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02April   {My Story} It’s My Birth Date And I’ll Lie If I Want To…
If turning 50 wasn't bad enough I have a daughter who has taken a keen interest in my age. It's probably because she doesn't know how old I really am.





[Editor's note: The essay below, by FOF Ramona Duoba is part of a series of personal blogs from our readers. Have your own story to tell? Email your idea to sara@faboverfifty.com]



By Ramona Duoba

Being obsessed with aging or anti-aging is a way of life for many women, but has the obsession gone too far when you can't be truthful with your own daughter? I suppose many people would say I'm setting her up, or that my inability to tell the truth about my age is an example of self-loathing or some deep-rooted trauma that I haven't come to terms with. It's not. I just don't like aging. It's that simple. There's nothing wonderful about looking at a passport photo from 10 years ago and comparing it to the one I have today. There's a harsh difference.
56 comments   
07February   {My Story} “I met and dated a real-life Christian Grey”
“If you met a real-life Christian Grey (Fifty Shades of Grey) and started dating, would it send you to the post office wanting to return this package?” asks FOF Susan Hersh. Susan recently met and dated a man with Grey-like tendencies. Here, she shares her story and what she hopes other newly-single FOFs can learn from her experience.

[Editor's note: The essay below, by FOF Susan Hersh is part of a series of personal blogs from our readers. Have your own story to tell? Email your idea to sara@faboverfifty.com.]







.
In 2012, I met a real-life version of Mr. Grey. Although this was not apparent during our three-month romance, after it abruptly ended, it became uncannily clear.

The terms of my relationship with this man, a publishing company executive (we’ll call him “Mr. Brooks Brothers” for the purpose of this story) paralleled the contract that Anastasia never signed.

Christian had gorgeous dresses and gowns for Ana furnished by Neiman Marcus.  Mr. Brooks Brothers requested that I wear skirts and dresses. If you are being taken to mediocre, local restaurants, there is no reason to get that dressed up. My personal style is pants and my long legs wear them well. Unlike the fictitious Christian Grey, he was not offering to furnish a wardrobe...only the thigh-high hosiery.

Christian always wanted to control how Ana wore her hair and which beauty salon she attended. While dating Mr. Brooks Brothers, I had my hair cut, one of the best cuts in four years...but he didn’t think it was necessary.  I was not seeking permission or approval.

Christian dedicated Friday evening through Sunday afternoon or any other days agreed upon, based on his contract with Anastasia. My allotted time slot with Mr. Brooks Brothers was Saturday evening through Sunday afternoon.  If we needed to change the schedule, he felt he was making a major “compromise.”

One evening, I was driving my car to a nearby town for dinner. Mr. Brooks Brothers told me he was not comfortable with me in the driver’s seat. This seemed so outlandish to me so I made a joke telling him he could drive my car anytime and I would sit on his lap.

In the end, Mr. Brooks Brothers broke up with me because I rejected his request to use sex toys in the bedroom, and his ego was stronger than his heart.  He was controlling in the bedroom, insisting on the missionary or dominant positions. He found it difficult to acquiesce and share the power. I've learned that a marriage license or relationship does not guarantee that you both have the same propensity for sex or tolerance for experimentation. Next time, I'll make sure that my partner and I are both in agreement about whether or not to use sex toys, and that the mood is romantic with enough time for exploratory use.

Recently, I started to think about how many FOFs are finding themselves navigating through the sea of sex and dating after a recent divorce or becoming a widower. This can be a hard process.

Here’s what my experience taught me: No matter what, always be yourself. When meeting someone new, there is always an adjustment period and some compromise, but selling your soul and conforming to ideas that do not resonate will lead to unhappiness both in and outside of the bedroom. Tell your partner what you want or don’t want up front.  Do not cheat yourself.  Claim what is important to you and proclaim what is not negotiable.  If the relationship ceases, remember this line from the song “Closing Time” by Semisonic:  "Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end."
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19November   {My Story} A Thanksgiving First and Last
One FOF recounts her first time hosting Thanksgiving dinner, which was her mother's last.


[Editor's note: The essay below, by FOF Deborah Parker, is part of a series of personal blogs from our readers. Have your own story to tell? Email your idea to sara@faboverfifty.com.]

