Hatching Hatch

Greetings, friends!

Quick housekeeping note - by popular demand, you can now receive blog updates via email! Simply enter your email in the white box on the right side of the screen that says "Follow By Email" and voila, the blog posts will magically appear in your inbox.

It's magic, really! Right up there with unicorns and wizards.

Anyway, onto more important things - hatching.

Two Mays ago I ran my first half-marathon. My body was literally falling apart, but I didn't know or understand it yet. Somehow, by the power of my pride on the line and the knowledge that my mother was holding her breath for the entire 13.1 miles, I crossed the finish line.

Don't get me wrong, I was thrilled to have finished and my medal is still proudly hanging in my home. However, I really beat myself up mentally about how I did. At the time I had absolutely no concept of the chaos within and couldn't understand why it had been such a struggle (now I look back and haven't the foggiest clue how I finished at all). I immediately started plotting for my next race and thought about what I could change to perform better (read: make it look a little bit less like I was dying whilst running). I started looking at races right about the time that my body really and truly broke down and I was swept off into a whirlwind of hospitals, tests, traveling, learning and growing that has yet to stop.

Exactly a year later, I received an official letter congratulating me for qualifying for long-term disability. It rocked me to the core and took me several days and a lot of self reflection to accept the fact that a body could go from running 13.1 miles to being declared as legally disabled in a matter of 365 days. As a way of coping, I shared that I was going to set a new milestone in May of 2013. I didn't know what I would do - I thought I would walk a 5K or start painting again or write a big, special blog post.

Instead, I started a business.

Friends, I'd like to formally introduce you to the new love of my life: Hatch Health and Happiness!

My business is up and running - I already work with clients all over the United States and have a real-deal fancy business card to prove it!

The name Hatch was originally an acronym - Help Adapting To Changing Health- but it has morphed into the concept that we are never really starting from scratch. When you are diagnosed with an allergy or disease, discover a food sensitivity, become frustrated with your endless weight loss battle or throw your hands up and surrender to stress, it can feel like you have to completely start again to feel better. Change is scary, and even more so when you do it alone. I help my clients learn to hatch from within and make lifestyle and dietary changes to reclaim their health and happiness.

I've been in that dark and terrifying bottom of the barrel. It wasn't fun. Couldn't find a darn unicorn anywhere.

So I made a choice to make a change.

I chose to re-focus my life's purpose.
I chose to pay my journey forward.
I chose to go back to school and become a health coach.

And now, with first-day-of-school-jitters, I'm ready to share it all with you.

So, friends.

Deep breath

Without further ado, allow me to formally introduce you to my business:

www.hatchhealthhappiness.com

Hurry up and Wait

Hurry up and wait.

Anyone who has ever spent any time in a hospital, or really any medical setting at all, understands the concept of hurry up and wait.

You wait for appointments. And tests. And results. And then for the appointment with a new specialty area that occurs because of the results from the test that was ordered by the doctor for whom you waited months for an appointment in the first place.

Hurry, skedaddle, rush.
Wait.
Wait.
Wait.

In the medical world, you also wait for answers.

I'm still waiting.

Earlier this week I had a bilateral bone marrow biopsy. A procedure which involved 9 IV holes in my arms, 1 hole in my finger and 2 giant holes in my hip bones. Then I had an endoscopy, which involved 3 chunks removed from my esophagus and, frankly, a pretty sweet anesthesia induced nap.

In short, I look a bit like a road full of potholes.

Potholes which showed absolutely nothing.

I feel a bit like my disappointment can't be warranted. After all, I knew there was a high probability for negative test results.

But warranted or not, I was still hoping. Not even for a diagnosis, but at least for a clue. Something to lead me in the right direction. To reopen my proverbial case and reorient my compass.

Zilch.

Where's Dr. House when you need him?
[I'd be ok with waking up from anesthesia to Hugh Laurie. Just saying.]

