40.1.2

(Start with Part I. Thank you for your curiosity.) 

15. A fresh manicure will always make me feel better.

16. I’ve never been formally evaluated or diagnosed but I’ve long suspected I may be somewhere on the autism spectrum. The more I’ve read about autism, particularly how it presents in women, the more I’ve recognized familiar experiences. Many women aren’t diagnosed well into adulthood because their traits often differ from the traditional (aka male) diagnostic profile. What I once thought were personality quirks have started to feel like something more. 

17. My secret to making friends is being a curious listener and sharing homemade baked goods. 

18. “Star Wars” is life. Say what you will about the franchise but the films offer genuine insight into politics, power and resilience. “The Phantom Menace” is an unsettling parallel to certain patterns in our current administration (I’ll be forever a prequels girlie).

I have the Rebel Alliance symbol tattooed on my right wrist as a reminder of what the series represents to me: the importance of standing firm in your convictions, even when the odds aren’t in your favor. “Andor” has only reinforced that argument. It’s not just the best “Star Wars” series. It may be one of the best pieces of television ever made. Please watch it if you haven’t seen it already. The show follows Cassian Andor but it is the female characters that make the story. They’re all badass. 

19. Procrastination and self-doubt are my two biggest weaknesses. Physically, I can’t do a pull-up to save my life. But I am working on it.  

20. I believe everyone should, at some point, work a retail job during the holiday rush or wait tables over a chaotic summer. There’s no better education in patience, humility and basic human kindness. Also, you’d build better habits of cleaning up after yourself and have a deeper respect for the people who do this work every day. 

21. I cry almost every day. I think it’s healthy. 

22. I believe reading is one of the greatest privileges a person can have and it’s a privilege too often taken for granted. Millions of adults struggle to read at a functional level and it breaks my heart when I hear people think reading is boring. Reading has always been my favorite escape from reality. Right now, I’m in the middle of “My Sister, the Serial Killer” by Oyinkan Braithwaite. I’ve been trying to read more African authors lately and her novel is a compelling read so far.  

23. I mentally play a game every day that I call “Stroke or Perimenopause,” where I try to pin a new bodily betrayal on one or the other. Frozen shoulder. Flash migraines. A sexual libido that vanished. Fluctuating vision. Increased irritability. Which is which? I wish I could figure out what to put the blame on. I miss the body I had in my thirties.

24. “A lot of millennial women are quietly grieving the life they thought they’d have by now.”

I recently came across that line in an IG Reel. It felt uncomfortably familiar and articulated something I’ve struggled to put into words: I’m grieving the life I once believed was waiting for me. There is no tangible loss, no definitive ending. Just the gradual realization that the life I once considered inevitable will most likely never arrive. 

When I was younger, I imagined becoming a serious journalist, writing for a Condé Nast publication, traveling the world and reporting on stories that mattered. I dreamt of having a career that represented everything I found romantic about journalism: dangerous, purposeful, intellectually demanding and grounded in the belief that telling someone’s story could matter. 

But the journalism world changed fast, and I quickly realized that making it the way I wanted it to took connections and privileges I just didn’t have, no matter how hard I tried. So I put that dream on the back burner and focused on the dream I figured was actually within reach: finding the right guy and building a happy family together. 

I don’t know why I thought it would be so easy to find my future husband. I certainly dated a lot and have been in relationships with some wonderful men. But nothing stuck. Soon, I started to regret the times I took the morning-after pill or encouraged condom use, wishing I could conceive a child. Years of therapy later, I get it now. I wanted that dream family because my own childhood was a mess and I’d been chasing this vision of domestic perfection since I was a little girl.

I know I’m supposed to be grateful for my life as a single woman. I have a lot of freedom. I know that too many of my girlfriends who married in their twenties now are getting divorced. Something still feels like it’s missing, though. A stable career that I’m proud of and/or a loving, connected family. 

