White privilege

Yep, it’s everywhere, including health care.

I’ve been tapping away at my book again, and I had to take a hard stop. I was suddenly aware that my experience drips of white privilege. Or maybe just privilege because too many white people don’t have (good or any) health insurance either. So I have to take a new tack.

It’s easy for me to talk about accessing alternative treatments like acupuncture, Chinese herb therapy, physical therapy, lymphatic drainage and psychotherapy because I could afford them. I have laid out complete tirades on this blog before about how I paid $17,000 for out of pocket for treatments that made a huge difference in my ultimate outcome. Outrageous! But you know what? I did it. I paid it. Every last cent. We didn’t go into debt over it. We still had food. We still paid the mortgage. Hell, we even still took trips and ate at fancy restaurants. No one went without shoes or Netflix (the horror!).

It was just inconvenient for us. I would rather have put that $17,000 toward upcoming college expenses, but it was diverted. Because it was there to divert.

But what about people who work their butts off, have (inadequate) insurance but struggle to meet all the bills? What are they supposed to do? What about people who work and have NO insurance, what the hell are they supposed to do when cancer strikes??

This isn’t the first time I’ve thought about this. I thought about it A LOT when I was undergoing treatment. I heard plenty of stories about women who had to continue working while getting treatment, and my heart just broke. I continued to remind myself to be grateful for what I had.

My treatments were so powerful that they left me utterly spent. Who wants to talk about the truth of cancer treatment? No thanks, it’s much prettier and socially acceptable to wave pink ribbons and talk about how to “rock” short hair. But the truth is that cancer treatment left me drained, in every way that a person can be.

I had diarrhea so bad that I lost 20 pounds (and I’m thin to start with). My doctors had a very close eye on my weight and my diet was very strictly regimented so as not to upset my precariously balanced digestive system that could easily be tipped in favor of the dreaded fiber and start the cycle of diarrhea all over.

I couldn’t leave my bedroom/bathroom for about ten days after a chemo infusion. During that time, my family brought me food. But the extreme nausea kept me from eating most of it. I’d try. And sometimes it agreed. I could get it down. But it tasted like nothing (at best) or, more typically, like someone poured disinfectant in it.

After about ten days of that, my body was rid of the excess of chemo drugs. By then, I had broken out in burning, irritated red skin eruptions, my muscles and bones ached yet a little more, I slept a few hours here and there thanks to legal marijuana, I had a literal hard knot where my pancreas lay, I wore a path to the toilet, my hands and feet got a bit more numb and tingly, and my heart pounded in my chest from simply rolling over.

One cold dreary day in February, a good friend of mine, in a thoughtful and caring attempt at comforting me, said, “Just pull on a cozy comforter, stay warm and sleep.” It made me cry. Not because it was so thoughtful, but because it was so impossible. If I could’ve pulled up a blanket and slept my way through chemo, I would’ve done it in a chemo-paced heartbeat. But sleep was out of reach due to the high doses of steroids (stimulants). And my stomach burned with acid. And my intestines gurgled with the lurking possibility of an eighth diarrhea episode. And my hot flashes made me kick off the covers every few minutes while dripping with sweat only to be so cold the next minute that I was shivering.

But, after these 10 days, I was ready … to come downstairs.

For the next 11 days till my next treatment, I ate white fish, white rice and a few (about six slices of) vegetables for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Those delicious meals that people sent? Thank god for them! But they weren’t for me. They were for my family. I was typically the meal planner, shopper and cook — yet more duties taken on by my husband and sister. I would sit outside on my deck for a few minutes but the sun was intense and rose my heart rate quickly. It felt like I was running up a hill but I was just sitting on a chair in the sun. It was a strain.

I tell you this not for sympathy. Nor to scare you. I tell you this because I was one of the lucky ones. And I know it. I didn’t have to go to work during this. My sister was able to work a flexible schedule so that she could fly to Denver and help. I honestly don’t remember how many times she came out. It was a lot. And, my husband had a job where he worked from home, and so he was able to care for me and our kids. He worked a great job, in fact. He earned a high salary, he had flexible hours and he had a kick-ass employer sponsored health care plan. It was so good that even my healthcare workers would remark that they never see them that good.

