Given it’s post-performance evaluation time where I work and manage a team, the premise of ‘taking stock’ has been on my mind a lot lately and part of several conversations I’ve had throughout the spring.

While taking stock of what one has accomplished over a period of time is essential for quarterly check-ins and annual reviews, it’s also something I think is important to do semi-regularly in every area of our lives. Here’s why: In the throes of everyday activities and life itself, it’s easy to miss where we’ve progressed and where we haven’t and why.

While the latter is certainly an important component to consider, it’s even more important to assess how far we’ve come and recognize, if not out and out celebrate, it. I don’t know about you but my to-do list feels neverending, somewhat daunting at times. If I only focus on what I haven’t gotten to yet, I miss out on all that I have done and don’t take time to reflect on what I’ve done and why it’s meaningful to me. And those details matter.

This is a practice I got into many years ago, at a time in my life when it felt like I’d never get ahead let alone stay on track and keep my head barely above water. And its origin came from an unlikely place: Anger.

I had asked a favor of someone close to me, a favor that had been hard to ask. When I did, the person to whom I made the request agreed to grant it but also decided to give me a bit of a lecture too. Their thought was had I been more responsible all around in my life, I wouldn’t have found myself in this position to even have to ask the favor. Now, asking something of anyone can come with being beholden to that person—I get that–and I recognize the importance of listening to a well-meaning response, particularly when the person is doing what we’ve respectfully asked on our behalf.

I generally can humble myself and accept whatever feedback comes my way. But this time I got pissed.

The comment had stung and at first, I felt a bit of shame. But the more I thought about it, the angrier I got. The favor I requested was of benefit to someone vulnerable in my family and it came about when an unexpected opportunity showed itself to help that person. I just wasn’t in a position to make it happen on my own given it had been unexpected, and it wasn’t because I had been irresponsible in any way. I had, in fact, taken on more responsibility in my life during that time that might even have been reasonably asked of anyone and done a decent job handling it all. So yeah, I was pissed

And I thought about all the other highly responsible things I had taken care of for several years at that point, largely on my own, and truly took stock of those accomplishments, many of which were stunning in that I had managed to pull them off somewhat successfully at all. I thought about the tangible things as well as the subtle.

To be honest, I had been so busy taking care of many things for what I felt like interminable time, it hadn’t dawned on me before then to let go of what I had been feeling—rather alone, often unsure, and sometimes even ashamed that I wasn’t handling everything better than I was. I hadn’t even allowed myself the grace to understand the gravity of all I had in front of me and to give myself any credit for what I was accomplishing. And it was plenty.

As I took stock, personally and professionally, I felt myself begin to ease up a bit on wanting to push myself even harder and to actually take some time to say to myself, “Look at all you’ve done despite the challenges.”

To allow myself a sense of pride in what I had done, what I had taken care of, even when I had doubts. And I wrote it out, sharing it with the person who had been the impetus for this self-evaluation. Shockingly enough, I received an apology for what had been said to me. They had looked at my world through their eyes and hadn’t taken in the full view. It was a learning experience for us both.

Since then, when I’m feeling frustrated or overwhelmed in any area of my life, I stop and reflect on where I was at one time in relation to that area and where I am now. I look closely for the gains I’ve made and also give some real thought to where I might have done something differently to move further ahead than the progress currently made.

I try not to compare myself to others. That can be a hard one for all of us. Desiderata, an essay that I have turned to again and again throughout my life, notes: “If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter.” If I gauge my life against someone else’s it can lead me down all sorts of roads I’m better off not traveling.

Taking stock is a form of self-care, really. Whether it’s noting all the learning and professional development we’ve engaged in over a period of time, or simply focusing on how far we’ve come with a hobby, spending time with loved ones, or reaching a book goal, that assessment matters. And it feels good to see what we’ve achieved, shoring us up to continue on, realizing we can do all kinds of things we may not have been sure we could see through.

I can be hard on myself. But reflecting on where I’ve been and where I am now is one measure that provides a healthy form of self-appreciation—and it gives me confidence as well as the desire to keep moving forward and understand all that I am capable of doing and being.

Way back when I was in fifth grade, my teacher noted on my report card that I was a social butterfly, talking too much in class. Now, if you know me now, you might find this easily believable. But back then, I was a friendly but studious kid, seldom receiving anything but positives from my teachers.

The only time I recall anything requiring my parents’ attention for even slightly bad behavior (and yes, this would change in my teen years) was when I tried to make someone laugh in first grade by putting a tiny blue sea shell in each of my nostrils and inadvertently sucking them high up into my nose when I inhaled laughing. My godfather removed them with an extra-long needle-nose plier and told me to never do that again.

Well, then there was the time in third grade when my teacher had to speak to my parents because I was upset I hadn’t gotten any A+ grades, something she didn’t believe in offering. They had made regular appearances on my report card throughout second grade. I was convinced this third grade teacher didn’t think I was smart enough to earn them.

So when my mom read what Mrs. Albanese, my teacher, had to say, you can imagine there was a quick talking-to in the works for me. I insisted I wasn’t socializing during class and my mom was equally insistent that the teacher wasn’t making this up. I was adamant I was not talking with friends but rather asking my classmates what it said on the chalkboard. I couldn’t see what it said and my classmates could. “What do you mean you can’t see it?” my mom asked. I didn’t know why; I just knew that I couldn’t.

An eye doctor appointment confirmed why. Turns out I was nearsighted and would need glasses. I took this news like a death sentence, and for a relatively obedient child, I wouldn’t even pick out frames to try on. So my mother sprang into action and chose light-colored cat’s-eye frames that she thought were super attractive. Sure, if I was a 60-year-old secretary maybe. But, I had my chance for something cool and young and I certainly didn’t take it. My stubbornness won me what I felt were the absolute worst pair of glasses ever.

When we went back a week or so later to pick them up, I begrudgingly put them on to ensure they fit well. I looked in the mirror and hated them even more on the spot. My mom said I looked beautiful. I looked at her like she was the craziest person ever. I walked to the car like I was on my way to the electric chair, eyes cast downward, barely a glance ahead.

Once in the car and on our way home, I raised my eyes to look dejectedly out the window and suddenly, I could see everything. I forgot what a funk I had been in and focused on what was, well…now completely in focus. And I went from a sullen kid to someone who now seemed to have the key to the universe—and in my excitement, I started calling out everything I could see, reading road signs, restaurant and store signs, remarking on the vivid colors around me.

Now, my mom, who I’m sure had been understandably annoyed by my less-than-stellar behavior at the optometrist, suddenly had tears in her eyes as she navigated our way home. She felt incredibly guilty that my vision had been that poor and she never noticed. I’m certain I hadn’t given her any clues though, and while pretty talented in many areas, she certainly wasn’t a mind reader.

I’d like to say that my abhorrence of wearing glasses immediately went away but it sure didn’t. I loved being able to see; I just didn’t want to wear the glasses that allowed it. I was pretty nearsighted from the get-go and needed the glasses primarily for distance. Whenever I had to put them on at school, I’d do my best to hide they were on and would peer at the chalkboard with my hands held straight on either side of my face thinking no one would notice them, not realizing I was doing more to call attention to myself.

And yes, there were some boys that started calling me four-eyes but I thought they were dumb anyway and wasn’t surprised by their behavior. It was bad enough I had to start wearing a training bra that year and between calling me names and trying to pull my back bra strap at recess, I was far from impressed by anything that boys my age did or had to say.

In time, those awful cat’s-eye frames would lead to cool wire-rimmed glasses (it was the 70s after all), and I felt less conspicuous and grateful that I could actually see when I needed to. And while I started wearing hard contact lenses early in my high school years (green tinted to enhance my already green eyes), over time I’d evolve to soft lenses for a very long time.

I loved being able to wear contacts, especially for the beach and other places where glasses were a detriment. My eyes continued to worsen throughout the years and with so much time on screens eventually, my eyes didn’t adapt well—somehow, I seldom blinked—and it was glasses once again full time. Like anyone else with lousy vision, sure, I wished I didn’t have to wear them but it was necessary if I wanted to see.