With that said, I love writing and collecting stories. But I still don’t know what I want to be when I so-called grow up. I’ve always had a firm belief that I can do anything and everything. I could be a prolific journalist and a great mother. The ideal partner and maybe do something political (the only thing that holds me back from that dream are the naked photos of me on the internet. I’m not ashamed of them. People are just more prudish than they want to admit). When I moved to Austin eight years ago, I wanted to immerse myself in the city’s filmmaking scene, doing everything from acting to producing. Even though I’m counting the days until I exit Texas, filmmaking is still calling my name. I don’t have much of a voice anymore but I still aspire to sing. I’m still considering becoming a nurse. Or maybe a teacher. Possibly have my own business baking treats or starting a foundation for unwanted animals. I’ve always hated how people would limit themselves to just one thing and I never wanted to be like that.

Maybe I’m delusional. Who cares? I just don’t know where to start.

25. I’m trying to watch a movie a day and log it in my Letterboxd account. My top four movies are “The Silence of the Lambs,” “Bambi,” “Josie and the Pussycats” and my favorite movie of last year, “Twinless.”

26. I don’t know much about the other zodiac signs, but I know I’m a classic Pisces: compassionate, intuitive and creative. I’m also an escapist and overly sensitive. 

27. When I was twelve, my mother told me that someday she would become my best friend. I rolled my eyes at the idea then but adulthood has a funny way of proving your parents right. 

28. After my stroke, it took me two weeks to relearn how to walk again. I try not to take walking for granted again and do my best to get in 10,000 steps a day. I like to start my mornings with a long walk and eventually, I’d like to incorporate some strength training into my routine. I am nervous about overdoing it, though. I’ve become a bit of a hypochondriac post-stroke and I have this radiating gut feeling that a heart attack will kill me very soon.

29. I watch ASMR (Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response) videos to help me sleep. My favorite channels are ASMR Twix and Springbok ASMR. 

30. I used to love clothes. I blame the women of “Sex and the City” for the small fortune I spent filling my closet with outfits I absolutely did not need. My biggest splurge was on a pair of Italian calf leather wingtip Oxfords that I’ve only worn thrice. They live in a nice shoe box deep in my closet.

40.1.1

1. My dream car is a 1973 Plymouth Barracuda in cherry red (I already own the matching red lipstick and nail polish). Despite not owning a vehicle, I’m in love with cars. Their craftsmanship. Their speed. I dated a man who rebuilt one and upon completion, he let me drive it. It was one of the few moments of my life that I felt powerful and cool.

I do want to purchase a vehicle in the near future. A vintage Hemi Cuda is definitely impractical and out of my budget. I’ve been looking at cheap electric vehicles (I hate to contribute to more pollution and these gas prices are ridiculous). However, I honestly don’t know where to start and am terrified about being financially fucked by a seller.

2. I haven’t been writing. The arthritis that developed in my hands after my stroke makes typing painful some days. Even more so, I stopped trusting that I had anything worth saying. I’ve struggled to recognize myself as a writer this past year. I don’t always feel particularly interesting. Sometimes, my life reads less like a compelling story and more like a series of setbacks. A bitter and immensely critical cautionary tale. I question whether anyone would care about what I have to say, especially when thoughtful writers seem to be everywhere. Everyone has a Substack now. What could I possibly say that hasn’t already been said, if not better? 

I miss writing. It’s one of the few things that I’m actually good at. Instead of searching for the perfect subject, I’ve decided to begin with the one thing I know best: myself. I spent hours rereading old entries on this blog, revisiting the woman I was throughout my thirties. She was ambitious, stubborn, hopeful, heartbroken, resilient and often far more courageous than she gave herself credit for. This piece is for her. It’s a collection of thirty things I know to be true about myself and maybe a way of finding my way back to the writer I thought I’d lost. 

