Good Days and Bad Days

The last seven years, I've been on a fascinating – and, at times, emotionally and physically painful – journey of losing mobility and dealing with chronic pain. Since beginning my process of "becoming bionic" in 2017 (three joint replacements down, two to go), my body often feels whacked from surgeries and meds and going under anesthesia five times within the last year alone. Sometimes, it's difficult to find my true self in the occasionally tangled up energetic mess that is my body-mind-soul connection. 

Suffice it to say, I have my Good Days and my Bad Days. Fortunately the ratio seems to be trending at 10:1, Good to Bad. So hey – no complaints. Unless, of course, it happens to be a Bad Day. 

Today was a Bad Day. 

I was unable to fall asleep last night until, well, 7:30 this morning. Got a whopping three hours, which meant my emotional balance, and thus my outlook on life in general, was in the shitter. Jeff and Clare were both out, and as I lay on the couch crying for no discernible reason (see: Bad Days, above), I contemplated calling my mother and asking her to pick up a pizza for me so I could eat my emotions – despite the fact that I had recently asked her to ignore me if I requested anymore pizzas. (During these past five weeks of non-weight-bearing recovery from my first ankle replacement, Mom has been my PT Appointment Chauffeur, Grocery Shopper, and yes, Pizza Retriever.)

Just as I was about to dial Mom's number, the front door opened and a friend I don't get to spend much time with strolled in unannounced carrying a quart of healthy homemade soup. She breezed into my kitchen as if it were her own and put the soup on the stovetop before riffling through my cupboards and drawers to find a bowl, spoon and napkin. She then delivered a hot nutritious meal to me on the couch. A completely unscheduled, yet perfectly timed, visit. 

She wasn't able to stay long, maybe a half hour max. But in that brief period of time she managed to completely shift the trajectory of my day with her positive energy, some meaningful conversation about learning to live with uncertainty, and yes, her soup. I felt as if I'd been graced with a visit from the Mary Poppins of food for the soul. 

Today, as it turns out, was a Good Day. 

Thanks, Michele.

Michele, aka The Mary Poppins of Food for the Soul

Lighten Up!

Years ago, I spent an evening with a grown man dressed in spandex tights, dark glasses, and a big bulbous red outfit that was allegedly a blood drop. Thankfully, it was not a date.

His name was Elmer, and he was pushing 90 at the time. His jokes were bad and his singing worse. He was part of the “entertainment” at a blood center event in Michigan at which I was giving the keynote address. I like to think of myself as an engaging speaker but, truly, it was Elmer who stole the show that night.

For decades, Elmer had been the perfect example of a “loyal” blood donor. Every eight weeks he was at the blood center rolling up his sleeve. When he turned 87, he began taking medication that permanently deferred him from donating. And that’s when Elmer morphed into his new role as the joke-telling, hand-holding, off-key-singing blood drop that showed up at blood drives to help ease the tension for first-time donors by sharing a laugh with them. Can you imagine any first-time donor being nervous once they laid eyes on him? At times, the joke was on Elmer: More often than not, people mistook him for a polyp!

In my work with blood centers over the years, I’ve seen some fairly bizarre stuff – and by bizarre, I mean fun! I’ve seen grown adults shouting out their financial pledges just to see a colleague get shaved. I watched a blood center CEO take a pie in the face for the sake of employee morale (my own hand might’ve been on the pie tin at the time). I’ve seen a blood drive recruiter wear more red at one time than should be legal (you know who you are, Dan). I’ve witnessed collections staff forming instantaneous human pyramids and blood recipients dressing as bloodhounds and howling their way around town on scavenger hunts. And two weeks ago at the Association of Donor Recruitment Professionals’ meeting, I saw Wayne’s World mullets and teased-out Cyndi Lauper hair, parachute pants, and off-the-shoulder new wave tunics being sported by a group of crazed blood banking professionals on a jam-packed dance floor. All this “bizarre-ity” adds up to a heck of a lot of fun.