Not a big deal, except for the cost, of course. By now, my vision necessitated tri-focal prescriptions, adding up to $800 sets of glasses. Even with good insurance, I’d have to pay half of that amount. In more recent years, the onset of online eyeglass retailers, offering far less expensive options, made eyewear purchases more regular and a heck of a lot of fun.

Except suddenly, a few years ago, I noticed even with glasses I couldn’t really see as well. Mentioning this to the optometrist, I was told cataracts were forming and a new prescription wouldn’t change my vision for the better. I remember thinking, “Cataracts? Surely I can’t be old enough to get cataracts,” a thought made in ignorance because I had no real knowledge of what cataracts were or if they had any particular age range associated with them. I only knew it was a word I’d heard older people say, like my mom’s age, not mine.

Another year went by and I’d notice driving or at shows that things didn’t look as clear as they once did. It was frustrating and so at my eye appointment last summer, I brought it up once again only to have that word ‘cataracts’ appear again. The context was also repeated; that even with stronger lenses it wouldn’t make a difference and this time it was explained why. And this time I listened.

It turns out that the cataracts had worsened but the good news was they were in a place for surgical intervention. Now, if you’ve read anything earlier in this Substack, you know I also had potential brain surgery on the table, too, and was like…holy crap, what’s next? At least this surgical procedure seemed relatively simple, and heck, I’d be able to see better, too. Sounds like a win-win situation

Then it was casually mentioned that there were a few different outcomes I could consider; one being regular cataract surgery and I’d see better once again with my glasses, or I could choose from a couple of different lens options that could restore my farsightness or nearsightness. Well, that was certainly interesting and something I never expected to hear. When asked if I’d like to set up a consultation with the eye surgeon, I quickly said yes.

I learned the particulars behind each option and the costs associated with each. I opted for nearsighted correction given that’s where my vision was the worst. I will tell you I struggled briefly imagining what not wearing would be like. I’d been wearing glasses since I was nearly 10; would anyone even recognize me without them?

And it was a bit pricey to get both eyes done, given my insurance didn’t cover this type of lens. But then I thought about being able to swim and actually see, and while I don’t exactly swim every day, the very idea of being glasses-free at the beach or lake was a possibility I couldn’t wait to have.

Two procedures were scheduled in January, two weeks apart. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have full vision in one eye for two weeks and not the other, and it proved as odd as I thought it might be. Even with one lens popped out of my glasses for the corrected-vision eye, just the slight difference between one eye needing a corrective lens a short distance from my eye and the other not brought about a wacky depth-of-field variance.

Bright lights, and my computer screens, irritated my eye and I found myself working without lights on in my office and the screens dimmed. I wasn’t sure of my walking at first and didn’t drive for nearly a week. And while certainly not the end of the world, I couldn’t wear mascara until my one-week follow up exam and if you know me at all, I never go without mascara.

Waking up or showering after the first procedure felt like a science experiment. I’d lay in bed and open one eye, close it and open the other. The pre-surgical eye without glasses saw fuzziness while the post-surgical eye could see everything clearly. The only difference that kind of freaked me out was the color tone of my vision. The new lens eye seemed to have a polarized filter. The pre-surgical eye saw things in much warmer tones. Turns out the warmer tones were caused by the cataract, which essentially provides a yellowy cloudy hue across the eye lens.

The procedures themselves were fast as can be; maybe 10 minutes each and nothing that caused me any concern. Other than medicated eye drops for a week or so twice a day, the follow-up care was a breeze. Once the second eye was done, I was stunned how clearly I could see. The weird depth-of-feld issue dissipated immediately and my eyes didn’t have light sensitivity in the way the first one initially did. Other than needing to wear sunglasses in the bright sun, it was like I hadn’t done anything to my eyes at all.

Waking up with what was now 20/20 vision was astonishing, and it took me months to stop trying to take my invisible glasses off each night before bed. Like. how could I possibly be able to see clearly as I got in bed. I’d put one leg in and attempt to remove my glasses and end up poking myself in the face or eye since no glasses were there. To shower and actually not use a Braille method to shave my legs has been pretty astounding. To go to shows and see everyone clearly on the stage.

I haven’t gone swimming yet but man, I can’t wait to dive in and actually be able to see. And then being able to wear store-bought sunglasses (I may already have 3 pairs) and put them atop my head like everyone else when I go inside and still be able to see. To not have to pack spare glasses when I travel, lest something happen to the ones I was wearing. The possibilities feel endless and it makes we wonder why I had to wait to have cataracts to be able to see well again is baffling; I know I had never been a candidate for Lasik, but gosh, if this is so simply possible, I wish it had been done so many years before.

As much as I love this new vision (it had been 20/70 before), there’s one thing I hadn’t quite expected and it’s how vulnerable I feel sometimes now. I never felt I was hiding behind my glasses—I’m not exactly a shrinking violet—but there was something about having that extra layer between me and the world.

My eyes and face feel exposed in a way I’ve never felt before, like suddenly I have this naked face that wasn’t fully seen before and at times it takes me aback as I said, makes me feel a bit vulnerable, like everyone now can see just me. There’s nothing to hide and it’s not like I want to, but it’s a new sensation for sure.

Mostly I feel a lot of wonder, you might say wide-eyed at all I can see. This was something I never expected one day I could have and I’m super grateful to look at everything through a new lens.

We thought we had seen a thing or two thus far in Alaska, but some of the best was yet to come. Next stop was Skagway (and its infamous Red Onion Saloon), starting with a small boat excursion, followed by a lengthy ride in an old school bus up to Chilkat Bald Eagle Preserve in Haines. The boat ride itself took us through incredibly gorgeous-hued waters to an area where we’d meet up with our raft guides for the bus to Haines.

Now, one thing that I was quickly drawn to, no matter where we went, were the folks from all over the country (perhaps even the world) who came to Alaska to work. There was everyone from the super-eager college students—starry-eyed with all kinds of plans for building seasonal experience across many fields before hopefully embarking on a career as a naturalist or environmentalist of some sort—to the people who perhaps never quite felt a comfortable fit in the day-to-day confines of society. They were on a quest for something more, and many didn’t seem to know exactly what that something more actually was; they just knew what they had experienced thus far in their lives wasn’t for them.

Our driver and raft guide seemed to fit the latter. They had a grunge look to them, almost latter-day hippies really, except they drank really good coffee in reusable mugs and had a bag of small-batch artisanal chocolates perched on the grimy bus dashboard. I got a kick out of the whole vibe.

We had met someone earlier in the trip who had a restless look to his eyes. I don’t know what brought him to Alaska but the circumstances he consigned himself to include housing with about 30 other people, camp or dorm style with many bunk beds in one not-so-big house. He wasn’t loving it but he needed to be outdoors and away from whatever he had left behind. I have thought about him more often than he’d imagine, along with so many others we met, and would love to return to Alaska one day to do a documentary on its seasonal workers and what compels them to this route.

Back to the adventure at hand: Ahead that day, we were floating by raft through the bald eagle preserve for about 3 hours, with no responsibility really other than to sit safely in the raft and not fall overboard no matter what popped up from the water, manipulating the raft. It seemed simple enough. I woke up that morning with an unsettled stomach and knowing what lay ahead—and the almost-assured lack of bathroom facilities—I opted to self-medicate with enough Imodium to firmly ensure there would be no emergencies that day or many days to come. Don’t try this at home, kids. I also decided to lock all of this down by not eating much of anything, only bringing a protein bar along with me and some water.

As the old school bus pulled to a halt, we quickly disembarked and got our safety vests and big-ass rubber boots. Now, it wasn’t like we each chose a pair that were made to order sizewise or anything. Given my natural lack of grace coupled with oversized boots, I damn near took out my friend and another person or two on the gently sloping descent to the water.

I approached this raft trip with a lot of confidence, having spent ample time on the water in kayaks over the years. Yet with my awkward-fitting boots and safety-vest bulk, as well as my clumsy trek to the water, I found myself hoping I could manage to get on the big raft without making a complete ass of myself—or worse, slipping backward into the water.