3. My last meal (in the style of the Mystical Kitchen interviews) would be arroz con gandules, maguro toro sashimi, an iced coffee with a splash of oat milk, baked macaroni and cheese (my Dad’s recipe), a tuna melt on wheat bread, a Mexican Coca Cola, chicken nuggets from McDonalds, pork pan fried dumplings from Vanessa’s Dumpling House NYC, a warm brownie with a scoop of vanilla ice cream and a frozen margarita with a heavily salted rim.

4. I have never paid for a Netflix account even during the company’s physical media days. I was introduced to The Pirate Bay years ago and I never looked back.

5. I don’t consider myself a Texan. I never truly connected with the state in that capacity. I do consider myself a Nevadan (more specifically, a Las Vegan), a New Yorker (I did live in the city for a hot second… Knicks in five!), and a Jersey Girl (I was born in Trenton). More importantly, I do call myself a proud American even though I think the United States could be so much better than it currently is. 

6. This summer, I hope to learn how to double dutch. I’ve wanted to learn for years and I feel like jumping rope would help with my balance issues. Anyone want to practice?

7. I’ve been working on a book for the last fifteen years. I wrote the first chapter my freshman year of college, in a writing group where I was one of only two girls. I wrote a murderous tale meant to “out gore” the male writers in the group. They were genuinely unsettled and encouraged me to turn the short story into a novel. I’m hoping to finally finish it by the end of the year. 

8. Country music taught me how to sing and harmonize.

9. My cat, Canela, is named after a deer.

10. It took me twenty years to learn how to work with my hair instead of against it. Well into my mid-thirties, I straightened it every day, fully aware of the damage I was doing but unable to let go of the habit. 

The confidence to wear it curly came one summer out of sheer laziness. I was physically exhausted with the act of straightening every day. That small shift opened the door to actually learning about my hair: researching what my 3c curls needed and discovering that something as simple as air drying and a good leave-in conditioner could work wonders. 

11. I always seem to find my way back to some shade of blonde. At least once a year, I reach for the hair dye and go nuts.

12. I’ve hand sewn over twenty quilts for friends and family since I was a teenager. There’s an artistry to fiber crafts that I’ve always found deeply grounding. Plus, sewing has helped immensely with building dexterity in my hands since my stroke.

13. I’m eagerly anticipating the Coen Brothers’ next full-length feature. Not to diss their solo work but it’s when the two of them are together that the magic happens. The Coens sit at the top of my list of directors, with my favorites of theirs being “Fargo,” “No Country for Old Men,” and “O Brother, Where Art Thou?” (which is my favorite interpretation of “The Odyssey.” Sorry, Nolan). 

14. I’m a registered Independent. I was a Democrat since Gore vs. Bush but left the party after the first Trump election. I became increasingly disillusioned with the rigidity and polarization of the two-party system, valuing independent thought over party loyalty. I do still consider myself liberal at my core, though. I left the party, not the politics.

15. I often wrestle with the question of why I’m here. What is a meaningful life supposed to look like? For a long time, I assumed the answer had to involve creating something extraordinary or leaving behind a tangible legacy. Lately, though, I’ve begun to wonder if purpose can be quieter than that.

Maybe I’m here simply to love. Maybe my contribution to the world won’t be measured by great works of art or a family tree that stretches long after I’m gone. Maybe it’s found in the people whose lives are made a little lighter because they crossed paths with me, especially when they need love and kindness most.

If that’s all I’m meant to leave behind, I hope that will be enough.

(Stay tuned for Part II.)

My Stroke Story

It was six in the morning on the first of August. I woke up early to go on a bike ride even though I usually slept in on Fridays. I hopped into the shower to wake me up. I turned on the water, stood under the showerhead for a minute or two and then, felt dizzy. I fell to my knees and immediately vomited. Fuck, I have Covid again, I thought. I turned off the water and went back to bed, thinking that I just needed some rest and could sleep off the spinning feeling. The bike ride could wait.