It was so good that I find myself now grateful to have been under that plan at the time and not our current one. We still have employer sponsored health care, but it’s with a small, privately owned company that’s German. And the Germans? Well, they don’t need employer sponsored healthcare because the government picks up the tab. (See the next segment for a side-by-side comparison.) With only about 10 American employees whose families who need coverage, there’s considerably less buying power.

During that time, I can’t imagine having had to get up and go to work. Cook meals for my kids. Drive. And most of all, worry about how we would afford all of the treatment and still keep our house. Our cars. Food.

It’s a crazy, messed up system!

You know why Donald Trump doesn’t care about how to fix healthcare? Because he doesn’t have to, and he’s just selfish enough to not care about the rest of us. He’s the worst kind of person. The privileged kind who thinks he’s not and just doesn’t care enough to understand that he didn’t get where he is by hard work alone. I understand, loan from his dad turned real estate mogul and Harvard and blah, blah, blah. Well, we might as well wipe our asses on that diploma for all the good that premium education has done for this country!

My husband and I didn’t grow up rich. I am the youngest of nine kids. I come from a small town in Ohio that thrived on the pottery and steel industries. My dad was a steel worker for 32 years. When I was about 12, the mill shut down and that was that. Fast forward 34 years and you can find our little river town on the front page of the news with heroin addicts passed out in the front seat. I know what happened in the rust belt. I grew up there. I always had a house, clothes, food and healthcare. But I knew many who didn’t. I went to college at a state school on Pell grants and loans. But I went. And in a few days, I’m going back for a second degree. I was raised with an appreciation of education and health. My mom taught me how to cook real food. And my dad loves to read. I had advantages. I get it.

My husband came from a family of two kids, raised mostly by his single mom with help from his grandma who lived next door. His mom was a nurse who worked shifts. So, grandma was a godsend who opened her heart and home to help out however she could. Michael’s mom was educated and worked hard to get out of shift work and become a VP. And still, she sewed clothes, polished old shoes and budgeted carefully. When it came time for college, my husband took it upon himself to sign up for military service so that he could qualify for GI Bill benefits after serving his time. Michael didn’t end up in the military, though, because his grandmother wasn’t having it. She marched down to the recruitment office and gave the officer a good “Whatfor” and voila! Michael wasn’t going to the military. (That poor recruitment officer didn’t know what hit him). He went on to college and is now gainfully employed. He had help too.

My point is this, while we had less than some and more than most, we know what it’s like to be dangerously close to going without. We have grown up appreciating what was given to us. And I’m still grateful for all the care that allowed me to heal.


enough of this “there but for the grace of God go I” bullshit!

It’s not the grace of God that provides healthcare. And good jobs. And a sustainable supply of affordable and nourishing fresh food. It’s the government. It’s the ability of people (no matter their skin color) to get a small business loan. It’s the farmer who can make a living growing ethically raised chickens and not be forced into factory farming because he can’t afford the open space for fewer chickens.

I am not trying to get into a religious battle here. I’m simply saying that it’s not always the will of God that makes things like they are. Sometimes it’s corrupt governments, racism and greed.

We are all equal in the eyes of God, right? It’s only our own creation of a class system that has screwed things up so royally.

If we all stopped fighting each other, then we could focus on the important things like affordable healthcare, climate change, clean water, healthy food.

Hell, even Jon Snow, who knows nothing, knows enough to convince Queen Danaerys and Queen Cersei to drop the fight for the throne long enough to unite to fight the force that will kill them all — the Army of the Dead. We could learn a thing or two from Game of Thrones, here, friends.

Simply put, human rights are not in limited supply. If one groups gets equal rights, it doesn’t mean less for the other groups. Humans are a greedy bunch, though. I had a friend tell me that he voted for Donald Trump because he feels that white men are becoming marginalized in our society. I’ve given that statement a lot of thought. And I’ve decided that it’s just not true in the slightest. What’s happening is this: white men are given equal (I could argue still greater than equal) voice to women and people of color for the first time in history instead of the hugely disproportionate weight their voice has previously been given. In the past it’s worked out pretty well for the white man. Women and POC? Well, that’s another story.

Germany wins at more than soccer and beer

Earlier this summer, my family and I spent time in Germany. One of my family members developed an eyelid problem. It was one of those funky things that even in our own country we would’ve looked at each other and asked, “where do we go for this? The eyeLID doctor?” It wasn’t a vision thing, but when you mention eyes, everyone says “You need an eye doctor.”