Our raft guide was a young guy of smaller stature, who had taken the bus ride up with us. He hardly looked strong enough to bear the girth of the five of us in his raft. Looks proved deceiving, even in his first season as a guide. He was wiry and energetic, having passed any training requirements and then some. Add a slight chip on his shoulder, borne by some back home who questioned the common sense of his Alaska adventure. He clearly had something to prove that summer, and as we made our way through the preserve he shared a bit of his back story and that some of his family was coming up that very afternoon for the first time to see him there. And yes, he would take them out on his raft.

We also learned that his mom was a bit of a badass, having accomplished some pretty incredible physical feats in her own life, so it seemed this guy came by his longings and aspirations straight from his earliest days observing her actions. I’d put my money on him any day.

Thinking about what we had heard earlier from the man living with 30 roommates, I asked about his living conditions. Oh, he said, there’s a lot of old school buses like the one we rode into the preserve. The guides apparently lived on those during the season, which runs from April to October. That’s cool, I said to him, then asking how he liked living on the bus. He clued us in that because it was his first year, he didn’t get a bus; he slept in a tent. Imagine being in a tent in Alaska in April. No matter that he had a really warm sleeping bag. With the thawing snow, he ended up waterlogged more times than not early on, awaking to a soggy sleeping bag. He seemed to take it all in stride.

So what was our raft trip like? Pretty uneventful overall (which is good!), given the river treated us pretty well and we had no one go overboard in our raft or the others. Imagine floating for three hours, sometimes the water proving a bit precarious, yet with bald eagles everywhere in the trees and on some of the lower surrounding land masses. The area itself was just beautiful as well as the air we breathed—fresh, unspoiled and just lovely.

I was a bit disappointed as we neared the end of the river journey. The company had been good, the views incredible and there’s just something so magnificent about an experience like this.

It’s funny; I’m probably the least-outdoorsy person you’ll ever meet. Remember, I had to buy clothes and shoes to accommodate some of these adventures. But I loved every minute I was outdoors in Alaska and crave being there once again in a way I hadn’t anticipated. I think about it every day, and yet, we hadn’t even visited Glacier Bay yet or for me, the ultimate: Denali.

And yes, we did go to the Red Onion Saloon.

As I was getting ready to start my day this morning—on St. Patrick’s Day—my thoughts were with my parents, who were both of Irish descent and took great pride in being Irish. I realized I wasn’t wearing green and quickly changed my top lest the spirit of my mom, who always dressed in her holiday colors and greatly encouraged me to do the same, somehow might rise up and smack me upside my head for forgetting.

Suddenly, though, something else came to me.

Today also marks 25 years since the last time I had a conversation with my father. Riddled with cancer at this point, it would be just 9 days more until his passing but that St. Patrick’s Day, we hadn’t a clue death was lurking so closely.

Months before, in mid-October to be exact, my father had a seizure in my parents’ home. It may well have been on his birthday. I’m not clear in my memory at this point, but I do know I had visited the day before to celebrate his birthday on a Sunday afternoon. So it was much to my surprise to receive a phone call later the following day from my mom to tell me what had transpired and how he had been transported to a Massachusetts hospital. I left work immediately to meet her there and called my husband and children with the news.

My eldest son was in his freshman year of college in the seacoast area of New Hampshire and with one phone call from me, he was suddenly by my side in the emergency room. I couldn’t even fathom how he got there so quickly.

After a series of tests, we learned why my father had a seizure. It was a brain tumor— cancerous—and he would need surgery quite soon. I remember being incredulous that he had a diagnosis so fast.

I had just entered into remission from non-Hodgkins lymphoma a few months before and it had taken weeks upon weeks to receive my diagnosis. My brother also had cancer at the same time as me and was in remission as well—how could it be possible that my dad was now stricken with cancer?

He did have surgery fairly fast and then radiation. Over time we learned he had lung cancer, not surprising given he had been a heavy smoker throughout his life and had emphysema. We had no clue, however, the cancer could also manifest in this way and affect his brain. There had been no warning before the seizure, or if there was, we certainly didn’t know.

While at face value, it seemed like my dad was doing better, post-surgery, my mom was privy to the changes each day. It was clear that this would be terminal and it was just a matter of when.

My father was always a stoic man, and even when he had pneumonia or any other illness, he didn’t say much; he’d just quietly go to bed and sleep it off. He never said much about how he felt, physically or emotionally. The only thing I remember him ever saying was that he felt lousy in response to a question about how he was feeling when sick. Lousy. No discussion. I don’t know that he went into detail ever with my mom either.

Christmas Eve was always at my parents’ house and I knew that year, 2000, would be his last. He looked like hell and everything was bittersweet.

We got through the early part of 2001 and I visited as much as I could. I often emailed my mom, as well as calling, and my mom would print out emails and read them to my dad.

An avid reader, he couldn’t really focus on words these days and his beautiful penmanship took a bit of a hit. Later, we’d find pieces of paper where he’d been practicing his signature over and over.

Meticulous about his home, when he passed there was a list he had started earlier in the fall before in his wallet, noting tasks and projects ahead, each crossed off as he completed them. There were several he never got to.

He also had a big interest in visiting Painted Post, NY, a place where his family apparently had lived in generations before. He had gone to AAA to pick up a map and guidebook of the area, and had them stowed neatly away ready for the trip that never came.

A manufacturing engineer for a defense contractor before his retirement, my father was highly detailed and well organized in all that he did. Now, his mind wouldn’t allow for that type of detailed planning or execution and he was beginning to understand a bit more each day what was being taken from him.

On St. Patrick’s Day 2001, my daughter—then in high school—had a semi-formal she needed a long dress for. I somehow knew of a big formal sale at Filene’s Basement in Boston. We left early to get there shortly after it opened, ready to peruse the racks and find the perfect dress for her on a budget. And we did. I remember joking that morning to my daughter that we best wear green since we’d be going to Grandma and Grandpa’s on the way home.

I can still see my parents in that room, my brother’s former bedroom, which they made into a cozy little sitting room. My father loved that room and could usually be found on the loveseat there, watching TV or in the time before, reading. As his body weakened, he spent a lot of his time there given our family room was two flights of stairs down and it was hard for him to make the climb down or up now.

My daughter modeled her dress for them and my mom told her how beautiful she looked. My dad nodded in agreement and offered a typically understated comment, “Very nice.” Coming from him, that was high praise.

What I remember most about that visit was that my father was self–deprecatingly funny. While he could be funny, a wise guy at times, it was far from his usual persona. He was more apt to be serious, quite serious.

Yet, that day, he was making light of his decreasing cognitive abilities and joking about my mother not letting him do what he wanted even though he had done their taxes earlier that year and felt he had done well. I remember checking his math, though, at the time and was impressed by how sharp his mind still was. Even on his worst day, my father was smarter than most people I knew.

Looking back, I recall thinking that I wish my dad had always been this low-key, how much I was enjoying this conversation. While cancer was ravaging him, he was somehow lighter, maybe finally understanding the absurdity of life itself and how no matter what we try to prepare for, everything and anything—and believe me, that was a hallmark of his life —that we have little control so we might as well let the worry go.

When we left their house, I looked forward to seeing him again soon, not realizing in just four days I’d get the call from his hospice caregiver that he was nearing the end. I rushed to his side and already, they had administered enough morphine that he had slipped from consciousness, something I’ll never understand or forgive—why didn’t they wait for me to say goodbye?

But I stayed by his side for five more days, his passing when I left briefly to get some sleep, and I’m grateful for that last St. Patrick’s Day, when I got to talk with my dad one final time.

To say I was completely in awe the entire time I was in Alaska would be an understatement as vast as the landscapes before me there. After an incredible first day on the water, I found I had settled in nicely to onboard life. The ship didn’t feel as claustrophobic as I thought it might and while there were several thousand people on board, it was easy to find quiet, private areas to relax and get away from the fray.

I particularly liked the ship’s library, cozied up next to a small cafe. It felt like a small bookstore on water, except I didn’t have to buy anything and could borrow any book I wanted to read—and the selections were good. At one point that afternoon, I nestled myself in a deck lounger, snug with warm blankets enveloping me, and thought I’d dig into a new book. Instead, I just sat. I watched the water and just let myself do nothing but take in the sea air and just be for a while. It was the most peace I had felt in I didn’t even know how long.