Gratitude is the heart's memory. -- French proverb


It was time. I’d never done it. I’d gotten used to going somewhere else on this food-happy holiday to eat my big turkey dinner. However, Thanksgiving of 2009 was different.  My mother was very ill with Leukemia. This looked to be her last earthly celebration of this holiday of gratefulness.  Neither my sister nor I had ever hosted the “big meal,” normally we went to mom’s. Taking all of these realities into consideration, I decided to invite my extended family to my house (a three-hour trip) for Thanksgiving dinner.

Details such as planning the menu, shopping for food, and organizing my kitchen for my dinner guests consumed me for a few weeks. I watched Martha and Rachael for tips on my table. I coordinated with my sister on who had what serving dishes. We gradually envisioned what the table layout would be. Keeping my mother involved was essential to her well-being and our sense of tradition. Working around her treatment schedule and doctor’s appointments, she managed to bring collard greens and sweet potato pies—two items she really loved to prepare (and we loved to eat).



One Thanksgiving Eve the "cooking crew" arrived. My sister-in-law drove my mother and my two nieces to Leesburg, Virginia, straight from one of her many doctors appointments. Tired from her medical condition and the drive, my mother went to bed. The rest of us readied what could be prepared that evening–potatoes peeled, ingredients checked, and birds soaked. My stoves would be busier than ever the next day.

We went to bed once we had done what was reasonable to ensure a hot and fresh Thanksgiving meal. At around 3 a.m. I was woken when I heard my mother stirring in my guest room. I noticed she had the light on and I opened the door. She said, “I’m ready to cook. Where’s that turkey?” We came downstairs and she went to work. I watched her—she taught, and that’s how I came to learn more about cooking the big one!

As the day went on, the feast came together. My three uncles and my youngest brother arrived, along with a few friends. Prayers were said, eating commenced and then it was over–a grand occasion for all of us.



My mother passed away five months later. I am so grateful she had that experience of food, love, and teaching in my home–for her last Thanksgiving.

Every so often stopping to focus, reflect and say thanks gives us the strength to realize what was and what is—and in that gap resides a lot of blessings.

Thanksgiving is not just the fourth Thursday in November; it’s a continuous exercise in gratitude. Designating a place or space, to retreat to on our journey, allowing us to express thanks for the bounty we’ve accumulated can set us right in our soul.
What are you thankful for?

This story is excerpted from Deborah L. Parker's autobiography: Navigating Life’s Roadways, Stories of Insight from My Odyssey and Inspiration for Your Journey.
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24May   {My Story} An FOF Abroad
We all have fantasized about picking up, packing up, and moving abroad a la Elizabeth Gilbert in Eat, Pray, Love. Meet one FOF who did just that.

Above: Karen stops to pose in front of the newly-restored boat lagoon at the Plaza de España. (Photo taken this year.)


[Editor's note: The essay below, by FOF Karen McCann, is part of a series of personal blogs from our readers. Have your own story to tell? Email your idea to sara@faboverfifty.com.]

If you’re ever in the mood to reinvent yourself, consider moving abroad. Ten years ago, I was working as a journalist and consultant in Cleveland, Ohio when my husband, Rich, a health care administrator, took early retirement. He continued to do occasional consulting but mostly lived his dream--spending endless days in the garden. As can often happen with retirement fantasies, that dream gradually put him in a rut. With perfect timing, friends invited us to join them in southern Spain. As avid travelers, we preferred more exotic travel destinations (hiking in Bhutan, doing volunteer work in Bosnia), but we decided to go. It was refreshing to vacation without having to worry about scorpions, bandits, unexploded land mines or life-threatening tap water. And, we were charmed and intrigued by Spain, especially the ancient city of Seville. After our first, brief visit, we decided to go back to Seville the next spring for a longer stay. Rich had always wanted to study a foreign language, so we signed up for basic Spanish, which I soon learned is a lot harder to learn when you’re in your 50s but can be mastered if you stick with it.

Left: Karen takes a break with husband, Rich after a long hike in Nepal.
Right: In Thailand, Karen starts across a bridge that she says, "I was fairly sure wouldn't collapse under me."