So now I'm back to waiting. I'll wait the necessary off-medicine 10 weeks before I have my blood drawn again to see if it will show anything fabulous and exciting. And I'll go through the grand dog and pony show of acquiring dry ice again for said blood extraction. And then, just for a change of pace, I'll wait.

It's funny how the moments you want to get here seem to take waiting to a new level, and the moments you want nothing to do with seem to appear out of thin air.

This morning I woke up and realized it was May 16th. Two days past May 14th.

Um, just how much anesthesia did they give her this week??

May 14th, 2013 seemed like a day that was SO far away when it was first mentioned to me as a deadline. It was a deadline that I never thought I would need to know, because never in my wildest dreams did I think it would apply to me.

May 14th, 2013 is the day that I lost my position at my beloved elementary school.

When I first transitioned into long term disability, I never thought I would stay on it through the deadline. It was supposed to be temporary, just a time to rest and heal. I never thought that I wouldn't return to my home and school family of 7 years. It never even crossed my mind.

I never thought there would be a day when someone would ask me what I do and I would have to pause...because I'm not entirely sure of the answer.

I have to believe that my body is guiding me on a journey that will ultimately lead to new discoveries - both for myself and others in my field of medical mysteries. I have to believe that my decision to go back to school and pursue the field of holistic health was my opportunity to make a change in the midst of chaos and use my experience to help others follow their own path.

As tough as these past few weeks have been, both physically and mentally, I have to believe that this journey is leading me somewhere, as long as I have the patience and perseverance enough to follow.

So I'm going to hurry up and help my body heal the potholes.
I'm going to pack up my bags and head home to hug my husband, my bed and my juicer.
And then with open ears and a battle-worn heart, I will wait.

Consistency

Ya know friends, if nothing else, at least I'm consistent.

I fly to Minnesota for a few appointments, and end up with several. 

I book a return flight, and I move it. Sometimes two times. Or five.

This trip has proven to be no different.

I arrived in Minnesota on Tuesday and technically speaking, should have flown home yesterday.

Shocker, I'm still here.

(I know, I know...didn't see that one coming, did you??)

After a three hour appointment with my immunologist on Wednesday, it has now been officially stated that Mayo has never seen anyone quite like me, they have no idea of a cause and my diagnosis is now recorded as a "complex and obscure multi-system illness."

Personally I think "hot mess" has a better ring to it, but what do I know?

As my doctor stated, "we are in unchartered waters."

I think he expected me to be shocked by this. 

Instead, I laughed.

Let's be honest - I have known I've been in unchartered waters for quite awhile, I just needed everyone else to get on board.

The medical nerd part of me is more than a little fascinated by the fact that I may be in possession of a disease or viral response that has yet to be discovered.

The practical side, on the other hand, is a wee bit unsettled. Details.

It should, however, be noted that I am extraordinarily lucky to have the most brilliant doctor ever to roam the earth. I can practically feel my IQ rising every time I meet with him. 

And most importantly when I asked him if he would vote for me for mayor of Rochester, he promised to give me serious consideration.

Smart man. Clearly.

At this point, we are at a bit of a crossroads. I have clearly defined and increasing symptoms in several systems of my body. I have exhausted countless pharmacological and holistic treatment options. I could write a Fodor's guide to medical testing. And I'm in unchartered waters.

Good thing I like to swim. 

I'll start next week with a bone marrow biopsy in not one, but both of my hips (ya know, just to really double the fun). Turns out mast cells are finicky little fellows that often flee with great haste at the sight of a giant hollow needle (for the record, can't say that I really blame them?) so the test is done on both sides in order to increase your chances of finding the results you need. And even if I get a negative result after completing the test bilaterally, we still can't completely rule out a mastocytosis diagnosis, because my little mast cell friends are just THAT picky.

So to give us a little bit more information, sometime next week I'll also have another upper GI endoscopy. You would think with the number of neck organs I have lost in the last few years that I would have a recent endoscopy on file, but it has actually been over 2 years since a camera was jammed down my throat purely to examine my esophagus and stomach. Plus it turns out that eosinophils, a type of white blood cell, can sometimes be drawn out when you have too many mast cells, and can cause difficulty swallowing. So there's that.

