I won’t be posting anymore, since I have to devote my time to some personal projects and of course, healing. Thank you all for reading, and God bless, Pola

After going through a tumultuous health weekend, the case is closed: I do have a blood clot (but it’s small), and I’m on blood thinners. 

Guess it wasn’t a “tendon sticking out,” after all, huh mediocre technician lady?

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It’s not just in some of us; it’s in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”

 –Marianne Williamson

I have to say, this health scare has really changed my life perspective. Yesterday, I sent someone who was being an incredible and deliberate nightmare in my life straight to hell. Over the phone.

And the weird cold/flu-like symptoms I’ve been experiencing magically disappeared. Sadly, the clot still dangles in my system like a participle, but I’m grateful that the runny eyes, sneezing, headache, fever, and cough are gone.

You see, if you knew you had only a few more days left in your life, would you put up with someone who is a known bully? Would you put up with someone that loves to terrorize people with her screaming and mood swings?

No, you would not. And it’s so awesome to tell this person to go to hell, especially when she’s your boss (well, now former boss), especially when she’s a boss who believes in dishonest and corrupt management. No thank you.

Yes, I sent her to hell, and it was glorious. I told her things that people in my office have been waiting months to get off their chests. Some people have actually already left the company because of her. They have just quit and gone to work for someone else. I’m one of the few staff members that has remained because I am poor and I need the money. Well, let me have a moment of fun: I was one of the few staff members….not anymore.

If I didn’t have this crap inside my veins, I wouldn’t have sent her to hell, and I would have put up with the abuse. Then again, now that I think about it….I think I would have still sent her to hell, regardless. Before I realized in the last few days that I have a right to be happy, to lead an authentic life, to be who I am without embarrassment or shame, I would have put up with the abuse in my usual way: bowing my head and saying “I’m sorry” and assuming responsibility for someone else’s mistakes or bad moods.

This is a woman who is used to saying, usually at the last minute and without regard to the fact that you may have a life, “Jump,” and we’re supposed to answer “How high?” If you don’t do what she says exactly when she says it and exactly how she wants it, she becomes vengeful and takes it out on you in passive-aggressive ways (…um…where’s my paycheck? Oh, accounting suddenly “forgot” to pay me.)

She is also racist, and that shit does not fly with me.

So yes…I quit THAT job, and now the company has like 5 employees? Yeah, exactly. Down from….what, 50 employees? Yeah, exactly.

I would like to thank Katee Sackhoff for being such an inspiration. Behold:

As my most excellent friend Totes Kray Kray once said, after relating to me a story of a crusty, old man lawyer douche bag who was purposely twisting her words around in order to stall a meeting and asking her why why why why why about an issue when the answer to that question was patently obvious to EVERYONE ELSE PRESENT IN THE ROOM: “You wanna know why? Because fuck you, that’s why.”

Word.

I had no idea that a human being could surpass the threshold of mediocrity. I thought mediocrity was the proverbial bottom of the barrel.

I was wrong.

There is no word in the English language for someone who is so incredibly and fantastically mediocre in his/her work that to label that person’s work as “mediocre” falls tragically short. I’ve been looking for synonyms of the word for the last half hour, but none of the following–and I repeat none of the following–come close to describing the ultimate tornado of uber-mediocrity that I endured at a heart doctor’s office:

–adequate

–acceptable

–respectable

–satisfactory

–passable

–second-class

No. None of these will do. Because what happened is not acceptable, nor passable, nor second-class.

You see, when I went on Thursday to pick up my blood results (which were abnormal by the way), and had my 3rd Doppler ultrasound done, the technician said:

“So you had a sonogram done a month ago.”

“Um…no. two and a half weeks ago, and then another one last Monday.”

“I don’t think so…you see, your papers say that you had a sonogram a month ago, and something done two weeks ago.”

I become alarmed. Did the doctors in Virginia mess up the paperwork?

