I have discovered recovery is more difficult than being ill. I am in the land of “almost well”, a state as close to purgatory as I can imagine. The difference between almost well and healthy is a sheer  mountain wall, technically difficult and requiring great strength. The difference between illness and almost well is a gentle poppy field like the one in the Wizard of Oz, easy to cross, yet vast and with many rest stops. The illness is a narcotic, blunting the endless trek to almost well. I suppose there must be a boulder field with jagged rocks before one runs into the monolithic wall of almost well. The effort is takes to climb the small boulders clears the mind and gives one false hope. The boulder field, for me, had a few fields of poppy, where I stayed, stupefied and disheartened once again. I also found a few trails, where I got a fleeting glimpse of normal.

It has been nearly three years since my tick bite. 2016 was the worst year. I earned a whopping $1000 for the year. I don’t remember large portions of the year. The fact that I wasn’t remotely aware of how bad it really was is the narcotizing effect of a serious illness. For some Lyme patients, especially those of us who did not get a quick diagnosis, doctors use the words “chronic Lyme disease”, or “post-treatment Lyme disease syndrome” (I like that one, wordy and scold-y at the same time). I’ve been denying my status as one of those who might be chronic. I had to think about what “chronic” means, as it pertains to Lyme. If I google these terms, I get a long list of sites with vague definitions that mainly discredit the notion that it exists. It does. I’d love to not have relapses, or slides, or persistent, chronic fatigue. I like to pretend I’m just fine, but that doesn’t work, either. There are a lot of theories about this. Fuck theories. They don’t do jack shit for making me healthy.

The tone of my discussions at the doctor’s office have changed. We talk about “plateaus” and “shifts”, as if Lyme were a geologic event. I need to once again obsess over my symptoms, or lack of them, to gauge whether I am having a relapse (shift), or holding steady (plateau). My big fear is that I will plateau at almost well. Almost well isn’t awful. At this point, unless I have a seismic shift downwards, I won’t die of Lyme. The chronic, almost well part is the fact that sucks. It means I will always have to manage my energy and my health. It means I will be a delicate flower, getting enough rest and good food, and not getting stressed out. BORING! But definitely manageable.

If I sound a little whiny, I am. I feel a lot entitled to my whininess, until I think about other people I know. Almost well would be a dream to some of them. I know this, yet I persist in feeling cheated. Cheated out of what, exactly? There are no guarantees that me or anyone will live long and perfectly healthy lives. Lyme has insured that I will take care of myself for the rest of my life, and that’s not a bad thing. Sometimes I meet people who have had very few health challenges. My dad comes to mind. He’s now had three surgeries, but before his knees were replaced he had had one back surgery in ’79 or ’80. He is not happy when his body isn’t working. He’s not a bad patient, but a resentful, reluctant one, as if these things should not be happening to him.

I’m not knocking my dad. His fighting spirit and unwillingness to fold are some of the many reasons he’s happy and healthy at 88. I don’t have that luxury anymore.  I’m not going to waste my energy on resentment disbelief. Because I am pathologically optimistic, I am going to assume (as I do in every bad situation, even when it’s obviously false) that I will plateau at normal. I now have the luxury of deciding what is important to me and making sure that’s what I do. Is it my house, or traveling? Do I like where I’m living? What do I really, really want to do that I haven’t done yet? Jumping out of a plane? Hell, NO. RVing? YES. Two questions answered. There are a bunch more waiting for me.




I run hot and cold on trusting my intuition. There have been times when I know down to my bones that I am doing the right thing. Other times, I waffle, unsure if I can trust my gut feelings. Intuition is a slippery beast, a decision based on feelings, without evident rational thought or interference. I borrowed the last part of that sentence from Merriam-Webster. Rational thought is considered far preferable to intuition in our linear Western way of thinking. I always get into trouble when I try to apply logic to intuition. The best case scenario is one where logic reinforces my intuition. As if that ever happens.

There’s another dimension that I wouldn’t have seen at first, if my friend Morgan hadn’t pointed it out. She is a fellow lifeguard, a debater and one smart cookie. The monkey wrench is what I want or need. How many times have I ignored my gut feelings because I wanted or needed something? Or thought I did? A helluva lot more times than I care to admit. So much, in fact, that at times I have lost faith in my ability to intuit. After all, I can’t seem to stay married, my writing hasn’t set the world on fire, and I am struggling to define a new life. That is not a great track record.

On the other hand, I have a circle of fabulous friends, a close relationship with my daughter and dad, and a stable life. Dating is…interesting. It is as much about who I am as it is about finding the right person. I’d argue that figuring out me is harder than finding the guy, but so far, the race is neck and neck. How much can I trust my intuition on this front, especially in the age of electronic courtships? Can I read between the lines and see what is, or is that placing a layer of both logic and want over the whole thing? Or am I overthinking everything?

Words can be arranged to present whatever I want to the other person. I can make myself a far better person with words. So can he. So can anyone who is a wordsmith. I can think about what I want to say, and there are no nonverbal signals to agonize over. On the other hand, (I always feel like Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof when I do this…) sometimes the distance allows for a candor that would be hard to achieve face to face. I think texts and emails are epistles in hyper-speed. What would Jane Austen have done in modern times? And why in the world would I sometimes prefer texts and emails to a real live date?

It’s not a preference, but a reality. I don’t go out and simply meet someone based on their picture and a few paragraphs of bland description. I test the waters with words first. Some men are not writers and they drop off the radar fairly quickly. Others are terrific writers, but they are too this, or not enough that. The few that make it through that gauntlet get a face to face. This all sounds brutal, and to some extent, it is. Fortunately, aspiring writers have tough hides. I know now that some rejections are personal, but most are not.