It felt good, and especially after many months of way too much on my mind. For now, I would just stay absolutely present and forget everything else–and it sure didn’t hurt to be experiencing this with a fantastic travel companion and friend.

When you’re planning a trip, and you see photos of potential destinations and anticipated excursions, it does little to prepare you for what it feels like when you see it for yourself front and center. Such was the case with Ketchikan. Sure, I had seen the colorful pics of downtown, with its iconic arch, where we’d dock but waking up and looking out from our cabin to see it firsthand was beyond magical. We were quick to open the balcony door and get an even closer look, unobscured by the glass door. We were really here—this was Alaska, albeit a slightly soggy, raining version. Nothing could temper our excitement though.

Figuring out to actually get off the ship that second day was probably the most complicated thing we’d encounter the whole trip. I’m sure it was ridiculously easy, although we weren’t finding it so. Once on land, we trudged through the puddles, me who had the bright idea to wear blue mesh fabric Allbirds that day on my feet, which were immediately soaked. Oh well.

The rain lent a mist to the air and while the colorful buildings through Ketchikan sure stood out, the tops of many were hidden in the fog. There were bald eagles here and there atop light posts and trees.

We made our way a bit further down the harbor where we boarded a boat, I think called the Wilderness Explorer, which took us to the Misty Fjords National Monument. This was quite the excursion, a couple of hours, at least, each way through Tongass National Forest. There is something primitive and remarkably beautiful there, like we had traveled far back in time. Had I seen dinosaurs either in the water or on the land, it wouldn’t have surprised me. While it was still raining on and off, the weather was fairly mild and we paid no mind to getting wet once we reached our destination.

Remarkably quiet, the sounds around us were that of gently rushing waterfalls and graceful streams, the mist and fog clearing every so slightly as we grew even more wide-eyed taking in the sights on all sides of us. Again, peace coursed through me. Beyond the flow of water and the boat itself, there was a stillness in the air that felt almost humbling to take in. Already I was thinking about how funding for national parks had been cut over the past year, and I worried about the future of such sacred spaces.

Humbling is a word that stuck with me throughout the trip. The sheer magnitude of the spaces, the incredible beauty and wonder it invoked each day in me made me feel small in the best of ways and so fortunate to experience what we were. Two thoughts were prominent every day, throughout each day: Holy shit, I’m in Alaska and man, I feel so lucky to be here.

On the voyage back to downtown Ketchikan, I took in the various homes we’d see here and there, thinking about who might live there now. I had read a bit about the indigenous people, the original inhabitants, many of whom still make their homes there still. We learned about the types of salmon (the first of many, many conversations wherever we went), and the wildlife that also made its home in the region and even saw a bit of it.

When we landed back on shore hours later, we perused a few shops and got a chance to sample some local food and coffee, before heading back to our ship. While the ship felt tremendous in size to me, it turned out that ours, the Noordam, is one of the smaller ones, perfect for traveling into some of the regions we had ahead of us.

Trust me when I say that we took part in a fair share of shenanigans on board, especially enjoying the food and, most decidedly, the beverages. But the main attraction for us was what was off the ship awaiting us–and what a delight each day would hold.

Our next stop was Juneau, a place whose name has long made me giggle. The reason is simple and kind of ridiculous but when my middle son was learning his state capitals in elementary school, he somehow would get hung up on remembering Juneau. I came up with a silly remembrance, shouting out JUNE and then following up with A-U. It made us laugh and it quickly stuck with him. All these decades later, that’s how I think of it, every time I see the name.

We docked at Juneau in better weather and were excited for what was ahead. Again, we were greeted by colorful buildings throughout downtown. One building near the dock had a chairlift heading skyward, or at least that was the guess, since we couldn’t see much beyond 100 feet or so.

First up, we were going to Mendenhall Glacier, the beauty of which still takes my breath away, even in my memory. We had an opportunity to explore the area, hiking around a bit, and there was a visitor’s center, with museum-type displays, and far longer hiking trails. We were warned of wildlife in the area and to be on the lookout. Had a bear or two joined us, it would have felt natural (although only at a good distance away, of course).

This is apparently the only glacier in southeast Alaska that is accessible by road and it’s about a dozen miles outside of Juneau proper. While I was pumped for what was next that day, I was saddened to leave this gorgeous space and lingered a bit before reboarding our bus. Like much of what we saw, the glacier area felt like we were in another world altogether.

From there, we were heading to a small harbor and dock, where we’d board a smallish boat for a whale watch and steak and salmon barbecue at a place called Orca Point Lodge. The day had settled into warmth and full sun at that point and the water once again astonished me with its sometimes tropical hues. I had anticipated the deep dark almost blackness of the north Atlantic in Alaska and was stunned each day by the beautiful shades of blue and green that appeared.

We headed straight to the area where we’d be enjoying the meal, one of the loveliest spots with a beautiful cove. After docking, as we made our way to the lodge, I hesitated once again…was any of this even real? Everywhere I looked was beyond spectacular.

Staff scurried about at the lodge, creating a bountiful buffet, of local favorites and more. As we waited in line, someone walked by offering us what appeared to be giant cheese curds—I wasn’t a fan although others found them sublime. Despite many people’s best efforts throughout my adult life, I have never cared for salmon, but what excuse could I possibly have to not try it once again here. It wouldn’t get any fresher. And so I did, and it was actually pretty darn good. I may even start ordering it back home.

While I had been hungry and the fare was good, what I wanted most was to be back outside again in the sun. A small firepit was available for making s’mores, so I grabbed my wine and the makings of a s’more, along with a long fork and set to work. I can still feel the sun on my face, and the sticky s’more on my lips washed away by the remaining wine.

I hated to leave this tranquil spot.

We boarded again heading to see some whales. Now, when we booked this trip, I was certain we’d be seeing all kinds of whales. This time of the year, we were told we’d primarily see humpbacks and while we did see a few, I’ve certainly seen more of them here in the Northeast. While I would have loved to have been dazzled by more, there was no sense of disappointment.

Around us on every side was one gorgeous vista after another–and some sea life here and there—and oh, how I love being out on the water. Although it was starting to get pretty cold, I stayed atop the boat on its highest deck most of the way back. I didn’t want to miss a thing–and I wasn’t alone in that sentiment.

Next up: Glacier Bay, Skagway and Denali

It started as a simple conversation, sometime in mid-2019, on a Martini Monday at a local watering hole (and yes, that martini directly above is from that fateful day). We were talking about travel and how neither of us were necessarily drawn to cruises; in fact, I was vehemently opposed to travel on what looked to me like floating jails with hundreds of mini cells.

I did point out that I had one exception to this premise: Alaska. I would go on a cruise to Alaska. My friend felt the same. We may have been on our second rim-high martini when she said, “So, let’s do it.” We may have also leaned down for generous sips, before sealing the deal with clinked glasses and agreeing to make plans for the coming year.

Well, we all know what happened next…nothing. Nothing in the way of travel, that is, but certainly all too much throughout the globe in 2020 and beyond.

Since that initial conversation my friend moved many, many states away but we still saw each other at least once a year, sometimes more. We kept in touch throughout via text and social media, too. During a visit in the summer of 2024, I asked her, “Alaska, are you still game?” She sure was, and that was that.

Our planning was on again.

By early 2025, those plans became a reality and we were both excitedly anticipating a week-long cruise, followed by an overland 5-hour train excursion taking us to Denali National Park, where we’d also spend several days. Between travel to and from, we’d be gone for nearly two weeks.

We decided from the get-go to suspend any trepidation related to potential activities, and began looking into excursions that might push us a bit out of our comfort zone. Nothing crazy by any means–I own my lack of grace and athletic abilities–but we wanted to have some fun.

