June 27 is a day when I celebrate life and health -- by being mindful of how quickly life can change and how fragile health can be.
This date fell on a Tuesday in 2000. At 6 p.m., I'd finished my shift at my day job. I was on my way to my car, chatting and chuckling with a co-worker, when all of a sudden my left arm went numb. I could walk, speak, read and write, but when I felt the numbness spread throughout my left side, it became clear that I needed an ambulance to take me to the ER.
What I had was called a transient ischemic attack -- a small stroke. A ghastly series of tests at UW Hospital showed that a blood clot the size of a rice grain had traveled through a congenital hole in my heart that I didn't know I had, and lodged in the right side of my brain.
Yes, I was overweight. But my weight didn't contribute to this condition. About one-third of the population, I was told, has this hole in the heart, from where the umbilical cord was while we were in the womb. It's supposed to close up after birth, but often it doesn't, but usually it doesn't cause problems; many people who have this condition, including me, never have so much as a slight heart murmur.
It would be about 20 months before I would have surgery to correct the heart defect. I used that time to work on my weight and activity, and in doing so, I was well prepared for surgery and for the five-week period that I set aside for recovery.
I'm thinking about my TIA more than ever now, because it taught me two lessons, which seem at first blush to contradict one another.
Lesson 1: Much of our physical health depends on how well we care for ourselves. When I was a girl, I belonged to an organization called Camp Fire, whose law included an admonition to "hold onto health." So yes, self-care is our responsibility.
Lesson 2: Even people who are diligent in holding onto health can lose it in the blink of an eye.
And when we do, all the energy that we (and sometimes the people who love us, and our health care providers) invest in placing blame for our health crisis would be more judiciously invested in healing.
There was, actually, a third lesson I learned from my TIA, which applied equally to the osteoarthritis that crippled me 16 years later: Give this condition its due, but no more. Acknowledge that something bad happened to your body -- something that might change what you can do, and how you can do it. Deal with it. But don't let it own you.
I realize that with some serious, chronic and excruciating illnesses, that's easier said than done. But even if the disease takes over your life, it shouldn't define you. Or own you.
As I did with my TIA, I do now with my osteoarthritis -- I call on professional healers for help, but see myself, and God, as the principal sources of healing.
And I don't take health for granted, but nurture it, hold onto it -- and enjoy it.
This date fell on a Tuesday in 2000. At 6 p.m., I'd finished my shift at my day job. I was on my way to my car, chatting and chuckling with a co-worker, when all of a sudden my left arm went numb. I could walk, speak, read and write, but when I felt the numbness spread throughout my left side, it became clear that I needed an ambulance to take me to the ER.
What I had was called a transient ischemic attack -- a small stroke. A ghastly series of tests at UW Hospital showed that a blood clot the size of a rice grain had traveled through a congenital hole in my heart that I didn't know I had, and lodged in the right side of my brain.
Yes, I was overweight. But my weight didn't contribute to this condition. About one-third of the population, I was told, has this hole in the heart, from where the umbilical cord was while we were in the womb. It's supposed to close up after birth, but often it doesn't, but usually it doesn't cause problems; many people who have this condition, including me, never have so much as a slight heart murmur.
It would be about 20 months before I would have surgery to correct the heart defect. I used that time to work on my weight and activity, and in doing so, I was well prepared for surgery and for the five-week period that I set aside for recovery.
I'm thinking about my TIA more than ever now, because it taught me two lessons, which seem at first blush to contradict one another.
Lesson 1: Much of our physical health depends on how well we care for ourselves. When I was a girl, I belonged to an organization called Camp Fire, whose law included an admonition to "hold onto health." So yes, self-care is our responsibility.
Lesson 2: Even people who are diligent in holding onto health can lose it in the blink of an eye.
And when we do, all the energy that we (and sometimes the people who love us, and our health care providers) invest in placing blame for our health crisis would be more judiciously invested in healing.
There was, actually, a third lesson I learned from my TIA, which applied equally to the osteoarthritis that crippled me 16 years later: Give this condition its due, but no more. Acknowledge that something bad happened to your body -- something that might change what you can do, and how you can do it. Deal with it. But don't let it own you.
I realize that with some serious, chronic and excruciating illnesses, that's easier said than done. But even if the disease takes over your life, it shouldn't define you. Or own you.
As I did with my TIA, I do now with my osteoarthritis -- I call on professional healers for help, but see myself, and God, as the principal sources of healing.
And I don't take health for granted, but nurture it, hold onto it -- and enjoy it.
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