“Here,” she says. “March…..and then April 12.”

I look at the papers and search for the dates. I look at them, and then look at her. I double and triple check. My heart is racing because I am now getting angry.

“Um, it says here April 1st…” I say, making sure to place my index finger above the “1.”

“No, it says….” She looks at my file, flips the papers back and forth. “Oh! Oh you’re right! Yes, April 1st. Ok, so then you had another Doppler done on April 12.”

“No…..I had the second one done on Monday, April 9th.”

“No, it’s April 12.”

“No, it’s April 9th.”

“Really? Well I see April 12.”

“May I?” I say, gesturing towards the papers. She shrugs and hands them to me.

I look down. The date says “9 April 12″ as in, the ninth of April in the year 2012.

“Here,” I say. “Look.”

She looks at where I’m pointing.

“9 April….the 12 is the year. 2012,” I say trying not to sound frustrated.

“Ok, whatever you say.”

“No, look,” I insist. She looks at the date and just says: “Huh. Well, fine, so be it. Just take off your pants and lay down on  your back.”

She starts examining my left leg. She sighs. ”I don’t see anything.”

I breathe deeply. “That’s because you’re on the wrong leg.”

“Wait…Which leg is it?”

“The right leg.”

“No….your papers say the left leg.”

“No….my papers say the right leg.”

“Then how come,” she holds up my doctor’s results from Virginia showing a drawing of my legs’ circulatory system, “this picture shows the clot to be on your left leg?”

“Actually, you’re looking at the picture upside down. It’s the right leg.”

She looks at me, as if I just asked her to solve the Poincaré Conjecture in her head. Finally, as we say here in Puerto Rico, the elevator reached the penthouse, and she goes: “Oh…you’re right. Yeah…it’s the right leg.”

“Behind the right knee,” I say helpfully.

“Wait what?”

“Behind the right knee.” I am getting really flustered now. “Um, may I take that thing you’re using to do the sonogram with and just place it where the problem is?”

I know I’m being obnoxious, I know that I’m being out of line, I know that given the culture I’m in, this will be seen as an act of effrontery–yet I don’t care.

I just want someone to look at the damn veiny bulge at the back of my right knee and diagnose it: either tell me it’s not a blood clot, or if that growth is in fact hiding a blood clot, then that I’ll be put on a blood-thinner shortly, because I need to get on with my life without thinking that I may have a pulmonary embolism at any moment. 

“No, I’ll do it. You don’t know what you’re doing.” There’s an air of untainted arrogance.

“Right.”

So I lay back, and she finally examines my right leg….but she NEVER even comes CLOSE to the area in question. I keep trying to tell her to please examine this SPECIFIC area behind my knee–the area that is INFLAMED, and visibly so by the way–but she keeps avoiding it. She just tests around it.

Then, out of nowhere, she pokes the area with one of her acrylic nails. I notice that she has a painted flower on each acrylic nail. I am reminded once again why I’ve never trusted anyone (or anything, including pets) with acrylic nails.

“Huh,” she says. “That’s….you know what this is?”

She then presses the vein that curves near my ankle, and I let out a small screech.

“Does that hurt?”

I just nod, because I don’t really know whether actually saying anything at this point will make a difference in her cerebellum.

“Well, I’ll be damned. It’s a tendon,” she says proudly.

“WHAT.”

“Yeah, it’s a tendon, and it’s poking out behind your knee.”

“A. tendon. TEN-DON.” I pronounce the word even slower: “Ten……….don.”

“Yeah, so you’re fine.”

“Hold on. I thought tendons weren’t supposed to stick out behind the back of your knees….or anywhere for that matter.”

“It’s a tendon, because last night I was studying tendons at home, and this looks like a tendon.”

At which point I asked her to call the doctor, who then arrives to tell me he has to go and do a T.V. show. He looks at the images the woman has captured and says, “Tendon….no, I don’t think that’s a tendon….”