It was a busy year leading into the trip, which we planned for August. Summer felt shorter than usual, knowing we’d be away for the last two weeks of summer, especially with a focus on warmer clothing and travel supplies. I found myself in places like Sierra Trading looking at trying on items like Carhartt hooded insulated windbreakers, wondering who the heck was looking back out at me in dressing room mirrors. This was not my usual mode of dress.

I even packed two pairs of sneakers…although I knew Timberland sandals and warm socks would probably win out in real-life situations. Despite knowing the weather we might expect, we both overpacked to ensure we were ready for almost anything. I literally could have traveled for a month based on my wardrobe options.

Initial plans called for me to take an early flight to Vancouver, with a brief layover in Salt Lake City. While we were both on the same airline but leaving from two far-flung states, my friend had opted for a direct flight to Vancouver that would get her in that evening. As time drew closer, she questioned the wisdom of a later flight should there be any delays or issues that might not get her there before the cruise departed the following day. She changed her flight, and surprised me by saying she’d also have a layover now in SLC and would actually now be on the same flight for the second leg as me.

As luck would have it–and we felt this was a great omen–her seat selection was unknowingly next to mine. We ordered bubbly bevs after boarding and once again clinked glasses in anticipation of what was next to come.

I had the illusion that we would see a bit of Vancouver during our overnight stay there but instead we gave in to a bit of travel fatigue. We did dinner and drinks at a restaurant adjacent to our hotel, settling in earlier than anticipated for the evening. We had learned that we would be among the first travelers to board the ship, late morning the next day.

I’ll admit, as excited as I was about all of this, I still had a fair amount of cynicism about the cruise itself. Although I love being out on the water, I wondered how I’d feel on the ship for a week, and for all my boasting about having the constitution of a Viking on even the roughest waters, maybe I’d be humbled and actually experience motion sickness. I also kept having dreams for a couple of weeks before the trip about falling off our cabin balcony into the icy water.

SPOILER ALERT: I did not get seasick nor did I fall off the balcony. I did trip getting up off a deck chair at one point, damn near smashing my face across the railing, after spying two orcas off the side of the ship and jumping up forgetting my legs were wrapped in a blanket but I best not get ahead of myself.

Awaiting a message that we could go to our cabin, we went on deck to enjoy lunch and take in the harbor around us. What little I saw of Vancouver captivated me, and as we enjoyed champagne and light lunches, I marveled at the mountains in the distance and the seaplanes landing close by.

We settled in our cabin fairly fast post-lunch. I was surprised that it felt pretty spacious, but more so was stunned that all of my belongings actually fit in the closet and shelves. My wise friend had also brought along magnetic hooks that easily affixed to the cabin walls, allowing us to hang extra items neatly here and there. Between us, we had everything we needed and some extras we never touched, too.

I couldn’t wait to get underway. We enjoyed a brief sail away event featuring one of my favorites–Taittinger champagne, followed by dinner. As night moved in, I was excited to get some sleep and be on our way to the place that once felt like it would only be a longed-for dream: Alaska.

More to come.

I’m not going to lie. I almost titled this “August and Everything After,” because it felt so apt, but I also can’t pilfer the name of one of my favorite albums either.

I’ve never been good at asking for support, often because I think I won’t need it. I hate being vulnerable or feeling like I can’t handle something, sometimes to my own detriment. But I’m learning.

Case in point, I tend to just do things I need to do on my own. I’ve gotten some of the worst news of my life when I’ve been by myself. To be honest, I seldom consider ahead of time whether I should bring someone along should a situation go south. See above…I can handle it. And for the most part, I can.

But damn, it sure is nice to have someone occasionally to help shoulder the burden, the news, the situation, whatever it is, alongside me. My mother always said I was too independent for my own good, and perhaps she was right.

And it’s not like I don’t have anyone to support me or come along for the ride. I am completely blessed with family and friends I can really count on. When I made my preliminary trip to look into that whole acoustic neuroma thing, a close friend said she’d be happy to go with me. When I decided to make a fun overnight stay of it, I’m pretty certain she would have been down for that, too. But I didn’t ask. I just made my way up on my own.

Given how upset I was on my way home back in March, I figured it might make sense next time around to bring someone. Since it was a summer appointment, I asked my daughter if she and her two kids wanted to do an overnighter up there. Again, it’s not like it’s that far away but why not add some adventure to it?

Heck, we even discovered the best ice cream place in a neighboring town and went twice in two days, once the night before and once directly after my appointment. Spoiler alert: This place makes incredible house-made waffle cones in two sizes, and I’m not usually a fan. But at this place, I sure am.

Having come to grips with the whole surgery/no surgery scenario, I wasn’t especially stressed going in for this series of appointments. First, I’d do an MRI, then some hearing tests, and finally, meet up with the doctor. And, I planned on bringing my daughter in with me for that appointment. So, look at me, being proactive for a change.

Despite being claustrophobic, MRIs don’t bother me. I’m so blind that without my glasses I lose a sense of how closed-in I really am during the procedure and just chill, even with the noise. Okay, the MRI was done and off I went to do some hearing tests. At this particular facility, there’s a row of enclosed tiny rooms, each a space for hearing test inhabitants or those administering them.

Once inside this space, an audiologist prepped me for a variety of tests, using traditional headphones as well as smaller ones that had the output piece situated behind my left ear. That person left the room and took their place in another, ready to get started. Some of the testing was similar to what I had experienced earlier in the year and some parts were a bit different. There was also intentional background noise at times, which can make it harder for me to hear anyway. I had a feeling I wasn’t doing great in my responses.

The results showed quite a bit more hearing loss in my left ear (the acoustic neuroma side) and a smaller amount in my right ear. I’d later argue the point that perhaps the hearing loss wasn’t as significantly changed as it seemed simply because it wasn’t an apples-to-apples comparison; the tests were done at a different facility using different equipment—and there were additional tests that I hadn’t had before. I wasn’t denying any change but rather questioning if it was as extreme as it was being portrayed. Perhaps it had been nearly as bad before.

Then it came time to visit with the doctor, and I met up with my daughter to join me. The healthcare professional who initially joined us, said something about my daughter being on summer vacation from school, most likely referring to college. My daughter quickly responded that she wasn’t in school at this point in her life. As I was questioned about whether I felt any increase in symptoms, which I hadn’t, the person suddenly turned to my daughter asking if “mom was turning up the TV louder these days,” clearly thinking she still lived with me. Hello, I’m still in the room here.

Maybe the hearing test experience had darkened my mood. Or maybe I just felt like I wasn’t being considered a reliable witness to my own life. Before my daughter could respond, I said, “Ah, she’s actually a grown-ass woman with two kids and a home of her own. She does not live with me.”

And when the doctor came in, we went over all of the results. While the MRI didn’t reveal much in the way of growth, the increased hearing loss did concern him. My balance didn’t seem any worse, at least, but something in our conversation made me feel like I should re-consider surgery before my hearing decreased even more. One thing that had been made clear all along was that my hearing wouldn’t be restored but I would have a chance at saving what was there with the surgery.

We talked a bit about the procedure and the premise of a cochlear implant was brought up. Before that could be considered, I’d have to do an additional test, something called an ABR or an Auditory Brainstem Response test. Depending on the results of this test, the surgical procedure might be a bit different, especially if it involved a cochlear implant.

I agreed to move forward with the test, which was scheduled for early October, just a couple of days after I returned from Missouri where my son and soon-to-be daughter-in-law were getting married.

Given I had not been in favor of surgery when we made our way up for this August appointment, my daughter was understandably surprised by my about-face with the decision. We discussed it further, and she again offered their home as a recovery space for me for the month after I got out of the hospital. Knowing a busy fall was ahead, and that I wouldn’t be doing the ABR test until October, I mentally began considering January for the surgery. If I was going to do this, I wanted it to be done soon.

Fast forward to October. The quick ABR test, administered by a clinical audiologist, determined everything was in the normal range, resulting in normal ABR waveforms. I thought this was a positive and would allow for a cochlear implant, although I still wasn’t sure what any of this meant. I reached out to the doctor and was told he’d discuss it all with me at my next appointment in December. I didn’t want to wait that long to know more.