That spring, we also struck up a friendship with our landlady and her husband, who remain close amigos to this day. Our landlady introduced us to her own friends and family, and through our language school we met other expats of all ages. We quickly amassed a coterie of friends, and it became difficult to leave them when we had to return to the States. We returned to Seville every spring for the following four years, at which point, we began to reassess our priorities. Our consulting gigs back in the States paid well but weren’t very fulfilling. When we ran the numbers, we realized our annual expenditures wouldn’t change much if we moved to Seville. We'd be maintaining two homes, (we wanted to keep a home in the U.S. for visits) but the additional cost of renting an apartment in Seville would be offset by Spain's much lower prices for food, entertainment, transportation, etc. We’d talked about living abroad ever since our first date and now we actually decided to do it.

Not everyone shared my sense of excitement about this decision. Rich’s relatives couldn’t fathom why we’d want to leave the U.S., and my five brothers and sisters, who had been aghast when Rich and I had moved from San Francisco to Cleveland for his job, shrugged it off as another one of our goofy whims. More surprising-–shocking even--was that some of my friends stopped speaking to me the moment they heard I was leaving. They felt abandoned and betrayed. Other friends were marvelous, supportive and helpful in a thousand ways. Still, it was a much rougher sendoff than I’d anticipated.


An Australian acquaintance helped us find an apartment and was one of many expats who gave us support and advice as we settled in. Another acquaintance told us: “Get a one bedroom apartment. Otherwise people will expect to stay with you.” I failed to grasp the wisdom of her advice, until guests started showing up in droves. Seven years later, we’ve had over 100 visitors, some of whom have arrived for the weekend and refused to leave for weeks. Missing family and friends turned out to be far less of a problem than I’d thought.

Left: Karen, at the Feria de Abril (April Fair) with friend Sarah Gemba, wearing the traditional trajes de flamenca, 2010.
Right: Book cover for Karen's upcoming book, Dancing in the Fountain: How to Enjoy Living Abroad.


More challenging was finding enough books to satiate my voracious appetite. Seville’s shops carry a very limited selection of books in English, and I was having a hard time sustaining myself on a literary diet of Stephen King, gushy romances and Charles Dickens. I spent a fortune on Amazon until I discovered a local women’s club with a large English library. The Kindle has also been a godsend. As my language skills improved, I started reading books in Spanish starting with children’s books, such as Harry Potter. Muggles are muggles in any language.


I’ve written a blog and a book (due out in August) about my transition to Seville The book's title, Dancing in the Fountain, comes from one hot night when Rich and I found ourselves sitting on the edge of a large fountain. Dabbling our feet in the cool water, pretty soon we were wading, then dancing in the fountain. An old man passing by growled, “Hey you two, is that any way to behave? You wouldn’t do that back where you come from.” And that’s the whole point. Living overseas, you get to try things you’d never do back home. Rich and I began stagnating as we hit our 50s. Now, we feel more alive then we have in years.
--

Karen McCann is a writer, blogger, photographer and painter who has lived in Seville, Spain since 2004. A fourth-generation Californian, she has lived in Virginia, Connecticut, Massachusetts and Ohio, and maintains a cottage in the San Francisco area. Wanderlust has taken her to more than thirty countries, including developing or post-war nations where she and her husband volunteer as consultants to struggling microenterprises. You can download her free booklet “101 Ways to Enjoy Living Abroad,” when you sign up for her website, which includes practical advice for rookie expats.

Images courtesy of Karen McCann, enjoylivingabroad.com
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11April   {My Story} FOF Sallie Buck turns her grief into goodwill.
When FOF Sallie Buck lost her husband suddenly, she found a strength--and a sense of adventure--that she never knew she had.


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[Editor's note: The essay below, by FOF Sallie Buck, is part of a series of personal blogs from our readers. Have your own story to tell? Email your idea to geri@faboverfifty.com.]