“It looks like a tendon,” she says with the emphasis reserved for people who make Great Discoveries but are not believed by the uncultured, uneducated, and superstitious public.

“No…I think it may be a cyst,” he says narrowing his eyes. “Ok. Yeah, it’s a cyst.” He looks at me. “You have nothing to worry about. You can go home.”

“Wait,” I say. “Before you go, I…”

I don’t even know where to start.

“Two doctors have said that I have a blood clot, after they specifically ruled out a cyst. They both thought it was a cyst, but then proved that it wasn’t at all. Plus, I had horrendous stabbing, sharp pain in my right leg, especially at the inflamed site, while I was on my flight back home. It was awful pain; pain I’ve never felt before.”

“No, it’s a cyst. Don’t worry.”

I hear someone whisper: “Tendon.” I see that the technician is writing up her study. “Tendon,” she says to herself again.

I look at her, and then look at him. “I…I mean…did you look at the blood results?”

“Yes….A little abnormal, but nothing to worry about.”

“There were like seven things out of range!” I find my voice rising, and I stop, because I hate the sound my voice makes when I get upset. It gets strident, and I sound like a peacock. I breathe in and out. “Sir, the platelets were out of range, the coagulation time is too fast, the MPV is–”

He smiles condescendingly. “Nothing to worry about. You’re young, nothing will happen.”

“Which is precisely why I’m here! It is precisely because I’m young that this kind of thing should not be happening.”

“It’s a cyst. I think you should see a rheumatologist. By the way, have you hurt yourself in any way? Did you bump into something during your stay in Virginia?”

“No, I don’t remember bumping into anything.” This is something that I can actually attest to, since my mission in Virginia was so black ops, that I made sure NOT to bump into anything.

When you don’t want to get arrested, you make sure not to bump into ANYTHING, and let’s be real here, it’s kind of hard to bump the BACK OF YOUR KNEE against something. It’s so much easier to bump your actual knee against something…but the back of your knee? You would have to rear-end like a trash truck at 20 mph into a medieval spear or lance. And again, there are not a lot of those spears and lances lying around. Plus, no one really walks backwards into things, unless they’re malodorous children.

He looks at me doubtfully and smiles. “Well, your mother is a bit clumsy.”

This is true. My mother has always been a bit clumsy: she bumps into coffee tables, twists her ankle, and sometimes, falls to the ground. This is not due to any disease; it’s just that I’ve noticed that my mom doesn’t really pay attention when she walks or moves her body parts. She even admits it herself. Like Lady Gaga, she was just born that way.

What happens is that she is so entrenched in thought that she is not mindful of where her body is in space. I did not inherit this tendency toward clumsiness, but my brother did. My mother and my brother are accidentally bumping into desks, missing steps, knocking their funnybones against doorframes, stubbing their toes, and quite mysteriously–falling on Persian rugs face on. I’ve also noticed that my mother and brother have thin ankles, flat feet, and ballerina toes.

I have chubby ankles, highly-arched feet, and sausage toes. I believe the latter genetic traits give you more balance when you walk. . . but they don’t make you look feminine, which is why I don’t wear open-toed shoes or ****shudder**** sandals. EVER.

“No,” I repeat. “I did not bump into anything.”

“Are you sure? Did you take a miscalculated step?” He raises his right eyebrow. “Sometimes we bump into things and don’t notice at all.”

I take his last sentence to be some sort of profound philosophical thought. Yes, sometimes we bump into things and don’t notice at all, how wise……

I shake my head.

“Did you go hiking in Virginia?”

“Hiking? No.”

“Mountain climbing?”

“No.”

“Hmm. Well, I think it’s a cyst.”

There’s no use in insisting. I don’t want to be more obnoxious than I’m already being. I know that I’m coming across as a raving hypochondriac. So I change the subject and ask the doctor about his family. He talks about them at length, and I nod and pause and shake my head in wonder at the appropriate times in the conversation. I congratulate him on his oldest daughter’s marriage, talk about the economy, and oddly, share tips on how to handle dog fleas.

