If Health is Wealth, then I'm broke!

In 2020, I finally made a move I’d been putting off for far too long: I found a new orthopedic doctor in Frisco to look at my shoulder. At the appointment, I told him I was having pain in both shoulders and numbness in my hands. He ordered MRIs for both shoulders and my neck. When I came back for the results, he looked at me and said, "We need to deal with your neck first. You’ve got disc issues—C5 and C6. Shoulders can wait."

He referred me to a local spine doctor, who took one look at my scans and had me scheduled for surgery within weeks. I had a disc replacement surgery, spent one night in the hospital, then went home to recover. Most of my time was spent in my recliner—it was the only place I could sleep comfortably without putting pressure on my shoulders. That chair became my nest.

But as the weeks dragged on, the pain didn’t go away. My body hurt, my spirit cracked, and the darkness started creeping in. I wasn’t working. I was stuck at home. Even the simplest tasks, like using the bathroom, were excruciating. The phrase "I hate my life" started slipping out of my mouth more than I’d like to admit. I began spiraling. One night, I turned to Johnny and said, "I think I need to be admitted somewhere. I’m scared of what I might do."

I reached out to my psychiatrist and explained how low I was. He suggested TMS Therapy—Transcranial Magnetic Stimulation. I was desperate to feel better, so I agreed. My insurance covered it, and I started treatment almost immediately. TMS required me to show up five days a week for seven weeks, and even though I’m not usually great at sticking with long-term commitments, I went every day. Sunburns, bad days, bra-less or not—I didn’t miss a session.

At first, there was a lift in my mood. Then, a crash. I panicked. "Is this even working?" I asked the tech. She reassured me that the dip was normal and to keep going. So I did. By the final week, something shifted—I was singing along to songs in the car. Just small things, but enough to feel like myself again.

Because I responded well, the clinic offered me three more weeks of sessions. And by the end of it, I felt strong enough to get my first tattoo. It says "continue"—but the "i" is a semicolon. It symbolizes a life that could’ve ended, but didn’t. That’s what this book is about. That’s what I’ve been doing all along. Continuing.

But just as things got back to normal, my shoulder flared again—bad. The MRI showed a small rotator cuff tear. My ortho said, "Shots won’t cut it anymore. You need surgery." So we booked it for January 11, 2021.

Post-op, I couldn’t do anything for myself. I had a catheter, needed sponge baths, couldn’t even feed myself. My recliner became my prison. Texas was hit with an epic winter storm—rolling blackouts, freezing temps, burst pipes. Our neighbors’ home flooded, so they moved in with us—kids, pets, and all.

As I healed, I developed pressure sores. Then, a raging bladder infection. Oral antibiotics didn’t work. I needed a PICC line. The insertion was brutal. I had a full-blown panic attack.

After weeks of IV meds, I started to feel better. Johnny and I even made it to a Red Sox game in May. It was glorious—sunshine, baseball, and feeling alive again. But the next day, I felt off. Sore throat. Fever. I thought it was a sinus infection. Then I spiked a fever.

After 5 days of feeling awful, I ended up calling 911. The EMTs dismissed me—"Just the flu," they said. I insisted. At the hospital, they assumed kidney infection and admitted me. Days passed. I kept throwing up. On my 43rd birthday, a nurse spotted redness on my thigh. Scans revealed a staph abscess in one of the pressure sores on my behind. Emergency surgery followed.

When I woke up, I had a hole in my butt the size of a fist. The wound leaked constantly. They sent me home that weekend—no supplies, no help until Monday. Predictably, the dressing fell off. Back to the ER I went. Finally, one of the doctors realized we weren't equipped to handle this on our own at home and I was admitted to rehab.

While we waited on the wound vac approval, Johnny learned how to dress the wound. My friend Kerry helped too. I never looked at the wound. She said it could fit a large apple. I believe her.

The vac—aka "Kirby the Yuck Sucker"—finally arrived. I dragged that thing everywhere. Then came another blow: bone infection. Another 13 weeks of IV antibiotics. When insurance cut off home health, I found a wound clinic and started hyperbaric therapy. It was two hours a day, five days a week. I hated it. Skipped often.

I was still dealing with the wound, the PICC line, the antibiotics. My mental health spiraled again. Johnny never flinched. He held me through every breakdown. Through sickness and health—he meant it.

That September, my symptoms returned. New doc, new PICC line, new antibiotics. Then came horrible diarrhea. I thought it was C Diff. ER tests said no—but I was so sick they kept me. A plastic surgeon was consulted and saw my chart and suggested flap surgery. Finally, hope.

Surgery was scheduled for mid-November. Afterward, I spent 5.5 weeks in a special bed filled with sand and forced air. I couldn’t sit up for more than 15 minutes. After three weeks, I moved to rehab. I showered for the first time in over a month. Glorious.

Two days before Christmas, I was discharged. Johnny had decorated the whole house. We had a beautiful holiday. When he left town for a wedding, my sister and mom came to help. I spent four months alternating between sitting and lying flat.

In March 2022, I noticed blood again. The wound had reopened. More clinic visits, more bandages. That’s my reality now. Thin skin, fragile healing. But I manage.