Two weeks ago, I couldn’t fall asleep because there was tightness in my chest and I had a hard time swallowing (as if something was caught in my throat). As a result, I couldn’t catch my breath and struggled to take normal breaths. I changed positions, swallowed hard, massaged my throat, and tried deep breathing – but nothing helped. I started to worry.

After an hour of significant discomfort, I assessed my options: call my husband who’s on business travel (But what could he realistically do? Tell me to go to the doctor and worry.); wake-up my daughter and consult with her (Again, what would that really accomplish?); or wait to see if things got worse so I could feel justified in calling 911.

None of these felt like good options.

Knowing I didn’t want to be THAT person who ignores all the telltale symptoms of a major problem and then drops dead, I put on some clothes and drove myself to urgent care.

They put me on a heart monitor and did an EKG. Everything was normal.

They gave me a vile-tasting Malox “cocktail” to treat possible acid reflux. No change in my symptoms.

They wheeled me down to the radiology room to do a chest x-ray to rule out a pulmonary blood clot. All clear!

Once concerns about major organs were ruled out, the doctor explained, the plan was to treat the symptoms without knowing the cause and have my primary care doc follow-up the next day. Finally, I was hooked up to an IV with a muscle relaxant and my throat loosened up. I breathed a sigh of relief and headed home five hours later.

Remembering that the urgent care doc said (not once, not twice, but three times) to see my primary care doc within 24 hours, I called the doc whom I’ve been going to for eight years. Via her receptionist, she advised me that “I could wait for an appointment” until after she returned from vacation – two weeks hence. Time to get a new doctor.

I made an appointment with my allergist to rule out an allergic or asthmatic reaction. She conducted a breathing test (which I passed with “flying colors”) and then suggested the incident was most likely due to acid reflux. She referred me to gastroenterologist.

I went to see the gastroenterologist the following week. However, I spent the majority of my 10-minute appointment with his physician assistant. While she took my medical history, she constantly chit chatted and ended up talking over me as I tried to explain my symptoms. I saw the actual doctor for less than two minutes as he whizzed in, shook my hand, heard a 20-second recap of my history, and recommended I get an endoscopy.

You know, I’m not really comfortable with something being shoved down my throat unless I feel confident that the shover has taken the time to listen to me and understand what’s going on with ME, not what he assumes after 30 seconds.

Still desperately seeking a doc who would talk with me for more than five minutes (AND listen), I went to an internist who’s part of a concierge medical practice. (With a concierge practice, doctors limit the number of their patients so they can provide more personalized, preventive care and, in return, patients pay an annual fee to be part of the practice). My plan was to talk with him, see how well he LISTENED, and, if sufficiently impressed, plunk down my money and just deal with this thing.

Let me tell you, even a $1,500/year concierge doctor isn’t guaranteed to listen.

So, I’m still in search of a new doc.

I really believe that my medical issue is not that severe (and most likely acid reflux). So, why am I so intent on finding a good doc when any old doc can treat acid reflux?

Because I’m at the stage of life when my aging body is starting to do strange, unfamiliar things. And I want – no, I deserve – a doctor who will listen and be a partner in my healthcare.

What do you think, Wise Women? Am I living in a fantasy land? Any stories (good or bad) that can help me out?

I’ve been meaning to start a new “category” titled Travel Destinations, so herein comes my first entry.  Most of us spend quite a bit of time researching a new destination before we travel, and given the time and planning that goes in to it  - why not share what we learn, observe and experience along the way?  First hand recommendations are always the best. So if any of you have been to a destination lately, and want to write a blog or just share a special place to visit or stay or eat, comment here!

To celebrate my mother in law Carol’s very special 75th birthday, we planned a brief but full jaunt over to Port Jefferson, Long Island this past weekend.  This entailed a 35/40 minute drive north to take a ferry across Long Island Sound from Bridgeport, CT, a ride that took a little more than an hour.  Our hotel, the Danford, was 45 steps from the ferry dock, and once we got settled there, we took a walk through town and popped in and out of a few quaint shops.  The day was gray and showering on and off, but not a deterrent to our plans.  After our lunch (a decent fried food fish shack) we got into the car, and drove to Long Island’s wine country, about 25 minutes away.