So we started trying to figure it out in all the usual ways: Front desk recommendation from the hotel, internet, map and as a last resort (eye roll) … calling the infernal insurance company. In the end, we went to Universität Klinikum. It’s equivalent to our university hospitals but has walk-in clinics.

First we went to the emergency department. There, the Canadian triage nurse spoke enough good English that my feeble attempt at German was quickly met with “Oh, that’s not an emergency. You need to go to Building 101B. That’s the eye clinic.”

Skeptical as we were to be turned away, she was right. We walked in to the eye clinic, muddled our way through a German/English intake and an eye exam. Two doctors later, it was diagnosed as an allergy and we were given a prescription to fill at the Apotheke (pharmacy) around the corner.

Upon checkout, we were told that we’d have to pay upfront and ask our American insurance for reimbursement. We held our breath for the bill. It was 71 euros, which is about 84 bucks. What a relief! But the really refreshing part was that the bill had each service that that clinic offers itemized with a correlating pre-printed price. A fixed price. For everyone. Regardless of whether you’re American, insured, or not. They didn’t have a price based on your “negotiated” or “contracted” amount. It just was what it was. Consultation = 11,95, Refraction = 14,25, Microscopy = 15,65 and so on.

Then once at the Apotheke, the pharmacist stood at the register, punched in the number of the medicine and it was dispensed through a vaccuum tube. She talked to us about frequency and duration and known allergens, etc. And then she said it would be 17 euros or about 20 bucks.

We marveled at the ease and affordability. We marveled at the care and concern. We marveled at the competence. We marveled at the expedience and efficiency.

And now, an American experience.

After returning from Germany, my kids got a skin rash and felt sick. We were thinking chicken pox but wanted to be safe, so off to the doctor they each went. Zach in NC, Aspen in Denver, CO.

Zach’s appointment was uneventful. I paid the $35 co pay at his Pediatrician and got the prescription filled for $12 and that was it.

Aspen however, doesn’t have a regular doctor in CO. At the time we were moving, our doctor was closing up shop. And in that year, she hasn’t needed a doctor. Being young and healthy, it wasn’t top on our priority list.

So she needed a doctor. After looking for two days, it became apparent that one cannot quickly “get a doctor.” It would be weeks, if not months. So I told her to bite the bullet and go to Urgent Care. We’d pay the higher co pay ($100).

She asked me which is best and we agreed on the one we knew and off she went.

A little while later, she texted me that the co pay was $500! I was incredulous. She further explained that the place we decided on was an ER, not an Urgent Care. And our (aforementioned) insurance plan has a $500 co pay for an ER.

I asked her when they told her that the co pay was $500. She said that they told her once she was already being seen and in the exam room while the doctor stepped out to write an Rx.

So I called and asked the intake person why she didn’t explain to her that they’re not an Urgent Care and send her away? And her response to me was “I was very clear to say, ‘What brings you to the ER today?'”

I was so mad, I saw stars. So I did what I always do when idiocy runs rampant: I got snarky. I told her that I was certain that she did whatever she needed to legally do to cover her own ass, but that a decent person would inform a 19 year old that she’s in the wrong place. (We’d been there before for minor stuff. I don’t know if it changed or we just had better insurance at the time.)

The intake person further explained that she assumes that all patients understand the ins and outs of their insurance, and it’s not her job to make sure that they do. She added that perhaps my daughter could benefit from my teaching her the difference between an ER and an Urgent Care.

God forgive me for what I thought next.

So now, we are stuck with a $500 co pay AND whatever bill they throw our way for “medical care.” BTW, Aspen ended up telling the doctor what Zach’s doctor diagnosed and he just wrote that down and then proceeded to ask her what medication he was given for it. She texted me (mid-appointment) to ask for the medication name so that her doctor could write the prescription.

If you read this and think that you’re smarter than this and it wouldn’t happen to you, maybe you’re right. Maybe this scenario won’t. But something will. Our system isn’t geared toward ease and affordability. Or toward care and concern. Or toward competence, expedience or efficiency. Our healthcare system is designed to do one thing: appear to be providing healthcare while making insurance companies richer and richer.

