The Recovery Room

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. 

I had my first heart attack on a Tuesday in June of 2018, but have no fear! I am not about to drag you through years of my boring medical history. I only mention this, because that particular heart attack failed to get my attention. It was no big deal. It took several hours for me to figure out that I was in trouble and even longer for me to get to the ER where they rushed me into surgery, to implant stents into my clogged arteries.  After that, I languished i n the hospital  for a couple of days, where my most earnest question was "When can I dance?" The hospital staff thought that was a funny question. Everyone did! However, my dance family who rallied around me soon after my surgery, did not! They were sympatico. We were Latin dancers and to us, dancing was akin to breathing. Bailar! Bailar! Some of us were to perform that weekend and the show must go on! And it did! Five days later, I was back on the floor performing and dancing. I danced and danced! In fact, I danced lik...