You see, around that time I learned my daughter and her husband were expecting their third child in the spring. Fantastic news, but it also made me realize that if I was having this surgery, I wanted to stick to the January timeline if possible so I’d have it done and over with before she was too far along in her pregnancy. So, I was more determined than ever to get some answers and move things along.

I messaged once again through the patient portal and was still told the doctor would discuss it with me in December. But, in the meantime, they could arrange for the neurosurgeon who would be part of the surgical team to meet with me. In early November that’s just what I did—and I brought a friend along for support.

While the neurosurgeon went into great detail about the procedure with me, he also asked me why I was having the surgery if I wanted to save what hearing I had left. If this was my intent, I should go the radiation route, he said. I was immediately flummoxed, since this was the total opposite of what I had been told by his colleague.

When I remarked on this and questioned the disparity, he said I’d have to speak to my doctor about it. Given they were part of the same surgical team, I was more than dismayed by the difference in opinion. I asked why a cochlear implant was being considered if the focus wasn’t on supporting the hearing I would still have. Again I was told to discuss this with my doctor.

Then he continued showing me the tumor, which parts he’d be responsible for removing, which part my other doctor would, and then shared who else would be on the surgical team and what their roles were. It would be a lengthy surgery, potentially 8 hours. He went into what could happen if brain fluid began to leak and the procedure to alleviate that situation.

Between these disquieting scenarios to consider, along with the anticipated post-surgical physical implications, and my newfound confusion about hearing outcomes, I walked out of the appointment feeling far more unsettled than anticipated. I had a good mind to go up a floor or two to my other doctor’s office to see if I could get some answers, but realistically couldn’t imagine I’d be able to pull him away from his schedule—if he was even there—to speak to me.

My friend had been nestled in the waiting room with a book. She looked surprised when I sailed out of the inner office, abruptly saying, “Let’s get out of here.” I asked if she’d mind forgoing lunch and heading straight to my favorite ice cream shop instead. She didn’t—and those waffle cones were once again a big hit. We may have each brought some home.

I contacted my doctor the next day, only to be told yet again we could discuss it in December. I said given the conflicting info received from the neurosurgeon I would not be scheduling surgery at all at this time. Completely frustrated and now amid the annual open enrollment at work, I decided I’d upgrade my health insurance plan to ensure I could go wherever I wanted going forward for medical care.

To confirm I made the right selection for the new plan, I reached out to my workplace insurance contact. As we discussed why I was making the change, she said she was pretty certain the medical facility in Boston I had hoped to go to was actually covered under our insurance plan.

As we continued to talk, I learned something pretty important: any questions about my plan should be made directly through the phone number on my insurance card; not to call the main customer service number or ask questions through the insurance provider’s chat option.

That’s probably why I was initially told the doctor I hoped to see in Boston fell under our plan. Then, when I got the appointment and was asked to confirm coverage, I did so through the chat and was now told no, the doctor wasn’t covered. Man, did I feel stupid. I refrain from making phone calls whenever possible and prefer chat options. In this case, my reluctance set me back many months and gave me experiences I didn’t need to have.

In the end, I didn’t have to upgrade my insurance plan at all. Amazingly enough, I was also able to get an appointment in Boston in early December, about 5 days before my scheduled follow-up in New Hampshire. I pulled my records and test results together to share with the new doctor.

There was an efficiency and care from the start of the appointment that felt different, and it felt right. I saw both a physician assistant and an otolaryngologist. The former asked me a question no one had asked before now, what was my goal in seeing them? What did I want to happen? I’ll have to admit I sat there a bit incredulous for a few seconds because that is seldom a question I’ve been asked in a medical setting.

While this is a busy medical office, I felt no sense of being rushed. I was examined thoroughly and had a couple of things included that I hadn’t experienced before. My records were reviewed, we had a good discussion, questions were encouraged, informative answers were given, and recommendations were made. Based on what we knew to be true at that time, there wasn’t a need yet to consider surgical intervention. Sure, I could do it if I felt strongly compelled to, but given the serious nature of the surgery and its aftermath, I had time.

This time around, I felt lighter, as if I was in really good hands and had a team behind me. And come June, I’ll go to Boston once again and do the full range of tests to determine the status of the tumor and my hearing at that point.

While I wasn’t pushed to do the surgery while being treated in New Hampshire, the vibe felt completely different and as if I should consider it. That may well have been on me and how I processed what I had been told.

I originally liked the otolaryngologist I had seen previously, too, and felt comfortable with him—that is until he put off communicating with me for a couple of months and then dismissed my request to connect after the confusing appointment with the neurosurgeon. I canceled my follow-up in New Hampshire and let the doctor’s office know that I wouldn’t be back.

As for me presently, once I left that appointment I was determined to put it out of my mind for a while. To focus on the holidays, and becoming a grandmother again in May. To make some plans for travel and also schedule two eye procedures in early 2026 that restored my vision in both of my eyes.

And I had a desire to start writing again, creating a Substack earlier in the fall. As the near year kicked off, I published the first entry. I thought it would be a good practice to keep a weekly cadence with my writing.

Shortly thereafter, I settled down in my bed one night to sleep. Suddenly, I became aware of tick, tick, tick. I kept hearing it in my left ear and these words started playing in my head: At this point in my life I’m more than aware of how quickly time is ticking by. What I didn’t expect, though, was to actually start hearing that ticking. And it kept repeating itself as I fell asleep. The next day, I started typing those words and much to my surprise, this whole tale came forward.

I hadn’t planned on sharing any of this publicly, and the second part nearly didn’t get published. Sure, I wrote it but kept saying to myself, “Seriously, you’re going to tell lots of people the details when you kept it mostly to yourself over the last year?” But I figured the first part was out there already, so I should probably continue down the path.

But maybe I needed to get it all out. Most of my life, I’ve written to explain myself to me, actually. It’s how I work out what I’m thinking or feeling. Once I started sharing some of my life with others many years ago, I realized I wasn’t alone in what I was experiencing and there was some solidarity in the conversations that ensued.

And to be honest, once I hit ‘publish,’ I almost forget that anyone is going to read it. It’s the act of writing and committing to its publish that I’m focused on, so it’s a real bonus when I get to connect with others as a result.

Thank you for coming along for the ride with me.

For context, consider reading Tick, Tick, Tick first.

I had some trepidation from the get-go as I entered the parking lot at the medical center. It was lightly snowing and as I navigated the lot, looking for a place to park, I was transported back many, many years to the first time I had been here. My then-husband had recently been diagnosed with early-onset Parkinson’s disease. Although I think we knew in our heart of hearts it was true, we sought a second opinion from a specialist at the center.

I remember that day—after the doctor confirmed his diagnosis, he also told us about a longtime Parkinson’s patient, who despite the challenges the disease brought, continued as much with his life as he could. The patient, in fact, had recently passed, but not from Parkinson’s; it was a heart attack. The point was, you could have a serious disease but it didn’t have to consume your life—nor would it potentially define your life or its timeline. It was a valuable lesson for me.

I had a bit of a lump in my throat as I recalled that long-ago first visit, and pushed it all aside as I entered the front doors. Suddenly, I felt pangs of hunger and considered that I hadn’t really consumed any sort of real breakfast. Way back when, there had been a cafe of some sort there, and I could grab a quick bite after my appointment. So onward I went, actually feeling a bit optimistic.

The minute you enter this medical center, like so many others, it’s quite evident there are some serious things underway. A lot of people are being seen for some major issues, and I felt a bit of comfort knowing I’d be in good hands. As I made my way to the ENT-otolaryngologist’s office, I started thinking about what I might find out that day, and what’s actually involved in using a hearing aid. I wasn’t overly concerned but more anticipating how this hearing loss was going to be resolved. I like to take care of things and just be done with it.

A nurse came into the small exam room and went over some things with me. She asked about my balance, which I thought was fairly okay, but then something she said made me recall a couple of situations.

The first was several years ago and took place on a flight back from Tortola. I hadn’t been feeling good for the last couple of days on the island and was grateful to have made the flight at all. As the plane began its earnest descent for a layover in Atlanta, I started to feel a little woozy. As we made the last of the descent, I suddenly developed excruciating pain in my left ear and everything went sideways for me.

