I used HypnoBirthing as my breathing method and all the nurses commented on how I was handling the contractions amazingly well — until about 9 pm, that is, when I needed the epidural. I later learned that that was when I went from 5 cm to 10 cm in about two hours. I was incredibly grateful for the epidural to say the least! Around 11 pm or so, the nurse called our doctor and I started gently pushing shortly after. At 12:53 am on June 2, little Luc arrived into this world crying out loud to let us know he had a good set of lungs. He was absolutely perfect and we are in love!

My husband and I named him Luc Allen-Manley Mathes. Allen is his father’s and paternal grandfather’s middle name, and Manley is his maternal grandfather’s surname. His name means “a handsome light from the hero’s meadow” and we think it fits him perfectly! His daddy was happy to cut the cord and help me throughout the whole labor. He was awesome!

I’m grateful to everyone who helped assist me in my journey to motherhood. Our nurse, Laura, was amazing, I will never forget her encouragement and support, and our OB, Dr. Ruedrich, was absolutely wonderful for the entire nine months and we are so thankful for his knowledge and guidance. And our parents and my sister stayed up all night with us to be there to meet Luc and welcome him into the world! We truly felt blessed and surrounded by love throughout the entire experience. Welcome, little Luc. We love you!

SJS also causes blindness; you can also go deaf and, in many instances, you can die. I was in the hospital for about a week. As I was lying in bed in a painkiller haze, I overhead the doctor say, “Oh no, it’s on her face and possibly in her eyes.” I lay there and thought, “I may become blind because of this and look like a burn victim from the scarring or even die.” I have been so careful in my life and it didn’t matter. I am the kind of person who calculates everything. I am very careful about what I do. I overthink every situation in the present and future. If I am involved with a guy, for instance, I will go over every possible scenario in my head — good and bad. I always believed in life you have to be very responsible, cautious and sensible. If you exhibit those characteristics, then you’ll stay safe. That day, I realized no matter what you do you cannot control every situation. 

All sorts of thoughts and regrets went racing through my head. I didn’t have a partner because I was too apprehensive and focused on what could go wrong in a relationship. I hadn’t traveled to Europe because I focused on the dangers of traveling outside the country, etc. I had a glimpse of what it would be like as an elderly person on her deathbed, experiencing all the thoughts and regrets. When you are bedridden, all you have are your thoughts. It just hit me that my life could be very different from now on. I may look like a burn victim. I thought, “If I go blind, I will never see Europe.”

The doctors tell me now they are shocked they were able to reverse the syndrome. They tell me had I went to the hospital even 10 minutes later, I would have permanent scarring and possibly gone blind. I, of course, feel like something in the Universe gave me a second chance. The Universe was telling me to live my life and to stop being scared. Bad things can happen no matter what you do. I know it’s a cliché, but I realized I needed to stop overthinking and just live my life to the fullest.

I contacted a whole bunch of people I knew from college living in the area and planned a party. All of them showed up. When I told them how unhappy I had been, everyone started to encourage me to move to New York. I told them I was considering L.A. New York felt too difficult and far away. But they persisted. As my plane left a few days later, I looked down at Manhattan a little wistfully. Could I move there? Would it be better?

Back in San Francisco, as my plane pulled into the gate, I searched through my cell phone for someone to whom I could announce my arrival, or even make plans with for drinks. None of the numbers I saw staring back at me were numbers I wanted to call. The lonely feeling I had come to know so well returned to my stomach. When I got home to my apartment, I turned on my computer. There were about 15 messages from my friends in New York with links to websites for jobs, apartments and hot online daters. All of the sudden it hit me. I didn’t have to be lonely. I had friends. There were people in the world that loved and made me feel special. I had given San Francisco a fair try. It hadn’t worked. It was not my city. Two months later I moved.

A year later I flew back to San Francisco for a wedding. On the way back to New York, as we looped around the city before making our descent into La Guardia I had the greatest feeling in my stomach in quite some time. I was home!

The first time I had to buy something, I walked into the store and asked the owner in Hindi, “Are shoes in your direction?” They were indeed, and after some negotiations, a pair was then in my direction. The whole exchange seemed delicate, courtly. It took a while before the philosophy embedded in the phrase — material things are never truly ours — began to sink in though.

