I did not die from the massive heat attack I had in July 2025, but I spent the next few months wishing I had. I was not suicidal, but I was in a dark place, "If only I would just stop breathing," ran through my mind like a runaway train. I was living with the fact, that I did not get there by accident. I was at least fifty pounds overweight and struggled to maintain the status quo. I had learned nothing from my 2018 heart attack and I was stubborn. I refused to take my meds, or follow a heart healthy diet or lifestyle. I hadn't seen my cardiologist in years. I had gone completely rouge and I deserved everything I got and probably less than I deserved. I had a broken heart, both figuratively and literally and my only option was open heart surgery. Okay, don't look so glum. I lived! This story is about survival! I'm getting my life back Actually no! It's more than that! It's about getting my happy, dancing, skinny pre-covid life back! So buck ...
I fell apart during the isolation that Covid demanded. Like the proverbial rug, the dance floor was abruptly pulled out from under me. While my dance shoes collected dust, my acrylics went to hell and my hair extensions fell out. I began to live for five o'clock, when the universal cocktail hour made it legal to treat myself to a glass of wine or three. I got hooked on uber-instant-dash food delivery. And just for fun; I woke up one morning with sudden onset vertigo, fell, bruised a few ribs and broke my shoulder. After that, I was so pathetic that I lacked the strength to open my mail. That's when I figured it was time to stop holding back and really commit to feeling sorry for myself. When I had a nervous breakdown in his office, my wide-eyed and terrified doctor handed me a script for antidepressants. The meds did precious little for my fragile state, but don't worry. I did gain fifty pounds.