I thank him profusely for his help, as profusely as I can, but he can tell I’m not happy. I’ve never been very good at hiding my feelings ON MY FACE. This is why the CIA didn’t hire me. Well, that, and the fact that I’ve never applied to the CIA.

Exeunt the doctor.

“Put on your clothes,” the technician says. “I still think it’s a tendon.”

I just got back from teaching the SAT. My leg is hurting more than usual, so I’m going to spend the rest of the night lying down on with my leg propped up on some pillows. I had no time to pick up the lab results for my ultrasound tomorrow, so I’ll do that at the crack of dawn tomorrow morning.

During my SAT class, one of my students noticed that I was wearing a green crystal necklace. He commented that he didn’t like it and that I should throw it away. A bit rude and out of line, right?

Nope. I actually found this comment really interesting because I had hesitated to wear this necklace right before my SAT class.

I had hesitated because I had bought it during a time when I was dating a verbally abusive guy who did everything in his power to control me and frighten me in every way possible. Even though I like the necklace, every time I see it I cringe because it reminds me of that horrible time.

But when one of my students said he didn’t like it (he specifically said, “It doesn’t go with who you are.”) I experienced a huge sense of relief. It was almost as if the Universe had given me permission (or actually, I had finally accepted the Universe’s  permission) to truly hate this necklace because of what it represents to me: oppression, unhappiness, and constant abuse.

So I took it off, and I felt physically lighter. That necklace had felt like an albatross around my neck every time single time I had worn it. The student then wrapped it around the neck of a tacky plastic iguana (I teach the SAT in a biology lab in this particular school) and left it there as a surprise for the biology teacher tomorrow.

Last night, with pain in my leg, I decided to take my dog on a car ride. It was midnight, but what the hell. Our time here is limited, and I’m determined not to waste any of it.

I drove to the Old City because I’ve always wanted to live there. The black cobblestone streets shone in the moonlight, and the Spanish architecture of the houses looked even more spectacular than I remember: it seemed that every one in every single house was up even though it was a Monday and midnight. I caught several glimpses of amber light shining through wooded balconies, entrances alight with blue-crystal chandeliers, staircases of Moorish tile with votive candles on every step, and faroles (street lanterns) with green-colored light bulbs inside. Of all the people and things in my life, the Old City is something I have always loved, and to know that I may never get a chance to live there did something funny to my chest.

I am not scared of dying, I realized last night. Do I have any regrets? Yes, I do. I made some wrong choices in my life; however, the more I think about these wrong choices, the more I realize they were necessary–actually paramount–for my personal growth. Do I have any concerns? Yes, only one. This may sound stupid, but who is going to take care of my dog? My mother is out of the question since she dislikes dogs, and I don’t know of anyone who would want a standard schnauzer, especially now when the economy is so bad.

But am I scared of dying? No, not really, and this surprises me.

Perhaps it’s denial, or maybe it’s something else. I’m not sure. Maybe I’m angry?

Yes, I’m angry. Actually, I’m a bit short-tempered. Today, when I went to the lab to get my blood tests done, the lady behind the counter who tabulated the costs of my blood tests, pointedly asked me:

“Um…are you going into surgery?”

I just stared at her. Then, “Why?”

“Well, these tests are the kinds of tests that doctors order right before they prep a patient for surgery.”

I can’t believe my doctor didn’t tell me that. Or did he tell me that, and I forgot? That’s very possible. But, what I did not understand was: what business is it of this lady asking me whether I’m going into surgery? That is none of her business.

Suddenly, my face turned red as it does when I get angry. I could feel my neck getting hot too, and my heart start beating fast: not a good thing when you have a blood clot since you don’t want to get excited in any way. But then, I felt bad for the woman. Why should I be angry with her? There’s no reason to be angry at her. I mean, she’s naively asking whether I was going into surgery. A violation of HIPPA, perhaps, but at this point, I didn’t care.