I was supposed to have some other testing to use as a second option for route of treatment. It was supposed to be a very easy and clear-cut decision on whether or not to proceed with the bone marrow exam and endoscopy or head in an entirely new direction. I completed some simple blood work on Wednesday and when the results came back astoundingly out of the normal range, there was a brief 48 hour period where it looked like after 3 years of this journey, I might finally have results. Or at the very least, I might finally have known the direction that we are headed.

But, at the end of the day, we are all human, and it turns out those results were not actually indicative of any clinical findings in the slightest. 

Somehow my doctor, the administrative assistant and the laboratory all missed that I take a medicine for reflux. This medicine completely skews the test results and renders all of them inconclusive.

Ready for the kicker?

You have to be off of the medicine for 8-10 weeks prior to re-testing.

Minnesota road trip in August anyone?

There is a strong likelihood that both the bone marrow biopsy and endoscopy will come back with negative results. The invariable nature of both tests, combined with my all star achievement career in false negatives yields a very high chance that I will get holes drilled in my hips and a tube jammed down my throat, just for kicks. 

But at the least, I will leave knowing that I turned every stone possible and maybe even narrowed the playing field ever so slightly. And, let's be honest, what would the world do if I suddenly stopped coming to the Mayo Clinic?

Allow me to quote my buddy at Carroll's Cup Frozen Yogurt:

"Where have you been? Don't you live in Rochester?"

Consistency my friends. I am nothing if not consistent.

Expanding my resume...Part 2

In yesterday's post I promised stories of fame and fishermen.

I delivered on the fishermen, but not the fame.

As many of you know, every three weeks I drive up to Philadelphia for speech and vocal therapy, as well as for various appointments that typically involve needles in my neck, tubes down my nose and various instruments of the recording nature shoved down my throat to capture my bobo larynx in all of its glory.

In short, it's a party. Ole.

Now despite the fact that I could recite every rest stop and construction zone between Washington DC and Philadelphia, and despite the fact that gas is not exactly cheap these days...these trips aren't all that bad.

You see, I grew up in Philadelphia. It was my first home and my first city love. So despite my rapidly increasing BFF status with I-95, I get to spend time with my parents and two of my best friends, at least once a month. Not too shabby.

It also helps that I have a new love.

[Don't worry, Mr. RestartingMyHardDrive is well aware. He even approves!]

The name is Sweet Freedom Bakery.

Or just Sweet Freedom, ya know, if you are real close.

And friends, let me just tell you. This love is real. I am smitten.

Everything (yes, everything) in the bakery is delicious...oh, and also kosher, vegan, and gluten, wheat, soy, dairy, corn, peanut, egg, casein, and refined sugar free.

Ladies and gentlemen, I can walk into this bakery and choose a treat from 95% of the options.

NINETY-FIVE PERCENT!

Just in case you are a newcomer to this blog (in which case, welcome!) it has been YEARS since I have been able to go anywhere and choose from 95% of the options. At a typical restaurant I am usually looking at 0-3% of the options being Lydia-friendly.

Frankly, I'm not even sure 95% of my own kitchen is Lydia-friendly? Hmm.

Sweet Freedom was started by a woman who graduated from the same school where I am currently a student (Institute for Integrative Nutrition) and is conveniently (dangerously??) only a few blocks from the hospital. After I finish my appointments for the day, I meet my friends at SFB and we enjoy a treat...or two...or ten?

(Ok fine, maybe not ten. My stomach is paralyzed after all.)

In short, I get to enjoy time with my friends, while eating a tasty treat and forgetting about whatever nonsense occurred at the hospital that day.

See why I'm in love?

During one of my trips a month or so ago, I noticed a stack of papers with a blank cupcake and a pile of markers. Now, let me be clear. It is basically a law of physics that I cannot sit next to a pile of markers and not use them. I mean, I'm fairly certain it would be a crime against humanity. Or something.

