#Also everyone saying I live at low altitude is so funny. Girl I live in the state with the highest average altitude

[artificialqueens]

&New (Sashea) - Chae

summary: shea is a famous model, sasha is a famous designer. they *attempt* to have a nice, low-key, friendly date. a paparazzi has other plans.

a/n: i just posted this finished product to ao3 and thought why not bless the tl (wait is this even considered a tl.. well anyways) with some Sashea aka my favorite ship ever– whilst also proving i am not dead! also the lil marked line is where the smut starts i really said “cute… but also porn”

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24913066?show_comments=true&view_full_work=true#main

“What are you thinking about?” 

“Hm?” Sasha looked at Shea from behind her coffee mug, taking a sip of the scalding beverage and carefully wiping around her red lipstick. “Nothing, really.”

“You sure?” Shea raised an eyebrow. If Shea knew one thing, if there was one motto she lived by, it would be that ‘Sasha is always over-analyzing something.’ Today, it could be her coffee at best, or her entire relationship with Shea at worst. 

“I swear!” Sasha laughed, her eyes crinkling up in that adorable way they did, her mouth turning into a little scarlet-colored heart. If Shea knew two things, if there was a second motto she lived by, it would be that she could watch and listen to Sasha laugh forever and ever. 

“What are you thinking about, Miss Coulee?”

“You,” the model answered honestly. There probably wasn’t a day Shea didn’t think about Sasha. No, fuck a day, a minute. They were ‘friends,’ sure, but both of them knew it was much more than friendship.

Unfortunately, the entire general public suspected the same thing.

Yes, Sasha was famous, but Shea was mainstream. Everyone knew about her, the newest model-Instagram-star-actress-songstress-activist-pole-dancing diva on the scene. And everyone caught on when Shea and the popular designer she’d walked for during fashion week were spotted in public together on numerous occasions. Straight social media played it off as business-partners and friends, but any fan with a brain—especially Shea’s young, very queer fanbase— would spot the gay energy from miles away. 

And just like Shea’s sexuality, their relationship was undefined.

“Me?” The coy question was followed by the clack of Sasha’s teeth against the silver fork that held a pastry, which she placed delicately in her mouth. 

“I said that,” Shea affirmed, her expression reading serious, yet her eyes gazing at the blonde with adoration. 

“Why are you thinking about me?”

Shea scoffed. “Why am I not thinking about you?”

“You are a busy woman.”

“Not busy enough for you to leave my head.”

Sasha’s pale cheeks reddened. It was common for them to flirt, she should have been used to it. But every time Shea said something nice to her, she couldn’t help herself. God herself could have been complimenting Sasha and it wouldn’t compare to what Shea Coulee had to say. That was to say God wasn’t Shea Coulee. 

Shea loved it when Sasha stared at her. When her piercing blue eyes bore into her soul like she was solving an unsolvable equation. It was funny how the petite woman considered Shea a goddess (she knew she did), when the only thing Shea wanted to worship was Sasha. Everything about her: her kind smile, her perfectly and uniquely beautiful face, her analytical shenanigans, her voice that sounded like how honey felt sliding down your throat. Almost a year of friendship, and every moment with her felt brand new.

All of a sudden, Sasha’s eyes snapped to somewhere behind Shea’s head, and her face fell. Shea had a feeling she knew what she was looking at, turning around to see a familiar camera nearing the coffee shop. Her heart dropped to her stomach, not wanting this paparazzi bitch to ruin the amazing day she’d planned for the two of them. 

“Let’s go,” Sasha said hushedly, picking up her bag and completely ignoring her unfinished food and coffee mug.

Shea nodded, doing the same, a plastic cup filled with her frappuccino in one hand and Sasha’s own hand in the other. They’d held hands a few times, sure, but nothing beat the rush of interlacing her fingers with the shorter woman’s. She hadn’t really held her before, hadn’t cuddled or snuggled her often, but when she had Sasha’s dainty hand in hers it almost made up for every time she wanted to hug the breath out of her. 