The sad thing is, that lady at the front desk? She doesn’t even realize that she’s being used in their scheme.

Who’s so smart now?






Today, I’m shredding!

I wish that I meant this in a cool way. Any of the cool ways, really — guitar playing, snowboarding, skateboarding, or even in the gym. But right now I mean it — conspicuously — literally.


Last year, before we moved in June, Michael and I sorted through our paperwork and realized that we had gobs. Mounds. Tons. Way too much. So we (mostly he, but I did a little) used his document shredder to create 7 or 8 lawn-n-leaf sized bags of shredded papers. And then we moved.

Once we were here, we discovered plenty more that could’ve/should’ve been disposed of. So we did what all responsible adults do. We sorted it out, stacked it up neatly and carefully moved the piles into my office closet and shut the door. Done!

Every time I looked in that closet, the pile stared at me. I just couldn’t bring myself to the task of shredding again so soon. So, I did the right thing and stopped looking in the closet!

Fast forward to this week.

On Sunday, I decided that with my University classes starting soon, I wanted to rearrange my office by bringing in a different desk with more space to study. So Michael did the heavy lifting and then left me to finish the job. What started as a desk swap quickly became The Purge.

For the first time since moving in, I was taking a hard look at my office. It had become a dumping grounds. Gift wrapping, boxes and bags, paperwork, baskets, bins, the list goes on. This kind of clutter bugs me. Deeply. So much so that I rarely use my office. But if I hate it so much, why do I do it? Why do I hold on to things? I’ll get to that.

First, I started to clean up this overcrowded excuse for work space. I began with the desk drawers, which led to bookshelves, then to the filing cabinet and ultimately … the dreaded closet.

Last summer on vacation I read Marie Kondo’s book “The Life Changing Magic of Tidying Up,” and it was life changing, in some ways. I came home from that vacation and pared down and tried to follow the “rule:” keep it only if it brings joy when you touch it. But it wasn’t that simple.

I have a sneaking suspicion that Marie is single. And without kids. And lives in a flat in Tokyo without a basement or garage. Because this rule is, in a word, impractical.

Also impractical is her advice to daily unpack your purse, briefcase, backpack or whatever personal items you carry about to work, school, the gym, etc. Literally daily. She believes that items that stay in use break down too quickly. So, daily, she recommends that you come home and take the contents of your purse out of the purse and store them (and the purse) in a designated drawer. Then repack your purse the next morning.

Marie simply has too much time on her hands.

You see, my screwdriver set does not bring me joy. And as far as my purse goes, it has a hook. There. Handled. I’ve got bigger fish to fry.

This book did help me get rid of some material clutter, but it was more helpful in allowing me to get rid of mental clutter. It led me to a year of introspection. And I’ve made some observations.

I’ve been stuck in this “just in case” mindset.

And it has served me well. For decades, had there been a basket emergency, I would’ve been a real hero. I’d fly to the scene with a wide variety of sizes and colors to offer. Some could hang on the wall. Some could be stacked. No matter the job, I’d be there to save the day!

It really is about that silly.

It turns out that I feel like “stuff” makes me resourceful. After all, it’s useful stuff. But, alas, a stack of baskets in the corner is useful only to spiders and dust.

What I’m realizing is that I am enough without my material backup. I am resourceful on my own. I am creative. I have good ideas. I am capable.

So my car is now full of a giant load to, well, unload.

I read a guideline once that says: if there is an item that can be replaced in less than 20 minutes and for less than $20, pitch it. And that sort of works, particularly in the baskets and bins arena. But there’s one place that it markedly does not work: my kids’ memorabilia, and my reason for holding on to it is altogether different.

I did a first round purge last year before moving. I went from five large 20-gallon bins down to two — one for each kid. But I need to do more.

Some might say, what does it hurt? They’re just bins in the basement. The answer is that the bins aren’t hurting a thing. But what they represent is: living in the past.

No amount of adorable drawings will make my Zachy 5 again. And no number of soccer group photos will bring back the days when Aspen wanted to be the next Mia Hamm.

Now, there’s no harm in holding onto a few reminders of what Picassos and Peles they were, but the best reminder of the kind of kids they were is seeing the kind of wonderful people they are today. And the person I am today. And the family we are today.