Let’s face it: Working to save lives through blood transfusion is serious business. Those who work in blood banking have all met the patient with a remarkable medical story involving massive amounts of blood. Or the doctor working in a rural community who ran short on O-neg. Or the parent who lost a child after years of cancer treatments involving regular transfusions. Many have experienced the scare of a severe blood shortage, or the challenge of managing donor turnout after a horrific event like the Virginia Tech shootings, 9/11, or Hurricane Katrina.

All too often, those of us who work in "life or death" situations--whether it's blood banking or critical care in the hospital or disaster relief--feel the weight of our responsibility on a regular basis, and we lose touch with the lighter side of our personalities. After all, patients are depending on us, so we must take our work seriously.

But that doesn’t mean we must always take ourselves seriously. So I say: Lighten up! That, and impose an age limit on wearing spandex.




Download a PDF of the first 4 chapters of Lauren's memoir, Zuzu's Petals: A True Story of Second Chances, FREE here.  Click on the link below the green "Buy the Book" button.  Happy reading!  

Sure Beats a Transjugular Liver Biopsy

I have the dubious honor of having had five pieces of my liver removed through my neck.  While wide awake.

See, when your abdomen is so bloated with hemorrhaged blood and other biological gunk that it’s impossible to perform a liver biopsy directly through the belly, the docs take a detour. Through the neck.  Using the jugular vein as the pathway, they thread a tiny cutting device down to the liver. Then snip, snip, snip—five angel-hair-pasta-sized pieces of liver are pulled out of your body.  Through your neck. And to answer your question: yes, it hurts. Considerably.

But there’s a bright side to having had a transjugular liver biopsy. That jerk who cut you off on the freeway?  Suddenly, his rude actions seem less, well, jerky. The shirt the drycleaner ruined?  No big shakes. By comparison, there simply aren’t that many things that can top a transjugular liver biopsy in terms of ruining your day. So after my six-week stay in the intensive care unit back in 2000, “sure beats a transjugular liver biopsy” became my new philosophy when things didn’t go quite as planned. But all good philosophies must be put to the test.

Several years ago, after a couple of really great days speaking at various Community Blood Center events in Dayton, I found myself running through the airport to catch my flight. It was the last one of the day and I was headed to meet my husband and daughter for a family get-away.  We had even synched our respective flights to arrive at our destination within the same hour. Breathless, I made it to the airport ticket counter only to learn that they had given away my seat even though it was still half an hour before take-off. 

I argued, I pleaded, and then—I cried. Not that crazy thrashing about sort of crying made popular by the woman in the YouTube video (you know the one).  Just a few quiet tears of sadness and resignation that I discreetly wiped away. And then it happened. I heard that small still voice within—you know, the annoying one that insists on shoving its two-bit wisdom at you when you least want it.  In a whimsical voice, it said: Sure beats a transjugular liver biopsy!

At that point, I actually began laughing.  Right there at the ticket counter.  I’m certain the woman helping me thought I’d lost my marbles.  When she handed me my new boarding pass for a flight the next day, I thanked her profusely and walked to the hotel information kiosk to secure a room for the night. I started to think of how nice it would actually be to curl up in bed, order a pizza, and watch a movie. Just as I fully accepted my fate of another night away from family, my cell phone rang. 

It was one of my new friends from CBC calling to make sure I’d made my flight.  When I told her “no,” she apologized and we said good-bye.  But two minutes later she called back to ask if I knew that the city I was scheduled to meet my husband in was less than a four-hour drive away. No, I didn’t—and I love to drive!

Twenty minutes later, I was behind the wheel of a luxury sedan equipped with satellite radio, bottled water, and a bag of Doritos. With Donna Summer and Gloria Gaynor as my road trip companions, I spent four glorious hours driving and singing all of my favorite ‘70s disco tunes at full volume. It wasn’t what I’d planned, but it sure did beat a transjugular liver biopsy.

Go ahead: steal my philosophy.  You know you want to.  And you’ll be glad you did.




Download a PDF of the first 4 chapters of Lauren's memoir, Zuzu's Petals: A True Story of Second Chances, FREE here.  Click on the link below the green "Buy the Book" button.  Happy reading!