We landed and passengers started pulling their belongings together, anxious to disembark. I was so dizzy I couldn’t move and I thought I might throw up. Eventually, flight attendants came to my aid and as they attempted to help me off the plane, I fell.

Minutes later a wheelchair was there and some tiny young employee was tasked with pushing me through the busy Atlanta airport to my next gate. The flight attendants on that plane took one look at me and saw I couldn’t walk or stand without falling—I’d also begun vomiting—and said they couldn’t let me board.

Long story short, I was transported by ambulance (only after I refused a suggested Uber to a walk-in clinic) to a nightmare experience at an Atlanta hospital and kept overnight. I was told I had vertigo, given some meds and hydration. In a woeful state by now, I pulled myself together enough in the morning that I could successfully grab an Uber and board a plane home. The following day I tested positive for Covid (hadn’t been tested at the hospital) and was told the vertigo had been a recent symptom at that time with a particular strain of Covid.

I mentioned this experience to the nurse, given she asked about my balance and if I ever got dizzy. I also brought up something that happened a few months before. I had gone to a reiki and reading session, which began with a brief ritual where I was asked to close my eyes while standing. I usually plant my feet in a position that keeps me pretty grounded, but this time I felt myself swaying a bit. I actually thought I might tip. But then I was told to open my eyes and I seemed okay. The nurse didn’t say much but took some notes.

Enter the specialist, whose demeanor I liked from the start. A man about my age, maybe a bit older, I had read up on him before the appointment and he seemed on top of his game. He reviewed the nurse’s notes and asked a bit about my travel experience and the more recent dizziness. He went on to test my balance through a variety of exercises and I wasn’t able to maintain my balance as well as I thought I might. That feeling of trepidation was creeping in again, which made me make light of the situation and begin to crack a joke or two.

As we continued on, I started thinking that maybe I hadn’t been taking any of this as seriously as I should have perhaps. I looked at my earlier MRI results with the doctor, and he patiently explained things in great detail. I quickly began to see what I had researched wasn’t necessarily the reality of what treatment might be.

While past experiences generally make me a patient who understands, asks questions and can hold my own in a medical discussion, the doctor started saying words that I didn’t anticipate hearing. My reaction was half wanting to vomit and half acting like a total silly ass about almost everything in response.

There were words like brain tumor, craniotomy, support group, loss of balance, damage to my facial nerves, and more.

Shit. I hadn’t counted on any of this. While I understood the tumor was on a nerve that went to the brain, I certainly didn’t consider it a brain tumor. Apparently the medical community did.

We talked about options. Step one was what I thought it might be: watch and wait. Come back in six months to see if the tumor had grown and to see where my hearing was at. In my initial research, radiation was mentioned as a potential treatment. I learned it wouldn’t shrink the tumor but could hold it in check size wise. What I hadn’t anticipated was being told that radiation would most likely result in total hearing loss in that ear.

We talked a bit about surgery and what that might entail. After hearing craniotomy and the approach that’s taken with this procedure, I didn’t want to hear any more. I was stunned. I wanted to cry but instead kept blathering like a bit of a fool. As the doctor leaned toward some files to get me info on exercises to improve my balance and a support group, I sat there, thinking, “A support group? This is something that necessitates support groups?”

I opted to do a follow-up in six months, reminding myself that there was nothing going on so serious that I needed to make any immediate decisions. I’d return once again mid-summer and have another MRI, a series of hearing tests, and see the doctor. It was clear this was who I’d be seeing going forward and the gravity of this whole experience began to sink in.

I kind of left the office in a fog. My earlier hunger was still there but the last thing I wanted to do was find some cafe and get food. I wanted out of there and as quickly as I could.

Strangely enough, I was mad—and in retrospect I know it’s because I felt so damn vulnerable. I’ve had a lot of scenarios in my life where I could have gotten really mad and I didn’t. I’ve never been a ‘why me’ sort of person, rather when things are hard, I usually think, “Well, why not me?” As I got into my car, I could feel hot tears starting to spill from my eyes and I pushed myself to pull it together.

Fear wrestled with anger as I started the car. I was pissed mostly because this was a situation that had no good solutions, and I hadn’t a clue which way to go with my decisions regarding it. And while I didn’t have to make an immediate decision on anything, nothing makes me angrier than when I feel like I’m pinned in a corner. That’s exactly what it felt like as I made my way for a long ride home.

And those words kept rushing into my head as I drove down 89.

Brain tumor.

Craniotomy.

Facial nerve damage.

I thought about what would be entailed in a craniotomy and my stomach lurched every time I envisioned my skull being cut open. I thought about my former husband’s facial distortion as his Parkinson’s progressed and how scary it might be for my grandkids if the same sort of thing happened to me. I thought about losing my hearing completely in my left ear and my growing lack of balance. And I thought about things I was looking forward to that year—a trip to Alaska in August and my youngest son getting married that fall. It felt like the road ahead suddenly tilted and there would be more to consider going forward.

When I got home, I pushed the paperwork aside to be looked at another day. I just wanted to forget every detail. A few days later, I reviewed the materials and considered what might be involved with the surgery. I do better when I know details, so I messaged the doctor for specifics.

In response I learned he’d be assisted by a neurosurgeon, it could be an 8-hour procedure and I’d be in the hospital in intensive care for a bit afterward. My balance would be totally shot on the left side and it would take my body a bit to assimilate and balance once again. It could take weeks, actually. I’d need supportive care in the aftermath and would not be able to recover at my house, living on my own. So, now I knew what to expect if things came to that juncture.

Usually, once I know details, I can put something to rest, pack it away until I need to deal with it. This time I couldn’t let it go. The details kept playing over and over in my mind and I kept wondering what I should do. It took a couple of months for me to finally decide that unless the situation forced my hand, I didn’t have to do anything. But I was still cognizant each day of my diminished hearing and that often-present ticking in my ear—and the reason why.

Friends and family encouraged me to get a second opinion. While I initially booked an appointment in Massachusetts, my insurance provider (who originally approved it) later told me the provider was completely out of network for me. I felt good about the doctor I had seen already and okay about staying the course.

August brought a new chapter, one that altered the path, but that’s a story for another day.

At this point in my life I’m more than aware of how quickly time is ticking by. What I didn’t expect, though, was to actually start hearing that ticking.

It started a little over a year ago, back in December 2024. I spent a good deal of my evenings that month downstairs in my house wrapping gifts. With four grown kids, their partners, and seven grandkids, let alone friends and additional family–along with a lifelong love of Christmas shopping–my work wrapping gifts is pretty extensive.

Amid this pre-holiday ritual, I became aware of a ticking noise in the room and couldn’t understand where it was coming from. I started thinking about the deathwatch beetle in the film, “Practical Magic,” and Sandra Bullock’s frantic search to find it, as I started scouring the room trying to place the sound. Finally, it dawned on me that the ticking was from within my own head, my left ear to be precise. And I felt like a crazy person, thinking that my ear seemed to be ticking.

Concerned that perhaps a bug was actually in my ear, I googled ‘ticking sound in ear’ hoping upon hope that the response wouldn’t reveal anything close to the insect family. As it turned out, this type of noise was noted under the tinnitus realm, which I previously thought to be related only to ringing in the ears. Look at me, learning new things.

I noticed, too, that it was more evident when I’d be wrapping gifts for a couple of hours. I wondered if leaning forward with my head down, intent on the work, was adding sinus pressure to my ears. The ticking went on over time for extended periods and I didn’t like it one bit. It was getting on my nerves, given it felt like a distraction I didn’t appreciate or need, especially when I was trying to doze off to sleep.

Post-holidays, the semi-regular ticking seemed to go away, popping up on a rare occasion. I figured I’d mention it at a follow-up Ear, Nose, and Throat appointment I had early in the new year. Throughout the past couple of years, I noticed my hearing wasn’t as good as it once was. Maybe all those years of very loud music in my car had finally made its mark on my ears. I had seen an ENT earlier in the fall to check it out and although nothing was largely amiss, it was recommended I do a hearing test, which was scheduled for mid-January.