The papers were there for Sweet Freedom's "Create Your Own Cupcake" contest. The idea was to design a new cupcake that they would feature at the bakery if you won. So of course I entered. Again, I really had no choice.

Obviously I went with s'mores. Come on people, I've been a camp girl since 1994.

After I finished my cupcake design (with much discussion and reflection from my cookie-eating partners in crime), my entry was added to the wall with the others. There was some serious competition - black raspberry chip...mint chocolate chip...black forest!? The wall was rich with delicious possibility. My friends and I went along our merry way and I resisted the urge to take out an ad in the Inquirer asking people to go vote for my cupcake before I headed back to Virginia.

Ok fine. I "strongly encouraged" my parents to go vote. But I mean, they're my parents! They are contractually obligated to covet my magic marker creations...right??

Weeks went by.

I didn't sleep.

I didn't eat. 

I no longer had hair or fingernails.

I had just about given up hope when my phone rang.

(I know, I know! You can't handle the suspense! Move over R.L. Stine, this is better than Goosebumps!)

Drumroll please...

My cupcake had received the most votes and would be created into an actual cupcake!

There it is! The real thing

It was a big day. I added a colorful scarf to my yoga pants
and T-shirt uniform. Ya know, just in case the paparazzi
showed up.

So moral of the story is that I'm pretty much a celebrity now. I mean, I'm surprised you haven't seen me on the cover of Time magazine yet, I'm sure it's just a matter of time. At this rate, I'll be a shoe-in for next year's "100 Most Influential People." I'm already a celebrity in Minnesota, why not Pennsylvania too? 

Besides, nothing says influential like a s'mores cupcake...am I right?

*If you haven't already headed straight to my buddy Google, let me introduce you to my new love: www.sweetfreedombakery.com

Expanding my resume

Friends! I have captivating tales of fame and fortune and fishermen!

Wait. Scratch that.

No fortune, just fame and fishermen.

Fishermen??

A few weeks ago, I received a summons to return to my pride land of Minnesota. I mean, my gut says they just missed me...but maybe the fact that my troublemaker mast cells have been even more out of control lately had something to do with it as well. Details.

In an effort to not spend the entire month of May in Minnesota, my allergist kindly offered to send me some lab work to do at home and ship back, so the results were all ready to go when I arrived. How thoughtful! Sounds easy enough, right?

False. Wrong. Negative. Ixnay.

When setting up the lab testing, I mentioned to the technician that I was going to be heading up to Philadelphia for appointments later in the week and wanted to make sure it was ok to complete the testing when I got home to Virginia again. I was assured this would not be a problem and we went along our merry way of discussing the glorious details of blood work and a 24 hour urine collection (he was impressed with my knowledge. Puhlease. Like this is the first time?). Everything was set up and the box would be shipped with everything I needed to complete the testing and send it back.

Fast forward a few days when I arrive home from the barn to find a giant brown box from the Mayo Clinic.

*Sidenote: You know that moment when you turn the corner towards home and you see a giant package waiting on your doorstep? Your heart rate increases, you start smiling and you can hardly wait to see the surprise that has landed on your door? Ya know, you leap out of the car, rush to the door in anticipation....aaaaaand then discover it is a giant box of test tubes and a pee jug and NOT a prize box informing you that you have won a pony? Yea. Been there.

Upon opening the box, I discover a note that says, "Start testing immediately after receiving this package, do not wait until next week."

Stupendous.

I'd like to tell you that this was the first time that I have driven up I-95 with a giant jug of my urine.

It's not.

I'd also like to tell you that this was the first time I've brought said jug into the Delaware rest stop with me, rinsed the attached cup at the rest stop sink and then carried my satchel o'urine with me to the Starbucks to get a soy steamer.

It's not.

So because I had previously added my urine collecting skills to my resume, I wasn't that phased by lugging it around and I knew the exact protocol for shipping it back to my fan club in Minnesota.

I had not, however, ever had to ship them my blood.