I had no idea that Long Island had so many vineyards – probably at least fifty or so.  Our first stop was the Baiting Hollow Farm Vineyard.  The vineyard was quaint and pretty, and the fields of vineyards themselves quite beautiful.  With a bit of a stretch, you could almost envision yourself in the midst of Napa Valley. We adults shared a tasting flight, were not overly impressed, and took off to the next vineyard, Roanoke.  Here we tried a flight of white (four wines, including an ice dessert wine that tasted of apricots) and a flight of red.  I really enjoyed most of these wines, and we decided to buy a couple of bottles along with a bottle of garlic infused grapeseed oil.  Given that we had up to this point four very patient children in tow, we decided not to push our luck and therein ended our winery tour, and headed back to the hotel.

After formally settling into our rooms, the boys and their Aunt Robbie took off to a wading beach next to the hotel, while Mark and I set off into town to sniff out some cheese for a little pre-dinner cocktail hour.  Our guest of honor had a room on the third floor of the hotel with a large porch off of it, and between the four adirondack chairs that were there, and a few beach chairs we brought up, we had a nice relaxing cocktail hour (and the weather cooperated) enjoying a Roanoke Vineyard Chardonnay, and the best block of Cabot Vermont cheddar we could find (and by the way, the only block of cheese this fine town had to offer).  Port Jeff, take note: you could use a cheese shop.

The Danford Hotel was a series of rambling buildings, and we made our way over to the main building to have dinner at the Wave restaurant.  The restaurant was bustling and a bit too noisy, but the service was excellent and the food was delicious.  While some of us enjoyed a delicious looking steak and rack of lamb – the rest of us had fish – starting with some excellent sushi rolls.  One of these rolls was the Angry Crab and Mango Roll, with lump crab, mango, nori and tobiko.  Another, called the Wave Roll, contained lobster, av0cado, crab, sesame, cucumbers, tobiko and ponzu – both delicious.  Carol and I had the Gorgonzola and Pine Nut crusted Chilean Sea Bass (yummy), which came with parmesan mashed potatoes with rosemary aioli, truffled creamed spinach and oven roasted grape tomatoes.  Mark had the Pan Seared Cod fillet with artichoke hearts, roasted peppers and eggplant, tomatoes, spinach, feta, kalamata olives, lemon, tomato broth, yogurt sauce and purple potatoes.  By description, his entry seemed overly complicated, with too many tastes competing, but it was also a winner.  Conveniently on one side of our table was a long couch, and before Sam’s grilled cheese arrived he was zonked out; Jack shortly followed.

Saturday we awoke to a brilliantly sunny day – but were prepared for a scorcher with a predicted 97 degrees forecasted.  After breakfast, we went to Cedar Beach, about 10 minutes from the hotel.  It was a very pretty beach, a combination of white sand and stone, with high bluffs visible at either end – not too dissimilar from Block Island.  The water was refreshing, and the kids had a ball swimming, although they were on the lookout for rather ominous plate-like red jellyfish that washed in from time to time.  We then went back to the hotel, had quick showers, and checked out, throwing all our stuff into the car.  A short walk from the hotel and across from the bustling harbor, we popped into The Catch.  If you ever happen upon this restaurant, the Lobster Roll and the Cod Sandwich with cheddar, avocado and tomato were excellent.

It was then time to make our 3:00 departure on the ferry, so we walked across the street, Mark drove the car aboard as we waited to walk on board, and then had a quite enjoyable crossing back to Connecticut.  Forty minutes later we were home.

For being away for a mere 32 hours, we all agreed that it had felt like we were away for at least 3 or 4 days.  It was fun, relaxing, and special family time – and one of the best things, it was a destination in our own backyard – something that we had talked about doing but had never done.  Especially for you Fairfield/Westchester County residents, it’s an easy destination that should be on your list.  The travel is worry free and short, and bringing our car along also made everything very easy.  So the next time you’re looking for an adventure – try Port Jeff, or just look in your own backyard for those special places that are easily overlooked.

It’s been a while since I’ve reported on my (oh I mean my son’s) pet chickens.  Life on the “farm” is quite good.  We get 6-8 eggs daily from our chickens, and they are far closer to having dogs as pets than I ever imagined.  We’ve relaxed our inhibitions regarding free ranging – and when we’re home, let them roam the yard – despite threats from a neighboring hawk.  They clamor to get out of their pen – and are so happy when they get to roam.  And my son only needs to walk into the backyard and let out a little whistle, and they all come running and follow the pied piper back into their coop.