I woke up a couple of hours later, feeling off. My head spun with this grinding pain behind my right ear. My mind wandered, thinking maybe I punched myself in my sleep (it wouldn’t have been the first time). I wondered if I should go to the emergency room. I don’t have health insurance and a hospital bill seemed more frightening than what was going on in my head. I opted to go back to bed, waking up two hours later unable to move my body. The right side was paralysed. I couldn’t walk. I couldn’t talk. My roommate called the paramedics, who brought me to a nearby hospital.

I went to the hospital without a cell phone. That was my biggest mistake as I could have advocated better for myself if I had one. But I trusted the emergency room team to give me the right diagnosis and proper care as they took blood samples and had me do a CT scan. I laid on a gurney in the ER hallway for four hours, waiting for the results, silent and motionless. My entire body felt weak. I could feel the swelling in my neck that limited my speech. I tried to sleep then but I couldn’t get comfortable. After what felt like a lifetime, the ER team came up with a conclusion. I had gastritis, an inflammation of the stomach lining, and I was being sent home.

My first day of physical therapy

I pleaded with the ER staff, insisting it was something else. I know my body. I’ve had stomach pain before, badly in some instances. I knew that I didn’t have gastritis. I wish that I knew what those nurses were thinking at the time and why they didn’t believe me. Maybe because I’m a woman of color. Maybe because I was alone. Perhaps they thought I was drug-seeking. I’ll never know.

I was sent home in a Lyft ride. A nurse rolled me out to the car in a wheelchair as I repeated in my hoarse voice that I couldn’t walk up to my second-floor apartment. She ignored me. My driver didn’t speak English and with my subpar Spanish, I couldn’t explain that I needed help up the stairs to my home. When I exited the car, I sank to the ground. The driver drove off and I looked around the parking lot for help. There was no one. Using the strength of the left side of my body, I dragged myself across the dirt patch in front of my apartment building and up the stairs to my unit. I struggled unlocking my front door but I eventually made my way inside. I dragged myself across the living room and into my bedroom. I was exhausted and fell asleep on the floor, only waking up when I heard my roommate come through the front door a few hours later. He helped me into bed.

The only things that I had the strength to do over the next few days were to sleep and research my symptoms. One time I had to urinate. I dragged myself to my bathroom and bashed my head on the doorframe, resulting in a large gash on my right temple. I had rug burns and deep bruising on my knees. Doctor Google pointed me in the direction of a stroke but since the ER team was convinced that I didn’t have one, I believed so, too. I started researching severe ear infections, respiratory illnesses and meningitis. I had to figure out what was happening to me.

Luckily, the paralysation of my right side only lasted for two days. I was able to slowly maneuver to the bathroom using a stand-up vacuum cleaner as a cane, a genius idea from my roommate. Some friends came over with food and well-wishes. I couldn’t eat anything solid nor drink anything thin. I lost 25lbs. The Wednesday after that visit to the ER, my roommate helped me to an appointment with my primary care physician. After more blood tests, I learned that I had a dangerously low iron count, as well as a pretty bad UTI. But my doctor insisted that I was just experiencing a bad migraine. Again, I was sent home.

That Saturday rolled around and I was pissed. Although I was walking around with the aid of my vavccum cane, I was still feeling awful. I missed a week of work and was eager to get back. I hated being bed-bound. I decided to try another doctor. Maybe the third opinion was the one I needed. My friend drove me to an urgent care center. The medical team there couldn’t perform any tests (they didn’t have the proper equipment) but the doctor was convinced that something was wrong. He insisted that I go to the emergency room again. I went to another hospital’s ER and was immediately seen. I quickly had another CT scan which showed that I indeed had a stroke. I was admitted to the hospital that night.

I had a transient ischemic attack (also known as TIA), a temporary blockage of blood flow to the brain. I spent nine days in the hospital getting treatment, with my biggest issues being unable to walk correctly and not being able to swallow. I had a feeding tube installed for seven days.