When I was in my early 50s, my husband, Graham, was diagnosed with a brain tumor and given just months to live. It came out of nowhere and changed our lives irrevocably. Graham and I had been married for thirty years. We had many similar interests such as music, walking and sailing, so we did a lot together but certainly weren't glued at the hips. I remember when I went back to work part-time as a nurse practitioner, he was concerned that our children would suffer. They didn't--but my responsibility most of my life was the children and home. Graham worked hard to provide us with a good standard of living. It was a fairly traditional marriage by British standards.

In Graham's last few weeks alive, he wrote me a letter and told me only to open it after he passed away. He died ten months after his diagnosis, in September, 2003. It was then that I finally read his note. It said that I was a special person, not just to him, but to many others, and that I still had so much to offer.


He was right--I did still have so much to give. The letter gave me the confidence I needed. I had a good job, but our three children were grown, and I wanted a new challenge while I was still young and fit. I decided I would train in tropical nursing and help in the developing world.


While I was training, I met Joanna Hanks, founder of the Buburi Health Clinic in Kenya. In addition to high rates of malnutrition and HIV/AIDS, this part of Africa has the highest incidence of malaria in the world. More than 60 percent of the clinic’s patients are under five years old, and the majority of them have malaria. One in five will not reach their fifth birthday; many die from preventable conditions. When Joanna told me about the clinic, I decided to spend two months working there.


I became part of Buburi Clinic’s team of dedicated nurses, providing quality and affordable health care to those in need. I remember one Saturday morning, a 3-year-old girl was brought into the clinic by her father. I heard a high-pitched cry (indicative of brain irritation) from the waiting room. A malaria test came out positive--but we didn't have any intramuscular sedatives. Instead, I had to dilute a tablet sedative and give her that. In a developed country I would call for an ambulance, but that is a luxury they don't have. So, we called a motorbike rider to take her to a hospital. We had to give the driver money to take them and the father money for admission charges. The next day I saw the father in the village. He rushed up to thank me and tell me that his daughter had cerebral malaria but was improving. He said he was sure she would have died if we hadn't been there.

I have since visited six times and became a trustee of the charity, Friends of Buburi. The village chief once told me, “It is wonderful that you keep coming back--it is another year our children won’t die of malaria.” It makes me realize how fortunate I am in my own life--to have had three healthy children and grandchildren. I don’t take this for granted anymore.




You really get to know yourself living and working in such primitive conditions. When my husband died, I had spent most of my life as a housewife. I didn’t know who I was. I have found strengths that I had no idea I had and would probably never have known about if he was still alive. I often wonder what he would think of me now.


Read more about Friends of Buburi and their incredible work in Kenya.
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03April   {My Story} From City Slicker to Cowgirl
How one FOF went from being an English teacher in Berkeley, California, to being a cowgirl in the Sierra Mountains--in four steps.



[Editor's note: The essay below, by FOF Jane Rosenthal, is part of a series of personal blogs from our readers. Have your own story to tell? Email your idea to geri@faboverfifty.com.]

Step One: Git ‘er Done!
Here’s a definition of a "cowgirl" I pulled from the Cowgirl Hall of Fame in Fort Worth, Texas: "A cowgirl gets up early, decides what she wants to do and does it."

All my adult life I’d wanted to do two things--live in the country and write novels. Not that there was anything wrong with my life as it was. My husband is an internationally-known scientist; we had a lovely home in Berkeley, California; and I had a challenging job in one of the top public schools in the state.

Yet, there was that nagging sense that I was living someone else’s idea of success and not my own.

So, on my fifty-fifth birthday, with my husband’s blessing, I found myself in a funky, double-wide trailer that passes for a real estate office out here in the wilds, plunking down big bucks for a fifty-acre ranch in the Sierra mountains.

My husband and I took a huge gulp and sold the house in Berkeley. For many people it was a classic dream home, and they thought we were crazy. You know what? It's now someone else's dream. I have a new one.

Ladies, I just did it. Simple as that. I didn’t let 'not having a clue' stop me.

Step Two: Sure, you’re scared. So what?
Here’s another bit of the cowgirl creed: A cowgirl might be scared, but she saddles up anyway.

Was I scared? You bet.  I’d just bought a run-down foreman’s cabin that looked like this:


The only builder around was the guy who owned the horse ranch next to mine, and I had one year to turn this place into something livable.