In the aforementioned giant brown box, there was a smaller brown box, that contained a smaller styrofoam box that contained a still smaller styrofoam box full of test tubes and vials. Inside this Rubix cube of boxes were instructions for the phlebotomist (person poking my arm with needles) that explained how to collect the blood, where to put it and how to ship it.

If you haven't picked up on the pattern yet, I'll help you out: if something seems really simple, that is actually hospital code for extraordinarily complicated.

You see, you can't just call up any lab in the Philadelphia area and make an appointment. Nor can you assume that they will have the necessary materials to complete the task. The lab has to a) work with your insurance, b) be willing to work with the Mayo Clinic and c) have dry ice to ship the materials.

Allow me to share a conversation with the Mayo Clinic Specimen Office:

L- "Hi, I'm having a rather difficult time finding a lab to complete this testing and in addition, none of them seem to have access to dry ice. Do you have any ideas?"

MC - "Oh dear, let's help you out with that! If you go to a hospital, you will have more luck. Outside labs will generally turn you away, but a hospital has to accept you."

L - "Well I tried the hospital where I will be tomorrow, but they don't have dry ice, where can I find that?"

MC- "Well, where are you located?"

L - "Philadelphia."

MC - "Perfect! Isn't that on the water? Just go down to the waterfront and find a fisherman. They always have lots of dry ice for the lobster."

[awkward silence]

L - "Um...Philadelphia is on a river...we don't have too many lobsters?"

MC- "Oh they might for the fish though!"

[awkward silence]

L - "Okay...let's just assume for a second that I am unable to stand on the wharf with my styrofoam box of blood and locate a fisherman with dry ice...what is my back-up plan?"

Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce www.dryicedirectory.com

Didn't know it existed? Neither did I, but that little gift of a website tells you all of the locations in your area for dry ice...er...more accurately, THE location. In the city of Philadelphia, there is one.

After realizing that I have to be at the lab at 7, the dry ice place opens at 9 and my next appointment at the hospital is at 9:30, it is determined that my poor father will be roped into coming with me on this grand excursion, so he can run and fill the box with dry ice as soon as they open.

Again, seems easy...or at least, do-able, enough. Wrong.

We arrived at the lab around 7, I was rejected by the first phlebotomist around 7:45, spoke with the supervisor around 8:15, who called the grand guru of the lab to look into centrifuge and freezing protocol before calling me back at 8:45 and instructing phlebotomist #2 to take my blood at 9:20, who felt it necessary to comment on the diminutive size of my veins before sending me on my merry, sprinting way, to get to my appointment at 9:30. Meanwhile, Papa Haas has gone on a trip to South Philly with an empty box in tow, hoping to get it back to the lab before said centrifuging vials of blood are returned to the lab and I can pick it all up after my appointments.

Ok, hands in on Operation Dry Ice and we made it. Go team.

But, I still had to send it.

Now my buddies in the Specimen Office had sent me a pre-filled out form for Fed Ex and instructed me to drop the box off at a Fed Ex store or schedule a pick-up. Conveniently, there is a Fed Ex directly across from the hospital, hooray!

Hospital code again? Right.

Did you know that satellite Fed Ex offices will not accept live specimens? Especially if said live specimens contain dry ice, which involves several biohazard stickers and weight notation. True story. Nope, those extra special packages have to be sent from the Fed Ex warehouse. Ya know, the warehouse which is all the way across town, next to the recycling plant, in an area of town that a skinny white girl in a Honda, lugging around a box of pee and blood probably shouldn't frequent solo. See where this is going? Yep, at the ripe old age of 30, I needed my father to drive me, and my live specimens, to the warehouse where they could finally be shipped overnight to Minnesota.

A ridiculously large box for a 1/3 cup container of urine and 2 vials of blood.

So, let's review the expansion of my resume:

1. Need dry ice? I can find it. Or I'll find you a fisherman. I just ask that you get my mom a piece of salmon while you are at it.

