Monday, October 16, 2017

Health Saga Update--number one

I know I’m posting an update on the same day that I put up the original post, but I had written it a week ago and forgot to put it up. It was easier to just do it this way rather than edit. Sorry about it.

I got the results of the last saliva tests. The way it works is I have to put this thing in my mouth between 11 and midnight two nights in a row, keep them in the fridge, and then turn them into the lab.

One of the samples tested at the very highest point of normal, and the other one tested in the not-normal range.

Woo. Hoo.

That was enough for the endocrinologist to recommend going to a neurosurgeon.

I’m stoked. I know that it seems strange to be rooting for bad test results so that I can have brain surgery. The thing is, it means that they have a clue about what’s wrong with me and we can make a plan. After a year and a half, that’s excellent news.

My Health Saga

I’ve been meaning to write this post for a while. I’ve got some crazy health stuff going on and so many of my people have wanted to be updated. I thought that I could maybe just post updates on here and then it would reach everyone at once.

I’ll start at the beginning. It’s long, so if you know this part or don’t want the details feel free to skip around…

In March of 2016 I hurt my back at Orange Theory. It felt like it always felt when I would “throw my back out,” but this time I kept not getting better. Finally, at the beginning of June 2016, I went to a doctor. He told me that I had actually torn the ligament that connects my hip to my spine. He was hoping to avoid surgery, so he prescribed physical therapy and a three-week course of prednisone (steroids). I am one of those lucky (insert sarcasm) people that, as soon as I even think about skipping a workout, I gain a pound or two. I continued eating pretty healthy, but I was gaining weight like it was my job. To put it in perspective, I gained 7 lbs. the month that I did the Whole 30 (like paleo, but less fun and more intense, and people usually lose 10-ish pounds when they do it). I was finally cleared to get back to working out in September. I was so stoked, because I was thinking that it would take time, but I should start to see a downward trend on the scale.

Except I didn’t. I kept gaining at the same rate. In October I went back to the doc. She ran a few tests, and one of them came back with results that looked like Cushing’s disease. It’s a super hard to diagnose, super rare endocrine problem that is sometimes brought on by steroids, sometimes brought on by a tumor either on the adrenal glands or the pituitary gland. It has to do with out-of-whack cortisol levels, which is your “fight or flight” mechanism. Symptoms include weight gain in a particular pattern (mostly in the belly, with skinny arms and legs, but a round face and a “buffalo hump” on the shoulders), headaches, adrenal fatigue, and body acne, so basically it’s just a whole lot of fun. I was referred to an endocrinologist, who explained to me that it takes time to diagnose, because the tests have to be judged against each other, basically. So we would have to run tests, wait a bit, and run more. Then, my insurance company said that even though they had originally said they were, these doctors weren’t in-network, so they weren’t going to pay for them. That meant I had to start with new doctors. By the time I finally got to see an in-network endocrinologist, it was the beginning of May 2017.

The new doc, which I actually liked better than the other one, told me that there was no way that this could be steroid induced, as the last endocrinologist had suspected, because my last dose was in August 2016 and my cortisol levels would have started to improve immediately. That left tumor caused.

In June I had an MRI. Let me just take a minute here to thank Jesus for Valium. MRI’s were discovered, I think, to use in place of being drawn and quartered. So, I got to get tortured for about an hour and pay almost a thousand dollars for it. FUN! Back to the story, though, when the results came back they had found a small adenoma (tumor) on my pituitary gland (in my brain). I heard brain tumor and did a minor freak out, until I realized that it was non-cancerous and I also remembered that I was widowed at 30 and survived so I’m basically resilient.  The kind of tumor that it is occurs normally in 10% of the population, so they needed to run a few more tests to make sure that it was Cushing’s disease before they would recommend surgery, the only cure for Cushing’s. If it isn’t causing Cushing’s it can just stay in there, because in most people an adenoma like mine is totally harmless and it’s not a good idea to cut into my brains if it’s not absolutely necessary.

There are 3 types of tests for Cushing’s (blood, urine and saliva), and I needed two out of three to come back with abnormal numbers. The blood numbers are always abnormal, so that was good (I guess?). We did another round of urine and saliva tests. That’s a treat let me tell you. This might be over sharing, but the urine one requires keeping all of my pee for 24 hours. In the fridge. Gross. In the end, the results on one were totally normal and the other weren’t normal, but weren’t abnormal enough. The endocrinologist told me that my case was basically too crazy and she didn’t know how to treat me. So, I could do one of two things. I could wait a couple of months and then we could run the tests again, or I could go to a research facility. I didn’t want to wait.