Like this…



If you have something you want to do, now is the time to saddle up and ride.

Step Three:  Give me land, lots of land, and the starry sky above. Don’t fence me in!



About that novel...

Right before I moved up here, I’d signed with an agent to represent me. They later rescinded, because, they said, there is no mass market for the my book because it is set in Mexico City.

In the city I might have moped around and felt defeated. But out here I live with cowgirls who deliver foals in the snow, hack heads off  of rattlesnakes, and pour concrete for the foundation of a house while they’re in labor (true story, I swear). Compared to what they do, I asked myself, “How hard would it be to self-publish?”

So I did--and now, you can read my novel, Palace of the Blue Butterfly, on my blog.

Unless it’s the Ten Commandments, girls, don’t let the rules fence you in.

Step Four: Get in touch with your inner Dale Evans
“Cowgirl is an attitude, really,” said Dale Evans, the Queen of the West.  “A pioneer spirit, a special American brand of courage. The cowgirl faces life head on, lives by her own lights and makes no excuses. Cowgirls take stands. They speak up. They defend the things they hold dear. A cowgirl might be a rancher, or a barrel racer, or a bull rider, or an actress. But she's just as likely to be a checker at the local Winn Dixie, a full-time mother, a banker, an attorney, or an astronaut."

These days, I'm still writing every day, and working on a novel set up here in ranch country. Yes, I have ranch and garden chores. When it snows, the cows need hay. There are always fences to mend and fallen trees to saw into firewood. We heat the house with wood all winter. I also have a big vegetable garden that I will be planting soon. I can and freeze the vegetables and fruit in the summer. In the fall, I plant tons of bulbs. Right now I'm reaping the rewards. I have five hundred tulips blooming and thousands of daffodils in the fields around the house.

Hey, FOFs, we’re all cowgirls, aren’t we?

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.
Jane Rosenthal is an award winning poet, radio journalist, romantic suspense author and educator. Fluent in Spanish, she covered politics and arts in Mexico for Public Radio’s bilingual program California en Revista and went on to teach English and Creative Writing in mostly Spanish- speaking, inner city high schools in Oakland, California. She blogs about her life at allaboutjanesranch.com.
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22February   {My Story} From home designer to…homeless–one FOF’s story

We've all heard "rags to riches" stories, but what about the other way around? FOF Norma Byrd, a successful California interior designer went from decorating multi-million dollar homes to sleeping on friends' couches. It could have been any of us...



[Editor's note: The essay below, by FOF Norma Byrd, is part of a series of personal blogs from our readers. Have your own story to tell? Email your idea to geri@faboverfifty.com.]


When I’d see a homeless person with a hand-scrawled sign standing at an intersection, I wondered “How? Why?”  If you were industrious and conscientious such a thing could never happen to you... right?


Wrong. Three years ago I learned the hard way that it could happen, because it happened to me.


I’m an interior designer and have made a modest living since 1986. I built strong relationships with my clients and even became the president of my local chapter of the ASID (American Society of Interior Designers).


But, in 2000, I embarked on a fast train to disaster. I sold my condo and bought a 1947 vintage house in a lovely San Diego, California neighborhood. I felt I should have a home reflecting my personal design tastes--a showcase of my work that would one day meet my needs for retirement.


My mortgage broker and friends asked if I would be able to handle the stiff payments needed to make my dream home a reality. I was sure that if I couldn’t, I’d simply sell the new house. I never thought it would come to that.


Enter unplanned exigencies. The architect took two years to complete construction plans; the bank took another year to approve and fund the loans. Demolition revealed that the existing foundation and flooring systems couldn’t support the new structure, setting back the whole operation even more. The cost of building and materials rose dramatically; real estate went into decline, and I was running out of funds with the house nowhere near completion. Then, a major client, a successful builder, virtually went out of business, taking my major source of income with him. In desperation, I borrowed heavily against extensive credit card limits and maxed them all out trying to pay subcontractors working on my house.



In September of 2008, I moved into the unfinished house living for months without heat or electricity. I was still clinging to hope that some miracle would save me. In 2009 the unthinkable happened--my dream home and an investment property I had mortgaged for the new construction, both foreclosed.