2. Need to do a urine test while traveling? No problem, I can talk you through it, let you know which rest stops on I-95 have large stalls and I even have a perfectly sized tote bag you can borrow.

3. Need to send a live specimen? I can provide directions and even recommend an excellent bodyguard.

4. I am also now officially bilingual. I speak English and Hospital Code.

Oh and as for the fame? 

We'll save that for tomorrow.

The Season of 30

I don't believe in the concept of a clean slate.

I don't believe that we ever really start from scratch.

I believe that no matter where we go, we carry our past with us. Our life experiences shape how we face each new day and the obstacles that lie ahead.

A few weeks ago, I reached a new personal milestone. I turned 30.

Thirty years old - an age many of my friends are approaching with much trepidation.

Me?

I couldn't be more thrilled.

A new decade!
An even number!
A number that involves no rounding to the nearest ten!

[Elementary school teacher simple pleasures?]

Most importantly, a new season.

When I first started teaching, I was thrilled to learn how much of the elementary school curriculum is about seasons. Nerd that I am, I took bizarre delight in any and all opportunities to draw a detailed rendition of the life cycle of a butterfly or act out the four weather seasons with a squadron of 5 year olds. My go-to classroom music was Vivaldi's infamous "Four Seasons" and despite a still-standing pact with grad school friends to never fall victim to "the seasonal sweater," I take great delight in the decorations that don't actually touch my body.

To me, there is something so refreshing and inspirational about a new season. In spite of whatever has taken place in the prior season, the cycle continues. It's unstoppable. A really harsh winter may result in fewer flowers in spring...but eventually, spring always gets here and is followed by summer, then autumn and then back to winter again.

[Puxatony Phil, that was my not-so-subtle hint to FINALLY deliver the Spring that you promised. Seriously groundhog, get on with it.]

So here I am. The season of 30.

In college, my housemates and I were mildly obsessed with "13 going on 30." I mean, hello - Jennifer Garner, Matt Ruffalo and a steady stream of Razzles? What's not to like?? For Valentine's Day, I made all of the girls little heart-shaped jars of red and silver glitter with a tag that said "Thirty, Flirty and Thriving," just like the magic glitter in the movie. That day seemed so far away at the time.

If you had asked me five years ago what 30 would look like, I'm not going to lie and tell you that my life now is what I pictured. It's not even close. But I still don't think I missed the magic glitter.

Tomorrow I have an appointment with my gastroenterologist. It goes without saying, that I typically dread these appointments. I am obviously well past the awkwardness of the first couple of moments in the GI wing, but I still don't generally list sitting down for a chat about nausea, my time in the bathroom or inappropriate placement of air as a social activity.  For GI-newbies, let me just set you straight: these people talk about poop and gas all day. ALL. DAY. So just buck up and let it out.

[horrible pun maybe a little bit intended...]

In terms of symptoms, I should really stick with my typical appointment dread. The past few months have been among my worst in pain and severity of symptoms. But still, no dread. In this new season of my life, I know what my body is capable of and I know how to handle it. I'm not going into this appointment fearing some new, crazy procedure or crossing my fingers to join a clinical trial of a drug that will grow me a third arm. I'm going to this appointment to check in and reassure my doctor that I'm still in one piece. Despite my recent track record, my husband and I just returned from our first non-medical trip since our honeymoon...and I did just fine. Yes, I came home a bit nutrient deficient and yes I lost 5 pounds in 6 days... and yes, I got away for a week with my husband and loved it.

[However, Puxatony Phil, we could have done without the 40 degree temperatures in Florida. Get cracking groundhog.]

Tomorrow I will go to my appointment. I will share my symptoms and stats when asked. I will get various body parts poked and prodded and we will likely spend an unusually long amount of time examining the gaping hole in my stomach.

But then I'll share that I'm halfway through school to become a holistic health coach and help patients just like me. I'll share that I'm learning to sing again. I'll share that I just went on vacation with my husband, and didn't step foot in a hospital.

In this new season, I will share that I am thirty. And flirty. And thriving.

Same song...seven hundredth verse?