At that point it was July, and I started trying to get my insurance to cover a research facility/specialty clinic. Trying to get the clinic and Cigna, my insurance, to cooperate with each other required being on the phone with one or the other of them daily, sometimes both, from July until the last week of September. After all that, Cigna’s decision was that they wouldn’t cover an out of network doctor because they had people in network that could treat me. (Really? Cuz the in-network doctor said she couldn’t treat me.)

I did a number of things. I cried and threw a fit. I filed a complaint with the insurance commission. I went back to my in-network endocrinologist to formulate a plan.

She told me that I should just wait for open enrollment and start with a new insurance company for next year. I am going to do that, even though it infuriates me because it means that those f*ck3rs at Cigna win. She also ran another set of tests, now that it’s been a couple of months (that was her plan B back in July). I’m still waiting on results.

And that brings us up to date. It’s frustrating. It’s time consuming. It makes me feel impotent. And, I already don’t feel good. I’m exhausted all the time, and I feel fat (at this point I’ve gained about 45 lbs total, which is more than 1/3 again what I weighed back in March of 2016 when this whole thing started), and I always have a headache. I’m pretty sick of it and just want to get better. There are things I want to do, like go out at night with my friends (with adrenal fatigue, I'm always too tired). Like put on my socks (it’s hard with all this extra weight in the way!). I don’t give up. We’re gonna get this thing figured out.

Here's a visual. The above two were taken about a month before I hurt my back.

This one was this summer. 40lbs. later.

Monday, September 25, 2017

I think I've maybe dated all of the men in Denver.

So, do you guys remember that post from a million years ago where I had gone out with that one guy from eHarmony? With most guys that I’ve gone out with once, I forget their actual names and in my mind I call them whatever attribute stood out the most. I called this guy The Short Guy. Before we went out he acted interested but wouldn’t actually call, he would only text. I mean, that’s pretty par for the course in 2017, but in 2012, it was still somewhat unusual and gauche. I remember being so frustrated that he wanted to text back and forth and when I told him that I didn’t think texting was an affective way to get to know someone, would he like to call me? He pretty much said, “no,” but still asked me out. Anyway, after we met (and I found out he was lying about how tall he was, among other things), he accidentally really liked me. I told him that I wasn’t interested. I was really nice about it. 

Then, and I am not making this up, my phone texted him without my consent the next day. In my defense I will say that this was in my pre-iphone days. I don’t know what happened. I think my crappy phone randomly shut off, then when it powered back up it sent a text that must have been a partial from when we were texting back and forth. It was not even a complete thought or sentence. I can’t remember, but I think it was something like, “but then.” He texted back immediately to see if I had changed my mind "but then" wanted to go out. I had to say “no” again for the second time in 24 hours.

That’s as much as I told you a few years ago, but there’s more to the story.

I think his name was Mark. Or Marc. Or something like that. It was a name that several people I know have. Six months later, even though I thought I had deleted his number, and had switched phones and phone companies, his number popped up when I tried to call one of the other dudes with his name. He immediately knew it was me, but it took me awhile to figure out that I had not actually reached my mortgage broker’s voicemail, as I had intended. Mark texted me right after the call, of course, and after I figured out who he was, he asked me out again. Poor guy. I mean, it was totally my fault, and I could see how it would be confusing, and probably felt like fate, but I wondered how many times I was going to have to turn him down. Because, about six months after that, we were both on a free dating website and he asked me out a fourth time. Again I had to say, “no thanks.”

At the time his status was something like, “single, never been married.” The other day, on a different website, something like six years after I went out with him, he showed up as, “divorced.” With a kid. 

This is no surprise. Because, my life is a movie and this is an excellent fluffy arc to add humor to the bigger story, whatever that ends up being. If they actually film it, I think someone like Danny DeVito should play his part. But, it’s official: I’ve dated all of the men in Denver and now I’m starting back at the beginning and cycling back through. I just hope I don’t end up going out with The Spitter again. Because, gross.

Thursday, August 24, 2017

Eight Years

Eight. Years.

It feels like yesterday. And also like a different lifetime.

I still remember the way the light looked on the morning that I kissed him goodbye, not knowing it was our last kiss. The sun had that beautiful butterscotch hue to it as it flooded the kitchen of our little condo, the rich color that only August sun has. I had on a too-big green give-away t-shirt and still had my TMJ mouth guard in. He scolded me for being out of bed early on my day off, but I wanted to make him coffee before he left for school. It was so--ordinary.

I would be widowed by the time that lovely sun set.