“Well, I have a blood clot in my leg.”

Her eyes widened. “That is really really dangerous.”

“I know,” I said. And left it at that.

“What are you going to do?” She looked gravely concerned.

I should’ve been angry but again, curiously I wasn’t.

“Frankly, I don’t know. I just need these tests to-”

“These tests will be ready asap. Don’t you worry. You need these as soon as possible.” She took a red Sharpie and wrote STAT on the lab order. “You need to take care of that, and I am so sorry. Please be careful.”

“There’s really nothing I can do at this point, but take aspirin. Tomorrow, I’ll be getting some tests done, and then we’ll see.”

“Honey, please take care.” She gave me a worried smile along with my lab order.

I tried to smile back, but I couldn’t. All I said was, “Thank you” and went and got my blood drawn.

Since I’m not supposed to sit for long periods of time (i.e., more than 45 minutes), I’m going to continue with my job. So now I’m leaving to go teach the SAT at a high school, where I will be standing up the entire time for three hours.

I’m not scared of dying. In fact, I welcome it. Is that normal? I don’t know. I do know that I want to spend as much time with my dog as possible.

This is what my friend Jason jokingly asked me last night as we were talking on the phone regarding a surreal state of events: while in Virginia, I developed a blood clot in my right leg.

Now, for you ladies who are reading this, you’re probably going to think: Oh, well, are you on birth control? Do you smoke? Do you drink? Are you over 30?

No ladies, I don’t do any of those three. But yes, I’m in my 30s. Sorry for being born in the 1970s.

The problem with a blood clot is that you can’t fly, i.e., take an airplane. (If you thought “fly” meant taking drugs, please go read another blog or watch The Matrix). The combination of pressure changes and being immobile for a long time makes your clot more likely to dislodge from your leg, travel through your circulatory system, and then go either to your lungs, brain, or heart.

All of these can result in death, if not treated promptly.

But, as you all know, I have three jobs, and I needed to get back home, because I’m broke and because I have three jobs, and oh my God, the stress. So I went to see a specialist–a thoracic surgeon who specializes in pulmonary embolisms–and he was like, “Um, what? You’re totally fine. I don’t see anything wrong with you. Who told you that you can’t fly? The ER? ER doctors are shit. You can totally fly. Just wear compression stockings.”

Um, right. OK. So I’m fine. If the SPECIALIST says I’m fine, then I should be f right? Because the ER doctor and technician at the hospital are not specialists, they’re general practitioners.

Ok, well, I take a plane. Two planes, as a matter of fact. And on the second leg of my trip, I experience the most horrible, sharp stabbing pain behind my right knee, precisely where the clot is located. It was a pain that I would not wish upon my worst enemy.

I then started sweating, and I couldn’t breathe very well, but, because I’m a naturally anxious person, I thought I was just having an anxiety attack. So I told myself to calm down. And I did. And the pain went away.

Until it came back again 10 minutes later. No, Mr. Flight Attendant, I do not want Terra Blue Chips. You see, Mr. Flight Attendant, when you think you’re going to die, food is actually the last thing in your mind. But thank you for your care and consideration.

I got home, went to bed, and woke up feeling like ass. Like pure, unadulterated ass. I felt awful all over my body. So I decided to go see the cardiologist today.

Turns out that what I experienced this past Saturday, April 14 was either a very mild DVT (deep vein thrombosis) or the movement of the clot from a superficial vein to a deeper vein or maybe the clot dislodged and passed through a vein valve.

All this to say: I could have died on Saturday. All this to say: I’m in deep shit right now: I’m getting a lot of blood tests done in a few hours, then another Doppler ultrasound–along with some “venous studies”–to see where the hell that clot went. Here’s the clincher: For the next 48 hours, there’s a slight risk that the clot can move again, and this time, go directly to my lungs, heart, or brain, and then…death.