I have never experienced such wrenching heartbreak in seventy-plus years. I was forced to leave my home, which at the time was only six percent from completion. I had no money, no savings, no investments--nothing left. I sold my SUV, put the rest of my possessions into storage and for the next fifteen months lived with friends. It was tough not to beat myself up for taking on something so monumental and then blowing it completely. There were times over the past three years, I wondered if I’d be joining those homeless people on the street corners, and without friends, maybe I would have.



In October of 2010, I moved from San Diego, where I’d lived for 47 years, to Durango, Colorado. There, with state aid and Social Security, I moved into my own tiny apartment. I’m adjusting. I still hope to get my design business going again, so that I can get back on my own two feet. The venerable adage, “If God leads you to it, he’ll lead you through it,” has never been more true. Life has not given up on me--there’s something good to come, but I have to help make it happen. AND... I WILL SURVIVE!
9 comments   
31January   {My Story} “I am the primary caregiver for my father . . . and I’m lucky.”
When FOF Liz Vogel’s father got Alzheimer's, she became his caretaker. Most would be devastated, here’s why she feels “lucky.”



[Editor's note: The essay below, by FOF Liz Vogel, is part of a series of personal blogs from our readers. Have your own story to tell? Email your idea to geri@faboverfifty.com.]

I have come to realize I am one of the lucky ones. I am the primary caregiver for my father. He lives two miles away in an independent living community, but I see him, or am in touch with him, every day. We lost my Mom three years ago, and since that time I’ve had the true pleasure of getting to know my Dad.

He has navigated his way, with amazing grace, from Mild Cognitive Impairment/Dementia to Alzheimer's over the last three years. When he needed help writing checks, because his handwriting was getting worse, he asked for it. When his balance was declining and I felt his safety was at risk, he was gracious about letting me get a walker for him. When I thought a safety pendant for emergencies was prudent, he agreed. When I told him he had been diagnosed with Alzheimer's, he looked at me, winked, smiled and said, "It is what it is, right? The good news is I probably won't remember tomorrow!"

Not everyone has this experience. Dementia and Alzheimer's can rob us of the person we once knew and replace him or her with a stranger. The man I have come to know in these last few years is filled with compassion, wonderfully dry humor, curiosity, sincere interest in participating with his community, and a deep appreciation for the beauty of the natural world. I suspect I may be seeing the essence of the man versus the father.

As a physician, my father spent his life caring for others. In fact, I think the last three years have been an opportunity for him to take a well deserved rest. But, perhaps because he provided so much to others for years, he understands the role of caregiver and provides me with the freedom to help him when he needs it.​​



I am learning: I don't know what it is like to be 86, but I suspect it's not that much different than being any other age. You want a life filled with opportunities and choices and to be treated as an equal. Every day, my father teaches me how to live and behave with grace, and I hope I do him proud as I wander through these next years.

Liz Vogel is President & CEO of Dots, Inc., and on-line service that connects the dots between the people, communities and information involved in healthy aging and caregiving.  See more at www.trustdots.com.
6 comments   
25January   {My Story} “I was nervous, tired, flushed . . . but I never expected this diagnosis.”
FOF Linda McCoy reveals why every FOF should know the warning signs of Atrial Fibrillation



[Editor's note: The essay below, by FOF Linda McCoy, is part of a series of personal blogs from our readers. Have your own story to tell? Email your idea to geri@faboverfifty.com.]

It started out as a routine visit to the doctor’s office. I was scheduled for lab work and a refill on my prescription for high blood pressure, which has been under control for years. The doctor quietly listened to my heart and asked the nurse to take a cardiogram. I wasn’t alarmed; I’d had Rheumatic Fever as a kid and been through many electrocardiograms.

When the doctor came back, she looked at me seriously and told me I had Atrial Fibrillation and that I needed to see a cardiologist right away. When I asked her to explain exactly what that meant, she told me my heart was not pumping correctly, and that blood was sitting in my heart chamber, which could cause it to form a blood clot.