I’ve never liked hearing tests. I’ve always had a hard time determining which ear I was hearing things in and usually felt like a dope because I couldn’t easily figure it out. So, I didn’t go into this one with much excitement. Overall I thought I did okay and was pretty proud of myself for correctly hearing all the words thrown at me and repeating them back correctly in one section of the test (I’m not hard to impress apparently).

But what I wasn’t impressed by was the woman, who administered the test. She said that I had some hearing loss and since I was still getting out in the world, they’d have to see what they could do to help.

Now, I can’t say I listened to another word after the phrase that left me more than incredulous: since I was still getting out in the world. I’m certainly no spring chicken but gosh, I also didn’t show up for this appointment looking like a hermit crone who stumbled out of her lair into polite society for a rare afternoon in the big world either. And beyond that, shouldn’t everyone have an opportunity to hear well, regardless of age and circumstances?

Still seething, I went to see the physician’s assistant for the next round of the afternoon. As he went over the results with me again, I half-listened and not because I couldn’t hear him. That woman’s words were still replaying in my head.

But, I did catch that he said he’d like to ensure there was nothing structurally happening within my ear to create the hearing loss. He wanted to schedule an MRI.

“Sure, sure,” I thought, thinking this was probably a waste of time. I may have brought up what had felt like a really inappropriate remark made to me after the hearing test and was glad to see he looked properly aghast, too. I could move on. And yes, I did mention the ticking.

I went through with the MRI and had no concerns with what I might see with the results. I figured this overall was just hearing loss and maybe I’d need some handy-dandy device down the road if it got worse. There didn’t seem to be anything that might help with this occasional ticking tinnitus, though.

That was my mindset when the MRI results popped up in my patient portal. So, imagine my surprise when I read I had a small craniocaudal enhancing mass within the left auditory canal compatible with acoustic neuroma. Well, holy shit, what might this be?

It turned out it’s a benign tumor that, according to the folks at Mayo Clinic, develops on the main nerve leading from the inner ear to the brain. And from what I’ve learned more recently from the folks at Mass Eye and Ear, acoustic neuroma is basically its OG name; they’re now more commonly known as vestibular schwannoma (this last word is a mouthful and a half, for sure).

As a 25-year, stage 3, anaplastic large cell lymphoma survivor, I totally get there are tumors and then there are TUMORS. That this was a benign one pretty much set me at some ease, and I awaited a call or message from the physician’s assistant who had requested the MRI.

Chance would have it that he was out of the office for the week so I did what most of us would do, a bit of Google magic. And given there was so much info out there, I decided to turn to a newer inquiry tool, ChatGPT to distill some of it.

I also put the dimensions of the tumor in and asked for an image so I could picture just what thing might look like size wise. I did, however, forget to ask for it at scale, and got an initial image of a strikingly large mass. Oops.

I learned about potential treatment, if necessary, and a whole bunch of other things. Call me crazy but I wasn’t overly concerned at this juncture either. If anything, I started thinking that perhaps a hearing aid might actually be closer in my future than I initially imagined. And trust me, I wasn’t being glib. I’ve learned over the years not to get overly excited about healthcare matters until reason to do so becomes apparent.

And then the physician’s assistant finally called–and he seemed concerned. He felt I should see one of their specialists up at a big medical center in our state. I agreed and he said he’d get the ball rolling.

I figured this appointment might come to pass months down the road, given how medical follow-up with specialists generally works. Yet I got a phone call that afternoon and an appointment was set for a couple of weeks out. Wow. Now I really wondered if I should be more concerned than I was.

Fast forward to the week of the appointment. Although the medical center was just a tad over an hour away, I decided to add some fun to it and go up the day before, booking a hotel with a pool so I could at least go for an indoor winter swim–and so I did. The pool wasn’t anything spectacular but it still held elements of being a kid again and staying at a hotel with a pool somewhere mid-winter with my parents. I’m always in favor of an opportunity to swim.

The next morning, I lazed around in bed before making my way to the ENT-otolaryngologist, thinking about the options I’d learn for improving my hearing. That wasn’t what came next.

Stay tuned.

When we meet someone, we often embrace who they now are without a clue of who they once were and how they got to their present-day self. We’re all such a rich tapestry of the people and experiences in our lives.

As I sat late this morning in the afterglow of the holiday season, thinking about what to dismantle and pack away first, I started looking deeply at the ornaments on my living room tree, reflecting on the many ornaments throughout its branches. It dawned on me that there may not be a truer representation of me than in this tree.

Some ornaments are fancy, ornate perhaps, while others are simple and sometimes crudely made. Very few can be seen as a throwaway, something acting as a filler. There are whimsical ones that brought me delight, some that spoke directly to my heart, and others that I don’t actually love but I wouldn’t part with for the world because of their origin.

I felt a rush of emotion, realizing how much of my life is encapsulated on this tree—and I know it’s true for all of us.

I remember the first year I was in my own apartment, newly married and the joy my husband and I took in decorating our tree. We took forever to pick that tree, going from on lot to the next to find just the right tree, finally settling on one that had tiny pinecones interspersed throughout its limbs. I couldn’t tell you what variety of Christmas tree it was; I just know I’ve never had one like it since.

Post-holidays the year before, we hit up an after-Christmas sale, taking joy in buying all kinds of ornaments for our first tree later that year. They were inexpensive ornaments to start, but even more of a bargain at that point in the new year. One or two still remain, shopworn at best. My mom painted a ton of small wooden ornaments for us, just as she had for her own tree, and some have traveled throughout the years to each new season on my trees as well as others she created.

There’s a hand-carved monkey, my husband’s favorite animal, a wooden tiger in the spirit of my youngest son’s favorite plush friend as a tot, along with a stork carrying a blue bundle, given to me after the birth of one of my sons. Most of the special ornaments gifted to my kids or bought by me for them have long left my home, making their way to their holiday collections.

A handmade Christmas ornament in the shape of a red bell featuring the six of us, bought from a craftsman, once fell from the tree breaking in several spots. I joked at the time that it reflected our now broken family—post-divorce—but I still glued it back together and continued to hang it on the tree. Maybe we weren’t what our family once was but we remained tightly connected as best we could be, nevertheless.

Two tiny red Stratocasters, gifted to me, mirroring my ankle tattoo, grace the tree, and wooden Christmas trees hand painted by my kids. A prominent gold peace sign (always top of my Christmas list for what I wish could be granted to us all) nestles amid glamorous Sex and the City stilettos and a clay Smoky Mts. bear, picked up for one of my kids while on a Tennessee business trip. Several ornaments came from my travels in Italy, Ireland, and Alaska, to name but a few.

Once upon a time, our annual tree decorating started with me placing my special ornaments first, followed by my husband and then a free for all with the kids. Over time, I’d begin with one or two and the kids would call out ornaments they knew were extra-special to me, insisting I place them on the tree.

I’d kick off decorating with two (now a bit beat-up) wee Irish folks made of felt. A couple, their hands are joined as if holding hands greeting me from the Christmas tree. My mom brought them back from Ireland in the early 80s and they’ve been with me ever since. Next, I’d hang a beautiful plexiglass heart bearing the word “Mother” and a short message. I got that the year after I became a mom and this role remains integral to all that I still am.

Decades later, I bought a tiny clay house ornament, meant to have a sliver of paper placed in it each year bearing a wish for the new year. Over the years my wish has changed and this year, I never made a wish in it. Instead I focused on good things for us all ahead, not just my family but everyone. This past year has been so tumultuous in so many ways. I guess I’m back to wanting peace within each of us as we continue on.

In more recent years, grandchildren have helped decorate the tree and it’s often done in a whoosh. I don’t find myself reflecting as much on the ornaments as they make their way to the tree but rather on those sparkling tree-lit evenings when I find quiet moments to take in the beauty—or like today as I begin to undress the tree and recognize how much I love each ornament, smiling with the memories that come rushing back.

While I think, collectively, these ornaments are a true representation of me, perhaps no one will actually see that but me. I may alone hold each origin story in my heart and mind, but I suspect others might also see the tree reflects a full beautiful life well lived.