Letting go is necessary to live in the present. I’ve written about it before. Letting go is hard, but today, I’m shredding it!

On Children

Be like Fernando

I have a book called Guiding Yoga’s Light. I do this thing where I take the book and fan through the pages till I stop on a page that feels right, no peeking allowed. Today, I landed on a page about learning to be peaceful. It couldn’t have come at a better time, and I am certain it was no accident.

Just yesterday, I was ready to pull out my hair in frustration over the things I’ve had to do this week. None of it was particularly difficult, there was just a lot of it. We were on vacation for five weeks and then Zach’s birthday came so it’s been since mid-June that I’ve been regularly attending to matters.

I had a large stack of mail to sort through, tuition to pay, medical bills to address, and more. The majority of tasks went well. But there was this one that made me crazy. I ran into a bunch of “not my department” people on the phone. Over the course of four days, I got passed around, given bad information and generally lost faith in humanity.

But, why?

Why did it bother me so much? I mean, I wasn’t ready to jump off a bridge, but it got my panties in a bunch in serious way.

It’s the lesson I’m continuing to learn: patience. Part of me sometimes thinks that you’re either born with it or you’re doomed to be challenged by it. I’m in the latter group.

So today, I meditated on it. I breathed in “I am peaceful,” and I exhaled “I am calm,” silently, in my mind for 15 minutes. On the Peaceful/Calm Spectrum from Dali Lama to OCD squirrel, my mind is closer to squirrel. But I didn’t judge. I just came back to the breath each and every time my mind wandered — which was a lot in a short 15 minutes. Each time, I breathed in, I thought “I am peaceful” and when I breathed out, I thought “I am calm.” And that will be my mantra for remaining patient when I start to lose my shit.

It’s funny how when big things are happening to me, I’m very able to keep my cool. I can quickly and effectively sort out the important from the banal. Friends, you want me on that island with you.

But when that on-hold music blasts in my ear for the third time, I could break something. And that’s not good.

I have this frog statue in my yoga/meditation space and I love him. I’ve written about him before, when Kerrianne gave him to me. His name is Fernando. He exudes peace. He has no cares or concerns. He has no stuff. He’s just Fernando. And I could learn a lot from him.





Now we’re cooking!

Lots of good news!

Yesterday I took the Language Placement Test at UNC Charlotte. This test assessed my current level of skill in German, and scored me based on a scale of 5 classes. Each course has a point level associated, and that’s how they determine the course I should first take.

I scored into the third level, aka Intermediate German I. That means that as long as I get at least an 80% for the semester, I will receive credit for Elementary German I & II as well.

Upon further scrutiny this morning, I now understand that I scored moderately high for level 3. The range is 343-424 for level 3, and my score is 404. I’m feeling pretty confident and comfortable with this placement. I am sure that some parts will be review and other parts will be new, which puts my mind at ease. I feel like I’ll be learning new things without being in over my head.

The second bit of good news is that I found out this morning that the University has opened two new sections of the classes I need: German Int. I and The Holocaust through German Literature and Film. And they’re offered on Mon/Wed, back to back. Score!

Secondly, the Holocaust class is taught by a native German speaking woman who works with a 95-year-old Auschwitz survivor who will be a guest in class at times during the semester. A first-hand account is something I feel privileged to receive. I’m beside myself.

Classes will start for me on August 21. So I have plenty of time to get my books, parking permit and squeaky new shoes. I gotta say, I am still a school nerd. I showed up for the test half an hour early, brought my German grammar book and studied in the lobby. I made sure to bring all of the info I’d need to log into the test (student ID#, student email and password), and I sat up front. I’d like to think that I can chill and not be so eager, but who am I kidding? Some things never change.

Doctor’s appointment

I had my check up with my oncologist last Friday. Because of my status as having a complete pathological response to chemotherapy (grateful in perpetuity for this), scans are not something I need (grateful in perpetuity for this, as well). I do need to be followed and examined regularly, however.

That all went great.

My doctor is very happy with how I am progressing. She’s even quite surprised by some of my progress. She did hear a minor decrease in breath sounds on my left side so she ordered a chest x-ray which I had done immediately following the appointment.