But there came a time, a few months on, when I looked around the room in the Indian house where I’d moved — a room that before would have seemed uncluttered — and suddenly felt ashamed at having so much stuff crammed in there. The other rooms in the house were all so spare and beautiful. Worse, the maid kept returning my trash to me. I’d try to discard a bum pen and it would land back on the desk. “Madame, you can refill it for three rupees,” the maid finally explained. She’d use my trash — discarded newspapers, crinkled wrappings — to line my shelves: a practical consideration but a nightmare look to a Westerner, until I thought about it. In a place where you’re not invested in your stuff, you don’t express yourself through decorating. All the same, I snuck it out.

I vowed that once I got back, I’d keep my rooms spare and beautiful, but I didn’t. Language shapes the way we think and now that I’m back in English, my things are once again possessions — I own them. Alas, they’re no longer transitory.

Photo credit: Adrian Kinloch

When my grandmother died about three years ago, she left me a beautiful vintage black lace dress. My mother told me that it was her favorite dress. I had it tailored to fit and waited for the right occasion to wear it.

Soon after, my cousin got married in the same chapel where our grandparents were married in Sydney, so I pulled out the dress for the wedding. At the time, I was living in Los Angeles.

At the reception at the Sydney Opera House I stood on the terrace having a quiet moment by myself as I had not been home for a long time.

I was struck by the importance of family and history. I said a prayer for my grandmother, thanked her for the dress, and asked for a sign if she could see me in it. Suddenly, a big, bright fireworks display in the shape of a heart burst out of the Harbour Bridge and shone down on me, and I knew I was home. I recently moved back and bought a place in Sydney so now I am truly “home.”

I realized this when two people I love faced life-threatening health issues. My mother had a stroke and a best friend was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. It was at these moments that I realized what is most important in life, what not to worry about and what it means to be there for other people. These moments opened my eyes to how fleeting our lives are, how precious every day is and how important it is to take care of ourselves. I work out now, not to try to have a perfect body, but to maintain my health. The same goes for what I eat. It changes my whole perspective on life — my mother and my friend have given me so much, but never as much as the wisdom I received through their illnesses.

I was terrified. I didn’t have sense enough to ask my doctor for some anti-anxiety medication, so I took some Tylenol PM, hoping it would relax me. The flight for anyone else would have been labeled as perfect — sunny skies, no ice, snow or other weather-related worries, and no turbulence. But for me, my fear masked any pleasure I might have received, and I spent the flight trying to do anything and everything to get my mind off where I was. I tried to quietly sing opera, I recited poems, I cried, I whined, I cried some more, until finally the man in the seat directly in front of me — apparently having heard enough of my outbursts — said, “Lady, if you see me break this window and jump out of this plane, THEN you can be upset. Until then, just SHUT UP!” I was so out of control that instead of changing planes in Boston as planned, my husband rented a car and drove the rest of the way. My husband said he was never getting on another plane with me anytime soon.

Of course, we still had to fly again on the way back, and it was just as bad.

I vowed never to fly again after that — 9/11 only reinforced my decision. We were happy in Maine, and we took trips to Memphis every couple of years. These trips consisted of a long drive of three-and-a-half days each way (which made a whole week of driving). I had no desire to get on another plane as long as I lived. The interstate was my friend.

In the spring of 2008, our son and his wife (Matt and Sarah) decided to buy tickets for a flight to Memphis to see the family in August, and as a lark, they asked me if I wanted to accompany them. Lots of thoughts raced through my head. My mother had just turned 85, for one thing. If life took its usual course, I knew that one day I might get a call from my sister in Memphis to come ASAP, which would entail a plane flight. If I chose to go with Matt and Sarah, I would be traveling with seasoned fliers who could help me relax and give me confidence. I took a deep breath and said, “OK.”

We made preparations. Matt and Sarah used their computer skills to make me two “freak-out” coupons, each good for “a freak-out on the plane, in the airport, going through security, etc…” but after two freak-outs they would pretend not to know me. I soon decided that the success of this trip hinged on attitude. By golly, I wasn’t just going to TOLERATE this trip, I was going to ENJOY it. I knew this fear had to be overcome, with some attitude adjustment and a little Ativan, I was determined to overcome this paralyzing fear.

The trip was wonderful. With my positive attitude and the “letting go” of the realization I had no control up there, I never had to use my freak-out coupons, so I framed them for my wall. I even bought a little replica of a plane for my keychain, so that every time I saw it, I would remember my success in conquering my fear of flying.

Oh, by the way, one month after my amazing trip, a call did indeed come from my sister, saying Mom had been in a car accident and was in ICU with broken hip and ankle. I immediately made plans to fly down, and since then, I’ve flown back for another trip by myself — changing planes in Detroit on both trips.