I find myself reflecting on the last eight years. What lessons have these years taught me? Among other things, this:

I learned how to grieve. Well, I know I’m still learning, but I learned early on that grief is a relentless teacher that never really takes a break, only changes, but can apparate back to it’s original form and back again in the same moment. I learned to give myself grace about timelines and linear “progress” and anything else that felt like expectation. I learned to give grace to others; too, even if they had expectations for my grieving that I could not meet.  Some of the support I got was tremendous (saints, I tell you!). But, it’s also amazing to me how few of the people in my current “inner circle” even knew me eight years ago. It’s hard for me sometimes that they never even knew Sawan, this man that changed me so fully and completely by his presence and then by his absence.

I learned that there are no guarantees. I was not promised a husband that would live until we were old. I was not promised children. I was not promised an easy life. (I was also not promised other marriage benefits-- like orgasms, or someone to do the “dude” things like changing the furnace filters and taking out the trash and opening all the jars.) I was only promised sufficient grace. You know, just enough grace to get by. Over the years I recognized that so much of the time I enjoy not merely sufficient grace, but rather an extravagance of grace.

I learned that life isn’t going to look like I thought it would. It isn’t even going to look like I thought it would once I realized I had to re-think life. I’m still learning to get over that and just live. I’m learning to live like this is my one wild and precious life, and I won’t squander it by merely surviving.


And where was I before the day
That I first saw your lovely face?
Now I see it every day.
And I know that I am the luckiest.
-Ben Folds from The Luckiest (which was “our song”)

It was pretty great while the luck held, Baby. I miss you every day.

Saturday, July 30, 2016


Today, in my “memories” on Facebook, where it shows all of the posts you’ve ever had on this same date, from previous years, I had a status from 2009, less than a month before my husband died.  “I get ready for work so much faster when there’s no one around to pester.  It’s kinda lonesome, though.”  Sawan was out of town, fishing with my Dad, I think.  He was not a morning person, and hated it when I woke him up as I was getting ready for work.  So I of course woke him.  Every day.  If I had only known.  Less than a month later I’d be forever lonesome in my morning ritual.

It’s that time of year again.  I used to love summer, and now I merely survive it, especially the brutal 7 or 8 weeks between our wedding anniversary, July 1st, and the anniversary of the day he died, August 24th.  His birthday is thrown in there on August 2nd, just to really make it hard.  It’s been almost seven years since my husband died but as the days get closer to the same length as that hateful day, my body remembers, and even though so much time has passed, it’s still hard.

I walked through Costco tonight.  The Halloween costumes were out.  It’s been a long time since an image like that has made me cry, but suddenly my eyes just leaked.  Will I ever get to have a little person to put in one of those?  It’s looking more and more like the answer is “no.”  On days like today I grieve for the loss of the life that I thought I was going to have.

Most days I’m ok.  Most days I remember that I’ve found my new normal.  I even have found a way to enjoy myself again.  I laugh a lot.  I don’t feel sad every single day.  Not even in this gross 8 weeks. 

But today, I’m just not that ok.  I long for the days when I thought that one morning without him was too hard, and when I still believed that it was my destiny to have a small, costume-clad person holding my hand.

Monday, March 21, 2016

The Bod

I’ve been crazy busy living life, but when I told a client in my chair this story the other day, she said, “You should write a blog.”  I told her, I do write a blog (you know, in the loose sense of the word, I should have said I sometimes write a blog).

Right before Christmas, I met a man.  What makes this remarkable is that I had just made a statement, the day before, that I was done for awhile.  Benched.  I felt a bit creeped out by men in general and needed a break.

And then I met this guy.  I was at an event at church, one of the happy hours for the 30’s group.  I was actually there to avoid being home because of a (before mentioned) creepy man situation (but that’s another story for another time), even though I was benched.  Anyway, we ended up having a 30 to 45 minute conversation, which is rare in that setting, and had a ton of things in common.  He was handsome (my friends came to call him The Bod), was soft spoken, and super kind.  Because of the fact that I was “done,” I was just totally being my authentic, unfettered self.  I wasn’t trying to impress him.  It came up that I was a widow (because I was benched, my guard wasn’t up), and in a totally non-weird way, he asked about the story and I told it.  He was compassionate.  At the end of the conversation he told me to find him on Facebook, and mutual friends overheard that, and had been observing our long talk, and got excited.  This meeting had potential.

I found him on Facebook, and we exchanged messages over Christmas, but nothing substantial. 

After New Years, a friend of mine had a birthday and a big group of my friends, including the Bod, went out to celebrate.  We had a lot to drink, closed the bar down, went to get food afterward, and then he kissed me in my car.  I was shocked.  Other women had been throwing themselves at him all night.  I had actually been having an internal dialogue with myself all night:  Don’t fall for this guy, Noel.  Church guys are weird.  They can be such pussies.  He’ll never make a move.  You don’t want to be part of the harem.  So when he actually did make a move, I was shocked!  In a good way.  My internal dialogue changed to: Oh, it’s on.