Thomas Edison said, "I have not failed. I've just found 10,000 ways that won't work."

Let me assure you friends, that despite the fact that this was said nearly 100 years ago, it was said entirely in reference to the life and times of yours truly.

Lightbulb, Schmightbulb.

You see, I've developed a pattern.

Step 1: Receive diagnosis for something bizarre and unusual with no known cause
Step 2: Spend copious amounts of time researching said rare malady
Step 3: Discuss treatment options
Step 4: Discover new allergy from seemingly innocuous treatment options
Step 5: Adjust to new normal with non-functioning [insert organ name here]
Step 6: Pour heart out on blog sharing new level of deep acceptance
Step 7: Repeat Step 1

I am nothing if not consistent.

Last week I headed up to Philadelphia for a few days of medical testing bliss and wonderment. It had been 6 whole weeks since I had traveled for a medical excursion, so it was high time that I pack my bags and skedaddle out the door.

I started the day with an esophageal manometry. If you have never had the incredible privilege of experiencing this tubular delight, it involves a tube snaking its way from your nose all the way into your upper small intestine. And just so you get to enjoy every minute, you are completely awake and not at all sedated. In a nutshell, the manometry measures how well your esophagus works. I have actually had this gem of a test before, in 2011, so I knew exactly what to expect...the wonderful doctor* who administered the test agreed with my analysis that ignorance is, in fact, bliss.

*I'd like to give a major shout out to the doctor who administered the manometry. She shared that she recently asked a friend to give her the test so she knew exactly what it felt like. Let me be clear friends, this does NOT happen often and is absolutely to be commended.

After 15-20 minutes of getting up close and personal with my gag reflex, I was sent on my merry way and headed to the rehabilitation section of Jefferson Hospital's ENT (ear, nose and throat) department. There I met with a Speech Language Pathologist who focuses solely on the singing voice. You may recall from this post that singing has shaped a giant portion of my life so far, and I miss it tremendously. At this point, I have had several doctors tell me that I will never sing again...so to be honest, I was somewhat dreading having to hear that news all over again. Luckily, I didn't have to! The voice therapist is incredible and after reviewing my films, listening to me croak in rhythm with her piano and analyzing every small detail of my breathing pattern, she placed me in the "not impossible" category.

You see, your vocal chords have the ability to lengthen and shorten, as well as open and close. Mine lengthen and shorten, but don't close.

At all.

Ever.

Hence part of the reason that speaking is exhausting and singing is not even an option - I absolutely never have enough air to do so.

Now, I'm not a doctor, but I do glean that oxygen is somewhat important for basic life skills.

Placing myself in the "not impossible" category may not seem like much, but to me it is a giant breath (ha...get it...!) of hope. I have a whole heck of a lot of hard work in front of me, but all is not definitively lost and the sense of relief is palpable.

I have written before about my quest to limit how I label things as good, bad or indifferent. As humans, we like to compartmentalize everything and I find it exhausting. In the medical world, one second something is great and the next it is dreadful. If you wait five minutes, it might get upgraded to passable, or it might get much worse. It is a constant piggy-back ride on a super-exuberant Tigger.

However, it is one thing to talk about how I will limit my labeling...it is another thing to actually do it.

I learned my lesson on Friday, when I walked into my next appointment, riding on the euphoria of my voice therapy, only to find out that the steroid injections into my larynx haven't helped at all so far and my esophagus is also now partially paralyzed.

Ya know, just for kicks.

It goes without saying that the "why" question is, as usual, impossible to answer. Come on people, I stick with a pattern. Just refer to step 1.

So now I go back to my routine.

I'll continuing following steps 1-7.
I'll figure out what to do with my darling esophagus...
and, let's be honest, I'll likely also figure out what not to do.
And all the while, the world will continue to noodle the grand mystery that is my body.

But friends, let me just be clear. I'm trusting Edison on this one.

No matter whether it is 10,000 tries or 1,000,000.

One of these days?

The lightbulb is finally going to go on.