They were roaming in the backyard a couple of weeks ago when we glanced out the kitchen window and saw a deer grazing in the middle of the pack, each and every chicken and lone deer totally minding their own business.  It was quite a funny site.

Another funny site would be a chicken wearing a diaper.  A friend recently forwarded to me a Wall Street journal article about the ongoing trend of chicken ownership, and the burgeoning side industry that it has created for chicken entrepreneurs.  And yes, diapers, are one of the new hot products for those folks who prefer to give their chickens free reign of their home.

The scary thing, as I mentioned to my friend, is that I actually know or have had conversations with three of the folks highlighted in the article.  But at least I do not have chickens in my house, and don’t have a need for chicken diapers.  My friend then did subtly remind me that I had six chickens (1 chicken and 5 roosters to be exact) living in my basement, for about 4.5 months, and then one chicken (who did not get along with the other chickens) who lived in my pack and play for a few days in my family room.  Thank God I did not know about the chicken diaper at the time, because who knows what that knowledge would have led to?!

Anything for a farm fresh egg, right?

“We’re not as great as we think we are.

We’re also not as terrible.”

Those words, uttered to me when I was in my 30’s, are permanently hard-wired into my brain. I often remind myself of the wise advice, usually when I’m brooding over my latest foot-in-mouth moment.

Interestingly, I’ve always thought my friend who uttered these words was repeating a famous quote. Then this morning, when I googled it in preparation for sharing them with you, I discovered there is no author on record, and my friend likely came up with that pearl of wisdom on her own. Most impressive!

Why was this thought floating around my unconscious when I woke up this morning (and, thus, was inspired to share them in a blog post)? I’m not quite sure. No specific screw-up incident stands out.

Maybe, I’m replaying the words of comfort more regularly these days as I walk (and occasionally slip off) the tight-rope of ramping up my private practice.

And/or, perhaps I woke up with those words in my head because one of you Wise Women also needs to hear those words at this juncture of your life, as well. The reminder that extreme thinking (especially about ourselves) is neither accurate nor useful.

Just a thought for a Thursday.

Enjoy your day!

While I am happily engaged in my new private practice, truth be told, the primary reason I made this leap was that I could not find a part-time professional opportunity. Clarification: I FOUND one suitable opportunity during my five-month job search, but withdrew my application when I learned it was part-time work at night.

Acceptance of part-time and other alternative work schedules has a long way to go. It’s a bit depressing.

But, I took some solace when I heard that baseball great Cal Ripken, Jr is in talks with his former team the Baltimore Orioles about rejoining the team in the front office. The news report said that Ripken was only interested in working part-time until his son graduates from high school. Ripken sounds comfortable and confident in his priorities as he outlines how much energy he can devote to work given his commitment to his family (see clip below).

When was the last time you heard a famous father publicly say he would only work part-time? Prominent men regularly cite “family reasons” as they make job changes, but the assumption is they’re moving to a less demanding full-time job.

I realize the public declaration of one (albeit legendary) man will not change today’s workforce culture and the resistance to part-time work. However, it’s a step in the right direction! I tip my cap to Ripken and his willingness to seek ways to balance his personal and professional lives.

Have you Wise Women seen any other signs (promising or otherwise) of a shift in attitude toward part-time work?

According to the Associated Press report on ESPN:

BALTIMORE — Cal Ripken Jr. is exploring the possibility of joining the Baltimore Orioles as a part-time adviser, which would ease his transition into a permanent position after his son graduates high school in 2012.

Ripken, who turns 50 next month, has been meeting on a regular basis with Orioles owner Peter Angelos and president of baseball operations Andy MacPhail. The conversations have centered on finding the Hall of Fame infielder a position in the front office on the team he played for throughout his 21-year career.

Should they come up with a plan that would allow Ripken to remain dedicated to his family while serving the Orioles, he would be willing to get back in the game before his son, Ryan, graduates from Gilman School.

“If something does take shape, then I’ll start to consider it. And I’ll be honest enough to say this is the amount of time I have and these are the commitments that I have elsewhere,” Ripken said in an interview with The Associated Press.

One of the many reasons I enjoy writing this blog is that it gives me the opportunity to do some creative writing.

While I’ve always enjoyed writing, story-telling is quite a challenge for me. I’m quite good at distilling mountains of information and providing a clear, coherent summary. I’m not as good at weaving an interesting story chock full of juicy details. For the most part, I’m OK with being a “Just the facts, Ma’am”-type of writer.