I got a call from the office this morning saying there is an opacity in my lower left lung which indicates a previous inflammation that is healing. I haven’t had pneumonia or any chest infection (that I’ve been aware of). But it’s there nonetheless. She said it’s not concerning and that she will follow up with another x-ray at my next appointment to make sure that it completely resolves.

Also at this appointment, we discussed changing my appointment frequency from every four months to every six months. All positive signs that things are heading in the right direction.

I feel fantastic. I’m energetic, eating well (understatement of the century) and moving freely. My resting heart rate is normal again, and I can exercise like I want to.

Sweet sixteen

Zach turned 16 on Sunday. It was a fun weekend in Asheville for all of us. Michael did his second Spartan Super on Saturday then we celebrated Zach’s birthday with gifts, dinner out at Haus Heidelberg and followed up by birthday treats. On Sunday, my bestie joined us for hiking, sushi and Ashevill-ing.



Trying to be smarter than a monkey

Today I’m continuing to come off the high of a five-week vacation to Europe, specifically Germany and Austria. I’ve been home for five days and have been basking in the glow of my love of travel. Even after five weeks and hundreds of miles on foot and hundreds more by train and thousands more by air, I looked at my family on the last morning as we were checking out and said with a heavy heart, “Well, let’s leave, I guess.”

I’m easing back in to my normal life and with that comes yoga. I sometimes go to the Tuesday morning class, but it’s not my regular. Today, however, I felt a burning desire to go. So I wore my yoga clothes to my dermatology appointment with the hope of being able to make it to class on time after my annual Mole Patrol. Thanks to my (new) doctor’s quick yet thorough exam (seriously thorough, people), I got to yoga class with time to spare. (The Mole Patrol was all good, btw.)

About 10 seconds into class, I realized that I really, really needed to hear Nan’s message today. And I felt like I was supposed to be there to hear it.

She told a story about capturing monkeys in India. What they do is take a jar with a small mouth that is big enough to fit a monkey’s hand but not much else. In the bottom of the jar is a banana. The monkey slides his hand in, grasps the banana, but he can’t get it out through the small opening. So, he sits there, holding the banana. He holds onto that banana so long that eventually his captors come along and simply collect him, hand in the jar.

The monkey isn’t aware enough to let go of the banana and go in search of any one of the hundreds of other bananas that surround him in the jungle. He’s literally sitting in the midst of abundance, yet he holds on to the single banana that he can’t have.

The lesson? Let go. Don’t get stuck trying to hold on to the one thing you can’t have. Become aware of the abundance that surrounds you.

The lesson applies in countless ways. Surrendering the illusion of control, letting go of a loved one, acquiescing to expectations, and so on.

Nan further demonstrated the idea through the breath. Once you inhale, you must let it go. If you keep trying to inhale, you’ll die. Before that, however, you’ll be ridiculously uncomfortable with bulging eyes and a feeling of bursting fullness, when all you have to do is let it go. And then draw in another breath. The cycle continues. As it does in every area of life, if we allow it.

So I’m breathing, my friends. And trying to be smarter than a monkey. 🙂

Test time!

Now that I’m back, I will resume the writing of my book. I have had plenty of time to compose in my mind and arrange thoughts and ideas. So I’m excited to return to putting this all on “paper.”

First, however, is my Language Placement Test at UNC Charlotte on Monday. I’m going to study this week to hone my skills so that I can hopefully (fingers crossed) place out of the first level. Then school starts the week of August 21 for me!

I have a great workbook called “Complete German Grammar” that I am working through. And I’m trying daily to fill in the blanks of my vocabulary. It’s painfully true that my vocabulary in German can be only as good as my vocabulary in English. And so, when I learn a new word in English, I also look up the German translation. (Thank you Dan Rather for today’s revelation: nadir or Tiefspunkt in German).

Wish me good luck! At the end of the test, my score will be displayed on the screen. So I’ll know right then and there.

Alles Gute!

This weekend, my baby will turn 16! We’re taking a short weekend trip to celebrate his day and to cheer on Michael as he completes his third Spartan Race. This one is 12-15 miles with at least as many obstacles. I imagine that I’ll be studying on the sidelines for many hours while he swings, climbs, hops and runs his way through mud and sweat. Viel Glück, Michael. (Better you than me!)

