 Men, I was a serious target for being "strange," god forbid. In hindsight though, of course it's totally super cool to be blaring Zeppelin (I do it now).

Ah...alrighty then. Moving back to Coumadin (do we have to???). Point is, rat poison or not, I have to be on it right now, so shush your mouth. It's a Catch 22. Or is it ironic or an oxymoron: poisoning myself to live? What is that? It sucks. I have bruising on my thighs, my arms, and recently have noticed the rapid thinning of my hair. Paranoia? No. My hairstylist/colorist even commented on how thin it was yesterday (until now, she's been used to working with my very thick hair). If only it would thin me! Ha. Kidding. Wha, wha, wha; goodness me, I am quite the whiner today.

I ran six, hilly miles with Janya this morning. It was a good, exhausting run. I did notice that my left leg feels shorter than my right. Paying attention to my stride, there was definitely an unbalance somewhere. Just thought I'd document that as it was a new realization, post stroke. Perhaps a deficit perhaps not, we'll see. I'll work on it more next run. After my run, I had some coffee and started to blog. Now, I'll go take a shower and then head to Dr. G.S. and Rita. Think 2.8, 2.9, or 3.0.... Doesn't The Secret say something to the effect of if you visualize it or think it -- it will happen? 2.8, 2.8, 2.8.

UPDATE: I clocked in at 2.2 today. Oh mio my.

On a side note: My heart goes out to Nancy Cooper's family and kids.

My Vertebral Dissection Caused Strokes

noreply@blogger.com (Beanhowser) — Mon, 14 Jul 2008 23:38:00 +0000

Since I first blogged about my strokes, caused by a left vertebral dissection, I have received a great amount of positive feedback from friends and family. I would like to share one particular e-mail with you as it is specific to the exact cause of a vertebral dissection stroke and it comes from a legitimate medical expert.

The excerpt from the expert (wow, say that fast five times) that I am posting is from one of my childhood neighbors, who is now a cancer surgeon. In addition to his e-mail, he also attached a review from the New England Journal of Medicine, SPONTANEOUS DISSECTION OF THE CAROTID AND VERTEBRAL ARTERIES. Although, a bit technical for me, it does give a great visual of what exactly happens when a tear happens. Below are a few of his words:

"...My exposure to that [vertebral dissections] comes from trauma patients in surgical residency who had cervical spine injuries/blunt trauma. We would have an occasional patient with a vertebral artery dissection, although with an accident bad enough to cause that, it was usually the least of their problems.
...I came across a good review in the New England Journal of Medicine that I saved and attached. If you ever want to e-mail or chat, I'm around, although definitely no neurologist."

My family exists on the east and west coasts of the continent. It is only me and my husband here in Colorado, by choice (now on the cusp of seven years). We love it here; however, in recovery...there is no replacement for family. Therefore, I am extremely thankful for the support and positive encouragement from EVERYONE. It's impossible to express how much it helps. I'd also like to thank the Y.E.S.S. program through the Rocky Mountain Stroke Association.