To help me broaden my horizons, I took an online creative writing class a few summers ago. The first assignment was to go some public place, observe the action and then write a vivid description. Below you can see my fledgling effort. Looking at it now, I can’t decide if the detail-rich account is surprisingly good or cringingly bad.

Lately, I’ve had the chance to hear masterful story-tellers share family stories, many of which have been passed down through generations. Once again, I have renewed appreciation for the art, joy and necessity of good story-telling. I think it’s time to sharpen my proverbial pencil and work to build my story-telling skills.

“Next, please.”

The abrupt command causes me to look up from the women’s magazine I’m skimming. The statement, while politely worded, is clearly an order, not a request. Who is this person with an imperious voice amidst the friendly commotion at our local library?

Curious, I turn my chair to view the busy check-out counter. A 50-something librarian is staring intently at the people bunched together under the “Check-out Line” sign. She’s using her laser gaze to command the appearance of the next person ready to be checked out.

The patron finally emerges. A frazzled mom scoops up her wandering toddler and darts around the cluster of people; she’s scurrying like a fourth grader summoned to the office by the school principal. The six-foot librarian stands behind the counter, watching her wayward customer approach.

According to a laminated employee badge, the librarian’s name is Elaine. I smile faintly at the coincidence. My name is Elaine, too. Interested to see if we had anything more in common, I observe my namesake more closely.

Elaine the librarian wears a peasant blouse in light pink with long, puffy sleeves and a tie at the neck. The light-weight material reveals that Elaine is wearing a black bra underneath to keep her DD-sized chest in check. A necklace with chunky brown- and pink-colored wood beads adds to her eclectic look.

Queen Elaine steps into full view when she strides to the stack of reserved books at the end of the counter. On her bottom half, she wears a white, ill-fitting summer skirt. Her pink blouse has a slight flare at the bottom which forms a roof for her ample hips. Through her sheer white tights, I see the bulge of an ace bandage wrapped around her right knee. Her blue leather sling-backs permit her to move quickly as she retrieves the reserved book.

I grimace and chuckle at the same time. Elaine the librarian and I do share another trait: we are both fashion-impaired.

Looking back at the tall librarian, I now see her grinning at the young boy who is balanced on his mom’s hip. She playfully asks him about his Sesame Street book as she reaches across the counter and gently takes the book from his small hands. For the first time, I notice that Elaine has a brace protecting her right wrist, the kind used by people who develop carpal tunnel syndrome after years of repetitive motion.

The whir from the printing receipt signals that the transaction is complete. “The books are due on June 5th. Here you go, sweetie,” Elaine says and hands back the Big Bird book to the eager child.

I’ve been in private practice coaching people with ADHD for about three months now. It’s a whole new world to me (the private practitioner route, not the work itself), so I soak up do’s and don’ts from other professionals like a sponge. I’m constantly inquiring about how they set up their practice, the ins and outs of insurance, client policies, etc. I’m also asking people who’ve engaged in therapy (or similar services) about what they liked/didn’t like about the experience.

It was one of these latter conversations that almost caused me to fall out of my chair.

A smart, savvy professional woman I know explained that she had started to see a psychiatrist for her depression. However, she was ambivalent about the doctor since, during their appointment times, the doctor’s eye lids often grew heavy and he APPEARED TO BE NODDING OFF at times.

“Is this normal?” she asked with genuine confusion.

I assured her that his lack of attentiveness was not some secret test of her assertiveness. It was unacceptable behavior (especially when she’s paying $200+ per hour!).

Other idiotic moves I’ve heard about: therapists who routinely run 20-30 minutes late; those who talk extensively about their own problems during sessions; clinicians who constantly take notes on their computer with little to no eye contact (some even had their back turned to the client); and even a few professionals who forgot the scheduled appointments so clients were faced with locked doors when they showed up (talk about abandonment issues!).

Have you or someone you know had to put up with similar unprofessional conduct from a helping professional? (Don’t even get me started on doctors’ office!)

I think the more we share what’s OK and not OK, the more confident we’ll be to speak up when confronted with unacceptable behavior from a professional who is supposed to help us during our time of need. Maybe next time we’ll even reach over and poke that sleeping professional awake.