A few words on Germany and Austria (a la Rocky from Mask)

These things are good: the history, the language, the architecture, the food, the beer (dunkles Bier), the shopping, public transportation, meals on the cobblestone plazas, ubiquitous gelato, chocolate, the friendly people, the flowers, community tables, long and relaxing dinners, lederhosen, cappucinos (always served with a tiny spoon and little nosh), Crobags, the rivers, the mountains, the lakes, the castles, the rainbows, the bike lanes, the towers, the boat rides, getting caught in the rain, the Fassers, the ampel man, the Executive Lounge (thanks, Leland!), realizing that my family is German to the core (no Ancestry DNA needed to prove that!) and the sun shining on my face.

These things are a drag: paying for water (beer is cheaper anyway), paying for public toilets (so carry a spare Euro aka “the good quarter”), no washcloths (I’ll pack my own next time) and the sun shining on my face (same as anywhere, sunscreen, baby!). Also, having no time for a look around.

Here is a sampling of our pictures.







Heidelberg:IMG-20170709-WA0001 (1)




I’m writing a book

Just a few months ago, I started writing a book about my experience with cancer. I am so passionate about it.


Every time I sit down to write, I think of more that I want to write. I look at my blog posts and think, “How could I possibly leave that one out?” I have a swirl of ideas and words in my head constantly. But I feel like I don’t have enough time to sit down and write.

Then once I do, the words come slowly. They’re stiff. They’re not the “blog me” they’re the “book me,” and that just stinks. I want to sound like me. I want new readers to know the person and not just the story. All you folks already know the person behind the experience of cancer treatment. Now I need to find a way to introduce her to the rest of the world. Gulp.

Time for a pep talk:

Dear Book Erika, 



You can do this. 

It’s a book. You CHOSE this. This is fun, right? You’ve done far more difficult things than tap keys and hit save. Do what you do best, girl. Tell it like it is. And let your voice shine through. 

There is no timer on this. You finish the first draft when you finish the first draft. NO ONE else cares when you get it ready. The journey is the destination. 

You got this. 

With much love,

Blog Erika

Thanks for listening, everyone. I just remembered an Italian saying that goes, “Parle come mangia.” It means, “Speak like you eat.” Which is to say, with gusto. And so I will adopt this brief, funny, quirky mantra that perfectly sums up the quintessential Italian way of life that I long to embrace. I’m going to go make it into a sign for my computer screen. Ciao!

Parle come mangia
That oughtta do it!


Dear Erika on the last Tuesday in May of 2015


I come to you from the future to say, the answer to all of your questions is yes. Yes! Yes. Yep.

I know that you just finished six rounds of chemotherapy and are only a couple of weeks past a bilateral mastectomy. I know that you still have to face 6 weeks of radiation after starting the process of reconstruction. I know that you have to get Herceptin infusions every three weeks 14 more times. And I know that more surgery follows next year. Still, I am here to tell you — the answer is YES!!!

You will run comfortably again. Your knees will benefit from the exercise and your hips will appreciate the movement. Your bones will reap the effects of the impact and continue to strengthen and build. Your heart will beat like your own again and your breathing will be slow and strong. When you ask? Tuesday, May 30, 2017. Not someday. Today.

Your body will look like yours again. And feel like yours again. Your hair will fall in soft curls to your shoulders. (Yes, your shoulders! Iiii knowwww!!) And you will have ordered a two-piece bathing suit for your upcoming European vacation. When, you ask? Today.

You will move like you again. Your arms are free. Your chest is open. Your back is strong. Your lats are toned. Your legs are sturdy. Your triceps are independent. Yoga, cycling, hiking, running — whatever you choose will be available to you. Today and every other day.

Your heart will recover from the powerful, risky, necessary medication that is infused into your body every 21 days. It is resilient. Those echocardiograms? Keep getting them as often as Dr. Paul tells you to. Everything turns out fine. Your heart, while its condition is reset to zero, recovers. It no longer pounds like a kick drum when you rise from bed. Your pulse no longer throbs in your throat from walking up a flight of stairs. You’ll hike and run and do chatarunga.

You will be satisfied because you realize that giving a shit isn’t your style. You will run down a long and open lane and feel good. And you’ll thank yourself for heading out on this run. And suddenly you’ll realize that everything feels good — your knees, your femurs, your hips, your heart, your lungs and the sweat pouring off your forehead onto your eyelashes (yes, eyelashes!). And you’ll find yourself grinning. And when you do, you’ll chuckle out loud because you’re just so damn glad that you can do this. And you don’t care who sees you.