I wasn’t given an exact explanation for the stroke, as I was told I had numerous ailments that could have caused it: a small heart murmur and a birth defect where my skull doesn’t align properly with the top of my spine (this is misalignment could have crushed a blood vessel in my brain). I didn’t know that I had either of them. I was an occasional smoker. I have since quit. Stress is also a factor and I live a pretty stressful life with work, friends and school (I did take the semester off to heal).

I’m healing even though I don’t think it’s fast enough. The brain fog is real and I’m beyond exhausted every day. I have a migraine that won’t go away. Initially, I had to walk with a walker but I don’t anymore. I still struggle walking down stairs, though. This is due to Pusher’s Syndrome (my brain can’t correctly recognize what upright is and causes me to lean to the right). My vision has been impacted. So have the nerves in my hands. I once was able to differentiate hot and cold with my fingertips. Now, I just feel this tingly sensation, if at all. A couple of weeks ago as I was curling my hair, I nearly gave myself a second-degree burn on my finger. I didn’t feel it happening to me but I smelled the burning. Also, because my vocal cord collapsed, I have some swallowing and speaking issues. I miss my singing voice most of all. Singing is what I do to self-soothe when I’m sad and struggling.

Day two at the hospital

I feel like my body betrayed me in so many ways. Before my stroke, I thought that I was pretty healthy. Yes, I smoked (only a cigarette or two at most days) and I didn’t have the best diet but I was active and am young. Life certainly happens to us while we’re busy making other plans. In my research, I learned that I have a very high chance of having another stroke. I can’t help but think about how the next stroke will leave me permanently paralyzed or rob me of a normal brain. I can’t help but wonder what ailment is going to hit me next. My thirties have been bookended with health issues. I joke that a heart attack is next. My birth mother had seizures- will I have them now? I once took pride in my independence. Now, I wonder if I’m too independent and maybe should move back home to be closer to my mom in Nevada in case anything else happens.

I’ve always been skeptical of people who say they don’t trust medical professionals. I thought, how can you not believe people with years of education and experience to guide you through a medical crisis? I don’t know if I believe that anymore. The number of incompetent medical professionals I have dealt with during this entire experience has been astounding. I still can’t get clear answers from doctors. I’m still waiting for certain treatments. I’m not proud of doing so but it wasn’t until I yelled in a doctor’s face that I received a procedure that I was waiting days for. I’ve read that the loss of feeling in my hands could have been prevented. Maybe if the first emergency room I went to had realized that I had a stroke and I wasn’t without care for all of those days. I was going back to school to be a nurse. I don’t think I want to do it anymore. I worked with so many inept people in tech and journalism. I can’t do so in healthcare, especially when lives are at stake.

Despite the pain, physically and emotionally, I’m finding the humor in life post-stroke. My friends help. I feel like I would have died without the aid of my roommate. One friend calls me Kiddo now after I told him how I pulled myself up the stairs that first night and tried to slap my body awake. I received a lot of visitors at the hospital. Many have donated funds and their time to take me grocery shopping or to doctor’s appointments. I’m in a support group that encourages laughter and daily silliness. It was both surprising and humbling to see everyone who showed up for me with their love and support.

I’m moving forward and going back to my normal life. I went back to work. I’m going out. I’m making plans to be back on my bike by the start of the new year. I know that I’m making strides with my recovery but I’m still terrified. Post-stroke, my anxiety has quadrupled. My brain storms with the thoughts of more appointments with doctors who don’t listen and new fears, including the one where my body doesn’t go back to its normal self and well, death (there is no better bonding experience like planning your funeral with your mom). I hear my large hospital bill calling my name from the depths of my monthly unpaid bills stack on my desk. I still wake up in pain most mornings. I cry almost every day. I remind myself every day that healing isn’t linear. I don’t know what my future looks like but every morning I get up, put my feet on the floor and try again. For now, that’s enough.