Mom is recovering now, and I think part of her recovery has been eased by knowing that if she needs me, I can fly on a moment’s notice.

Meeting this challenge has changed my life. It has made me realize that I can accomplish more than I realize, and that my power is far greater than I thought — 2008 was the year I finally found my wings.

I also hung around Pompeii and Herculaneum, studying the mosaics, walking in the deep ruts the chariots made in the street, marveling at the round loaves of preserved bread and sketching the women in diaphanous gowns painted on the wall frescoes. I experienced a strong kinship with these sophisticated ladies who inhabited these houses nearly 2,000 years ago, but it wasn’t until I had the opportunity to join a group exploring the catacombs that I had my VIV Moment.

Descending into the crypt, I followed the rotund monk wearing a brown habit much too short for him, his big toes poking out over his sandals, his booming voice reminding us to stay together. It would soon be dark, he said, but I have a tendency to lag behind when I’m in a museum or touring a site, wanting to “feel the moment” and embark on a time-travel trip back to that era.

This time I lagged too long. I strayed behind the group and got lost. With only a small flashlight to guide my way, I wandered around in the underground caves marveling at the bones that lay scattered in the crypts. Instead of being frightened, I was fascinated. Only the silent chant of the dead filled my ears, no movement but the crunch of my feet striking the hard dirt. I saw tier after tier cut into the cavelike walls filled with bones, fragments of drinking vessels and odd-shaped stones. That was the first time I heard the bones “whisper” to me, giving up their secrets, telling me what it was like to huddle in fear, praying Roman soldiers wouldn’t discover their hiding place, or gather around the fire with other believers and plan their escape. Or make love in a forgotten corner with a handsome gladiator.

I never forgot that. It became part of my story when I wanted to write about an archeologist turned spy in the Near East. In Spies, Lies & Naked Thighs my heroine explores ancient ruins, discovers a priceless artifact and sports a sexy wardrobe. And gets the hero.

I don’t have that faux fur coat anymore. I wore it out. But I do have the memories of traipsing around ancient ruins wearing it, what I saw, smelled, felt, touched. It all helped me become the writer I am today and helped me tell my stories about heroines caught up in sexy adventures in exotic places. And my book has been translated into Italian. For me, it doesn’t get any better than that.

This newfound passion and clarity is wonderful, but it doesn’t come without fears and anxieties. I am afraid of not having enough money to cover my needs as well as my wants when the full-time job is let go. I’m afraid of becoming a burden to my only child if I don’t take care of my financial needs. To deal with this, I surround myself with people who will help me figure out how to reach my goals, rather than convince me not to try. I also confront my fears by getting moving. When I feel most anxious, I do the most work. Every step forward, even if just to send e-mails to potential contacts, gives me the desire and energy to take the next step, whatever it may be.

I’ve always had a job that gave me a steady and counted on income. I’ve always known where I was going each morning. My life was predictable. Actually, I’m tired of that predictability but I’m also nervous of the unknown. I’m less afraid than I used to be. I find myself caring less about the judgment of others. I’m sure there are those that think I’m crazy to take these risks at this point in my life, when I could wait a few years and retire — if not wealthy, then somewhat comfortably. I’ve been asked why I have the drive to make such changes now. Those judgments and questions don’t intimidate me anymore. I’ve confronted those fears by surrounding myself with Yay-sayers and avoiding Nay-sayers. I’ve been blessed to find so many women in particular that are willing, even anxious, to be my cheerleaders when I need them. When I doubt myself, I know whom to call. I know who will help light the fires under me again. Support, from those that believe in and encourage me, is likely my most valued asset.

I refuse to allow myself to sit and dwell on ideas. Negative thoughts that are allowed to fester only become greater than their actuality. So when I start thinking about all the things that could someday happen, I start doing something to offset those possibilities.

Lastly, but perhaps most importantly, I confront my fears by looking at my choices, getting the best feedback and support, and always taking responsibility for my choices. You see, when I make well-thought-out choices, it is freeing but it also makes me responsible for the outcome. I choose how to respond. I choose how to behave and I even choose how to feel about things by choosing how to interpret them. For, me life keeps coming back to the concept of choices. Today, I choose to dream and then I choose to take one step at a time to make that dream come true. And while doing this, I pay tribute not just to myself but to Keefe, who was the first and the loudest adult in my life to tell me I can do anything I set my mind to do.