Not sure how this turned into a dating blog, but I do know how Lyme ties in. I spent a lot of time denying my intuition. If I had trusted it, I would have demanded a thirty-day course of Doxycycline the minute I showed flu-like symptoms after my tick bite. I did not. I spent a further year ignoring and denying the strange symptoms that cropped up: tingling in my hands and feet, bizarre aches and pains in my joints and muscles, eye problems, a sore throat, head and neck aches, etc, etc, etc. My dad and Katie urged me to fly to New York to get a diagnosis. I did. I cried when the doctor confirmed what my intuition had told me nearly fifteen months earlier.

Once diagnosed, I made it my business to read everything I could on Lyme. Then I made it my business to trust my intuition. I chose not to have insurance (far easier than you might imagine, and incredibly freeing). I am in charge of my treatment, in collaboration with my Lyme Literate MD, who embraces the whole body approach to illness. I take pharmaceuticals, because I have to in order to kill the three bugs industriously multiplying in my body effectively. I do acupuncture, because it relieves many of my toxicity symptoms. I take many herbs and supplements, because they add subtle, real support to my sick body. I don’t eat dairy, gluten, or sugar. I don’t drink alcohol or caffeine, because all these dietary changes keep my body from being inflamed. I don’t care what other people do, I trust my intuition that these are the right things for me.

I’m going to take this newfound confidence in my own intuition and apply it to dating, writing and life in general. I’m working on not putting my wants and needs first, or applying too much logic into the equation. I will not overthink. I’ll have to give that some thought. Shit. That one’s gonna be a problem.




If I were to characterize myself, I’d be the grasshopper in Aesop’s Fable #373, “The Ant and the Grasshopper.” The grasshopper dances and frolics all summer, while the ant toils away, gathering food for the winter. When winter comes, the cold and hungry grasshopper begs the ant for food and shelter, and is refused. The moral of the story, of course, is the daily grind is a far worthier pursuit than fun and games. I have trouble with this concept. I’ve been content to drift along on the gentle waves of a privileged life. Being content is not a recipe for professional success, however. My friend Laura and I talk about this often. Neither of us would say we were ambitious, an almost shameful admission in America. When I was younger, I chose a path that suited me, that of corporate housewife. We moved every couple of years, so I worked part-time, usually at jobs that had some benefit to the family: free childcare, free gym memberships, or discounted clothes and gear. I took pride in being a good housewife. I drifted. Things changed.

Lyme disease, as in every aspect of my life, forced me to reevaluate. I am now in a big hurry to “do things”. And by doing things, I mean being true to myself and not being afraid. Life is short. I know that now, at the solidly middle age of 58. Maybe part of this hurry IS middle age, the tidying of loose ends that were neglected earlier. Most people toiled away and neglected friends, family and fun. I was fortunate to have the opposite equation. We could get into a whole discussion of whether the trade-off of marriage was worth it, but why? I can’t change my choices, nor do I want to. I have been able to experience life events fully without the interruption of a job. I was present during my mother’s illness and her death. I have helped my parents through surgeries and moves and have gotten to spend time with them. I was able to torture my daughter by being there for most of her life. Okay, there was that time I forgot her at her math tutor’s house and maybe I was late for a few things, but I was there. My not working allowed my ex-husband to concentrate on his career, and while that didn’t work out so well for me in the long run, I still don’t regret it.

What changed? There was no epiphany, nor was there one cataclysmic event. There were a series of small events. A marriage foundering slowly. An only daughter leaving the nest. A random afternoon spent watching the Westminster Dog Show with the daughter. The announcer told the story of the Hungarian Komondor, whose long, corded coat protected the sheepdog from wolf bites. She thought that was fascinating, and from that a germ of an idea sprouted. I started to write a book about Golden Retrievers. Believe me, if I had known how hard writing a book was, I never would have done it. I slowly dipped my toes into the waters of the writing world.

While I wouldn’t recommend a serious illness to anyone, I am once again grateful for Lyme, and especially for neuroborreliosis. The reawakening of my once inflamed brain has produced both an urgency and sharpness of thought that has been highly beneficial to my writing and myself. Man, the above sentences are a testament to silver linings. I can hardly imagine how anyone could benefit from losing one’s mind for an extended period (say, longer than an acid trip), yet I did. What I do with this newfound urgency is an ongoing struggle. I am not fully recovered. Energy and stamina are precious commodities in my world. Writing about my past, especially the physical and sexual abuse, is surprisingly exhausting. Dating is exhilarating and exhausting. Taking care of myself and my home is calming and exhausting. Looking for a “real” job falls to the bottom of the list for now. Lifeguarding will have to suffice as I put myself back together. I don’t have an old life to return to. There is no loved one, no job, no “normal.” I was in the throes of reinvention when Lyme hit.

It has taken years to discover my voice, and what I must write. I was my own worst enemy. When I think of all the time I have wasted doubting myself when I was younger, I cringe. Oh, I still doubt myself, often and with great energy. The difference is that doubt doesn’t stop me. I must write, and I must write about deeply personal things. Is this what ambition feels like? Or is this a form of self-therapy, or personal flagellation? I could have chosen an easier path. The arts are no way to make a living.

The metamorphosis from ant to grasshopper continues. I know I shortchange myself, it’s a problem. I work much harder than I let on. I also think waaaaay too much, as any friend of mine knows. As I attempt to embrace the thorny new normal, I will remind myself that I’ve survived happily for most of my life as a grasshopper,  dancing, frolicking, and experiencing life.