And then the next day I saw him and it was like he was giving me the Heisman (as in, the body language that the trophy shows).  We finally had a conversation a week later, where I totally gave him an out:  We had been drinking a lot.  We don’t really know each other.  Blah Blah Blah.  But, he assured me that he had felt a connection, that he had meant to kiss me, but that he wanted to take things slow, base a relationship on friendship.  He wanted to get to know me.  Internal dialogue: Well, I don’t typically do slow, but that hasn’t been working for me lately.  Sure.  I could try slow.

After a couple of weeks of more awkwardness, with just enough hint of connection to keep me guessing, I sent an email.  I kindly told him that he’s not the type that I normally date, so if this is slow, I can be patient, but if he’s not interested, well, basically, could he help a sister out and just let me know?  He responded saying that he wanted to talk about it in person, and could we get together the following week because he was out of town?  “Sure,” I said.

But then he didn’t follow up, either via email or in person when I ran into him twice that week.  So, I felt mildly disappointed, both in the fact that he clearly wasn’t interested and also in the fact that he was, after all that, exactly what I had been warning myself against the whole night before we kissed.  But, whatever.

The problem is, we’re part of the same friend group.  So, a couple of weeks later, after seeing him a few times and not talking to him, he asked me if we could grab coffee or a drink.  Internal Dialogue: Do we seriously need to get together now, a month after I emailed you, for you to tell me you’re not interested? I think I got it, buddy.  But, I agreed.  Why not?  I’m pretty sure that I can’t remember what I ever saw in him, but, I’m pretty good at giving lots of chances.  Plus, because we run in the same gang, I’d like for him to be able to make eye contact with me.

My friends all told me not to worry anyway.  “What kind of asshole wants to get together after you’ve clearly moved on to tell you that he’s not interested?”

Oh, my friends, the Bod is that kind of asshole. We met for coffee, and I waited an hour for him to beat around the bush, to hint at the idea that he’s not interested.  I had to say, “Um, could we just circle back to the fact that you aren’t going to date anyone at the church that we go to, ‘cuz I feel like that was for me.”  After him stuttering through an explanation, and finally being somewhat direct, I told him he owed me an aplogy.  “You wanted to sit down and talk about this now?  It’s been two months since you kissed me.  You think it’s okay to just string someone along like that?”  He stuttered another explanation, no apology, and told me that he was “spooked” by my direct communication style.  And by the fact that I’m a widow.   

Mmokay then.  I’m actually proud of the fact that I’m a direct communicator.  And the widow thing?  That I can’t change.  I didn’t kill my husband.  It’s completely unfair.  It’s not my fault.  Really, in the whole above scenario, I can’t really think where I went wrong.

But now, even a couple of weeks later, I’m still furious.  Before we sat down, I had felt a bit of rejection, but it was no big deal. I had already moved on.  And then he dropped the widow thing on me.  I’m not someone who struggles with confidence.  Ever.  To a degree that it is probably actually not healthy, it probably borders on arrogance.  But, sheesh.  Every date that I’ve been on since my husband died, this is an issue, (well, except for that minute that I was dating the guy that I’ve known my whole life).  Internal Dialogue: No one will want you.  Ever.

And that just sucks.

I'm trying to tell myself that it's not true.

And, I keep reminding myself that I don’t even know this man.  That my first impressions were that he was just so kind.  That’s not the picture of him that he ended up showing me, but I believe that he has to be bigger than the small (asshole) piece of him that he showed me. 

But still.  F#ck him.

Thursday, February 4, 2016


A couple of weeks ago, Ellie (my sister) found these photos from Christmas 2008 and showed them to me.  I had never seen them before. 
Sawan and Arthur

Sawan and I with our Christmas cracker hats on

Ellie says she was trying out her new iphone and took this picture before he left for work.  It was his contact photo in her phone. 
After looking through them that night, I had a dream about Sawan, which has seriously only happened about four times (isn’t that strange?).  It was just a normal day, we were back in our old condo and he was making me dinner, which is pretty much how life always was.  His back was to me almost the whole time, and in random dream world he was making a salad but then he was trying to put it all on a pita, not in a “hey this will make a great wrap” sort of way, but just in a “this makes absolutely no sense because it’s in random dream world” way.  He put raw onions on it, which he realized too late and was annoyed about because then he knew I wouldn’t want to eat it (I hate raw onions).  And then I woke up.  I never touched him, didn’t get to tell him I loved him, how much I miss him.  It was truly disappointing.  Especially for it only being the fourth time in six years that I have had a late night rendezvous with my dead husband.

There was also this one.  Because, you know, safety first.