I learned that during Atrial Fibrillation, the the upper chambers of the heart beat very rapidly and irregularly--"quivering" instead of contracting normally. By  itself, AF isn't life threatening, but it can cause uncomfortable symptoms like palpitations, fatigue, dizziness, and nausea. It can also lead to other rhythm problems and congestive heart failure. The most serious complication is stroke: AF increases a person's risk of having a stroke by five times the normal level.

My doctor arranged an appointment with a cardiologist for the next day. Meanwhile, I was sent home with a prescription for blood thinners and a heart drug. Of course, I had to find out what Dr. Google said, which made me more apprehensive. I spent a restless night worried about the next day’s visit.

My visit to the cardiologist confirmed my family doctor's diagnosis. He explained that they don’t know what causes AF, but many people have it. He said I would have to remain on blood thinners and advised a procedure called cardio-version, during which an electrical shock is applied to your heart to regulate your heartbeat. A week later I got the cardioversion, but my “a-fib” came back. A month later, I got another cardio-version, but it didn’t work either.

Next, the doctor recommended ablation, a procedure where they cauterize the heart cells that are miss-firing. The decision to have it done wasn’t an easy one. Ablation is a long procedure, carries some risk, and there are no guarantees it will work. Sometimes it has to be done more than once. It took me a year to muster up the courage to go forward with it.



I arrived at the hospital pretty calm. I trusted my doctor, and, after all, I was going to be under anesthesia. They sent a young male orderly in to shave my groin area, since this is where the catheters are inserted into your legs. I sent him packing! 'Can’t I please have a female nurse do that?' When the nurse arrived with a razor in hand she told me what a wonderful young man the orderly was and that he had been there for years, surely trying to make me feel guilty. She did the deed with efficiency. Having the catheter put in wasn’t nearly as bad as I imagined it would be. Thank God!

Before they wheeled me into the operating room, my husband and daughter came in to say goodbye. There I was, in tears (is this normal?),  “bye then, see you later.” Next I found myself in a room that looked like the bridge of the “Starship Enterprise”--more computers than anyone could imagine. I was put completely out. I woke up seven hours later; I don’t remember being taken back to my room.  I was advised to lay flat for six hours and that the catheters (three in each leg) would come out when my blood reached a certain level. They allowed me to eat raspberry sorbet. I told my husband and daughter it was the best thing I ever ate. What was I thinking?  The blood level they were after was not obtained until seven the next morning.

They asked if I wanted a pain killer before they took the catheters in my veins and arteries out. The nurse said they sometimes make people sick,  so I declined. This REALLY hurt, and I regretted saying no. (Note to self: When the hospital staff offers a pain killer, take the drug and say “thank you!”) As soon as I was disconnected from the Foley catheter and intravenous fluids I was allowed to go home under strict instructions. The numbness and soreness in my legs bothered me.

My recovery is still in process, my left leg is still quite numb, which I am told will fade. My bruises, a dark bluish purple, will eventually disappear.  The most difficult part of the recovery is fatigue, which lasts about three months, until my heart heals completely. On the upside, my heart is now in normal rhythm and hopefully it will stay that way.  My sleep is undisturbed, my family wonders why I am so calm (is this the new me?), and importantly, I should be able to go off blood thinners in the near future.

Many people walk around with undiagnosed atrial fibrillation. Some of the symptoms I missed? I was nervous, tired, agitated, my face was flushed, I had sleepless nights, and loud noises made me jump out of my skin. I am 64 and past menopause, so I should not have ignored these symptoms. I could feel my heart jumping around, although like many people I didn’t want to think it might be something serious, and I attributed it to my penchant for coffee. This is an incredibly common medical issue. Millions of people have it, doctors don’t know what causes it, but one thing is for sure: if you find yourself with these symptoms, you owe it to yourself to make a visit to your doctor. It can be managed. Heads up on this one FOFs!
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"I wouldn’t have touched anything like this when I was younger." 
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{Fashion Flash} 
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I AM A WOMEN OF 61 IWANT TO KNOW IF HAVING MY BREASTS REDUCED AT MY AGE. AFTER HAVING 4 CHILDREN LOSING SOME WEIGHT...read more
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looking for a Dr in Daytona Fl that uses the co2 laser...read more
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