Today is a good day. My 16 year old son, David, is homeward bound from Spain, after spending just over two weeks there in Cadiz, living with a host family, and attending school.  What a lucky guy – first to have the ability to take advantage of such a trip, a trip offered through our high school, with three Spanish teachers in the lead.  Second, to travel with good friends and enjoy another culture.  He and his friends are residing in the seaside town of Cadiz, and after a “hard” morning at school, an afternoon on the beach seems to be the matter of course.  He has been living with his host Mom, who is reportedly a great cook (”much better food than what you can get in the restaurants”), and also has a teen room mate from France and one from Germany.  Spanish, of course, is the mode of operandi.

And how lucky is he to be in Spain when the country wins the World Cup for the first time in history!!  As my Dad said yesterday, “if Spain wins the World Cup today, people will be drinking for a week.”  Hope they’re conducting sobriety tests on the pilots today!

Our conversations with David have been brief, but reveal that he is having an amazing time, is totally enthralled with his surroundings and pace of life, and I know this experience will mark one of the “greats” of his life.

I also know he is truly lucky.  After sharing a conversation with David with my family, my sister in law wrote about how wonderful it would be if every American could spend some time abroad.  I loved a quote that she shared from Mark Twain:

“Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness.”

Luckily, given our kids have navigated through a very diverse public school system, I believe they approach life with a very open mind.  But I’m sure this trip has been an eye-opener, even if it is to realize just how small this world really is.  While we all come from different places and may speak a totally different language, we all achieve grounding in realizing our core is very similar.

Congratulations Spain!

I like to think I have a green thumb, although I really think I have more of a green mind…very grandiose visions of what I’d like my yard to look like, but no time or money to perfectly execute it. My thumb tends to be greenest at the start of the season when I’m gung ho and the temperatures aren’t hovering around the 100 degree mark.

My vegetable garden this year looks rather ho hum.  The tomatoes, in particular, aren’t terribly hardy looking.  So you can imagine my surprise and delight when we caught sight of a large obtrusion emanating from our compost bin.  Large green leaves, bright yellow flowers, vines extending for about 10 feet.  Wow, I’ve never grown anything that looked that good…and I had absolutely nothing to do with it.

Granted, this plant is perfect testament to the rich soil and nutrients residing in my compost bin, which includes a bit of chicken manure.  Nothing could be finer for a humble squash plant.

So my anticipation was growing.  What type of squash would we be enjoying later this summer?  Maybe spaghetti, maybe acorn?  Even pumpkin would be fun.  Well, I finally have my answer.  Gourds!  Anybody ever cook a gourd?  Well, my home grown gourds will be the centerpiece of my Thanksgiving table, as long as they don’t rot by then!

Twenty years ago, my first job out of graduate school was lobbying for an organization that promoted better mental health policy and treatment. (Note: Since we lobbied for a social cause versus a for-profit business, we referred to ourselves as advocates, not lobbyists. The only practical difference though was that advocates were paid peanuts while lobbyists ate peanuts as they flew around on corporate jets.)

It did not take me long to discern the truth behind the old adage “Laws are like sausages – it is better to not see them being made.”

With the onset of the Internet and consumer-directed marketing, I’m convinced that the sausage-like legislative process has taken a decided turn for the worse.

On my way home yesterday I heard a radio ad urging listeners to contact Congress and request that Boeing be awarded the contract to build the next generation of aerial refueling tankers for the U.S. Air Force. There’s a website – realamericantankers.com – that touts the benefits of Boeing-built tankers versus the other company that’s competing for the $37 billion contract.

So, let me get this straight: Boeing is asking us – Joe the Plumber and Elaine the Blogger – to weigh in on as to which company should be awarded this ginormous contract of great significance to our national security.

Hmmmm …  What sage advice or insight can I offer Congress and the U.S. Air Force as they consider the pros and cons of the competitive bids? Do my business and social work degrees give me ANY credibility to voice an opinion on aerial refueling tankers?

Uh, that’s a no. Actually, it’s a “Hell, no!”

I’m all for grassroots input, community organizing and transparency in government. But, Boeing’s campaign strikes me as the big bad business wolf masquerading in sheep’s clothing (aka the democratic process we hold so dear).

Anyone else hear this type of ad? Is it only a phenomenon in the DC area? All I know is that listening to Boeing’s manipulation of marketing to the American public irritated the hell out of me. And, that hot and bothered feeling was due to more than the 101 degree reading on my car thermometer.