I thought of Steve Jobs this afternoon. I thought about him a lot, particularly what he said during his 2005 Stanford Commencement speech regarding death:

“When I was 17, I read a quote that went something like: ‘If you live each day as if it was your last, someday you’ll most certainly be right.’ It made an impression on me, and since then, for the past 33 years, I have looked in the mirror every morning and asked myself: ”If today were the last day of my life, would I want to do what I am about to do today?” And whenever the answer has been “No” for too many days in a row, I know I need to change something.

Remembering that I’ll be dead soon is the most important tool I’ve ever encountered to help me make the big choices in life. Because almost everything — all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure – these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important. Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart.”

I came to admire Steve Jobs very late in his life, through serendipity I suppose. The wonderful man I was dating during my twenties had attended Stanford Law School, and knowing how much I love the written word, gave me his copy of the latest issue of the 2005 Stanford Alumni Magazine, wherein Steve Jobs’s speech had been transcribed.

When I read Jobs’s speech, something in me recognized Something Else. That Something Else was like a lost song from childhood that sounds so familiar in adulthood and yet, you can’t figure out how the lyrics go or even, who sang it. You just know how to hum it, and you keep humming it because you hope to figure out the song, but you never do.

I only know that when I read that speech, something in me re-connected, re-engaged, and re-awakened to something numinous. Yet the numinous remains numinous because it is ineffable. You cannot describe the numinous; the closest you can get to it is through an intuitive feeling of “knowing.” And even that feeling is ephemeral.

But going back to today, I thought about Steve Jobs and his relationship to death. I believe I finally understand what he meant. When a doctor tells you that … well, be prepared for the worst, just in case …. everything does “fall away in the face of death.”

Everything.

And I realized that I have been living a completely inauthentic life. I’ve been pursuing career prospects that are viewed positively by society but do not go with my introverted personality; I have been living with values that are not consonant with my soul; and I haven’t been taking care of myself because I was taught that I didn’t deserve to take care of myself.

I have been stuck living by other people’s opinions and not my own. Again, Steve Jobs:

“Your time is limited; so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma — which is living with the results of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of others’ opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary.”

I’ve been trapped by dogma all my life. Coming from an extremely conservative Catholic family, and being female, I was given no breathing room and no options. I was supposed to go to college, never think of sex, and become a housewife with 2.4 children.

I never wanted any of that in my life. Yes, I did go to college and received an education, but then I stopped. I couldn’t move forward. I entered a zombie-like existence because I don’t believe that abstaining from sex before marriage is a healthy thing. I don’t believe that a woman’s sole destiny is to be a housewife and have children. I don’t believe that marriage is “the next step” after college.

However, in other ways, I’ve been behaving precisely as I was told: being quiet, submissive, and not standing up for myself because of the toxic belief that was unconsciously ingrained in me as a child that a woman who stands up for herself is a bitch or mentally ill.

I’ve hated every single second of my life.

I see the blood clot as a blessing. Perhaps it needed to happen for me to realize that it’s ok to be myself and that it’s perfectly ok to be true to myself. Perhaps I will have fulminant DVT in the next few days and die at the age of 33, but you know what, I am surprisingly happy because I finally realized what’s really important: I have the right to live an authentic life.

After going to Virginia to stay with my friend Totes Kray Kray to attend Secretariat’s birthday celebration (Big Red would have been 42 years old this March 30th), I got very emotional. While I am still trying to articulate why Secretariat means so much to me, many happy tears were shed…and unhappy tears too because I never got to meet Big Red in person nor did I know of his existence until the Disney movie came out in 2010. So, in order to cheer me up, a friend sent me exactly what I needed: a dose of high-quality science fiction accompanied by what can only be called “Middle School Band Fail.” Bear witness:

Sounds like a clan of scantily-clad elephants having an orgy go awry….or fabulously successful.  I can’t tell because I don’t speak Elephant.