You are in this place, living your dharma because you’re grateful, and therefore you’re happy. You’re happy for all that has happened. And (wait for it …) for all that hasn’t happened. (mind=blown)

You’re grateful that you now realize that “this too shall pass” is not just a saying. It’s the truest thing you know for sure. And because of the impermanence of all things, you appreciate life that much more!

You’re content because you know that only after the lowest of lows can you experience the highest of highs. And guess what? YOU get to decide what gets makes you feel high! It’s fantastic. Learn German? Sure. Take a five-week trip to Germany? Don’t mind if I do. Get a degree in German? Ok, I’ll start in August. Continue on a path of spiritual evolution that awakens your soul and invigorates your being? I thought you’d never ask.

You’re confident in your own skin. You will be running 12-minute miles. And those feel sweet. You won’t feel like you must make excuses for why you’re not “performing” better. Pfft! Screw performance. Running gives you what you need gooooood.

You will forgive the people who have disappointed you in this process. You’ll realize that they’re only human and they weren’t meant to accompany you on this path. They have their own path which isn’t meant for you either. You’ll be glad about that and in some cases, downright tickled.

This is all true because you endured. The task of recovery is daunting but, you stuck with it. You are patient, you are kind, you are supportive, you are tenacious, you are optimistic, you are unrelenting. You have resolve. Your heart is open and your soul is pure. And so you are free.

You will wake up on Tuesday, May 30, 2017 and you will go for a run like it’s no big whoop. Just lace up your shoes and head out for a few miles because you’ve been getting ready for this day and it’s finally here!

Namaste. Om shanti, shanti, shanti.


My proudest physical achievement

A little flushed from running and still donning my sweat-rimmed t-shirt, but I’m as happy as a clam. 

Yep. That’s it! My arm bent at a 90-degree angle. Flat on the floor. Fully able to “goal post” both arms.

Previous to a bilateral mastectomy and radiation treatment, I struck this pose without a moment’s hesitation. I’m sure that you do too. It’s simple, right? Yes, but simple doesn’t necessarily mean easy. Think of wall squats. Place your back against the wall squat down to a 90-degree sitting position and hold. Pretty simple. Until you hold. And hold. And hold. And hold. And hold… Still simple, but it’s not so easy anymore, is it? 🙂

Same here. I didn’t realize that I was unable to maneuver in this way until I went back to yoga after my treatment. Honestly, how often do we lie in this position on a regular basis? Probably not too often. In class, we were cued to lie flat on our mats and goal post our arms. My right one went right into place, but my left one remained halfway between the mat and the sky as I curiously analyzed this new found anomaly.

I quickly realized that my pectoral muscles were tight and restricting the movement. But it took me several months to realize the role that my scapula, back muscles and shoulder played as well. I was determined to regain this mobility and flexibility.

And this week, I got there.

I’m happy to be here for the obvious reason: Increased range of motion allows me freedom of movement. But I’m proud of myself for having the patience to get there. It was slow. It was tempting to force it.  But it was necessary to be patient and listen.

This wasn’t a question of fortitude. I’ve got plenty of that, but it’s usually fueled by a desire to achieve. This time, it was fueled by a desire to give a gift to my body — the gift of freedom. Freedom from pain, from restriction, from adapted movement. I refrain from thinking of or referring to my arms as my “good arm” and my “bad arm.” That’s dangerous territory.

More than a year later, my shoulder blades both glide smoothly up and down and back and forth. And my neck stretches comfortably in both directions. And my pectoral muscles flex and stretch. And I can rotate my shoulders in full, smooth circles without pinching. I didn’t push myself beyond what my body was capable of. I didn’t “power through.” There is no such thing. I diligently and consistently exercised these muscles and bones centimeter by centimeter, listening to my body on the way. Whenever I got a tingle in my arm, I backed off. Pinching nerves is serious business. Whenever I started getting a heavy feeling, I stopped. Lymphedema is no joke.

And because I worked with my body and didn’t force it, my arm is able to lie flat on the floor at a 90-degree angle. And wave hi!