They raced down the street laughing, the entire situation almost comical. They looked like two crazy women, walking so fast it might have been classified as a jog and cackling like schoolgirls. But it felt right. As cheesy as that might sound, there wasn’t a better word for it. Familiar. Comfortable. Right. 

Again, that was implying that everything didn’t feel right when Shea was with Sasha.

Shea led the other girl a few streets down, ducking behind a mahogany door and checking if the coast was clear. The pair found themselves in a small thrift shop—well, small was an understatement. It was a pretty big thrift shop. But it was quaint, and very artsy, very post-vintage. Very Sasha.

The designer, wearing her sunglasses to hopefully conceal her identity (some face mask, especially next to Shea, who forgot hers at home), looked at the shop in awe.

“Shea… where—”

“The internet,” the taller woman replied smugly.

“You went out of your way to find this for me?”

“It’s the least I can do,” she chuckled. “I wanted today to be fun for us.”

Sasha smirked. “With the camera creep on our tails?”

“More fun for us. Keeping you on your toes.”

The blonde laughed, a soft and knowing giggle. She perused the racks of clothing, feeling the fabric of every sleeve, every pant leg, tracing her fingers along the leather of heeled boots. Shea anticipated the well-dressed woman to pick up a garment multiple times, but she never did, not even the ones she thought were cute. Which left them for Shea, of course, but it also left her wondering what kept her from purchasing them. The designer was known to purchase both expensive and average priced clothes, Sasha caring more about the fit, the cut, the style more than who made it. But she was being extra picky today.

“Something on your mind?” Shea asked.

“No. Just… none of these are speaking to me.”

“Suit yourself,” the model clutched a fur jacket and a PVC skirt in her hands, ready to snag the cute plastic earrings at the cashier before checking out. 

“Are you at least getting some inspo?” she asked again.

“Yes! I think. I don’t know. If it’s from this. I’m inspired, though. I’ve been inspired,” Sasha played with a lock of her curly blonde hair. 

“By…”

“You.”

Shea smiled. “Me?” she mimicked Sasha’s earlier response. 

“Shea,” the russian rolled her eyes. “Stop making fun of me when I confess my undying love,”

“Is that what we’re doing now?” Shea feigned surprise. “In the middle of the store?”

“Let’s buy you some lesbian earrings, I don’t think I’m going to get anything. Today,” she added.

It was when they were at the cash register when they simultaneously spotted the paparazzi—again. The same one. Across the street. Coming closer. Fuck.

Sasha bit her lip, not wanting to abandon the clothing Shea seemed so excited about. She didn’t have much time to think, so she mustered a “could you put these on hold? We’ll be back eventually,” before sliding the worker a twenty for their hassle. Whether or not they accepted that offer was yet to be found out, as Sasha and Shea were already out the door.

Their rush to escape the prying eyes of the cameraman took them to the metro, into a subway car, breathlessly plopping down in the only two open seats. Would either of their management teams let something like this occur? No. 

Well. Too late. They were off, hopefully away from the paparazzi for good this time.

The pair kept their heads down in order to attempt to conceal their identities, as if that would do much on a crowded subway. But attempt was the key word in this situation. It didn’t stop them from stealing glances at each other the entire ride, smiling stupidly at absolutely nothing.

“So, Shea,” Sasha started.

“So, Sasha.”

“Where are we going?”

“Dummy, you’ll see, that’s the whole point.”

“You did not just call me a dummy.”

“What if I did, blondie?”

“Perpetuating not only female stereotypes, but hair color stereotypes? Tsk tsk,” Sasha shoved the taller woman’s arm lightly. Shea giggled in that full, sexy way that her voice always sounded, her voice trailing off into nothing, the pair falling into comfortable silence for a few moments. 

“What?” Sasha asked, her voice laced with a joking tone.

“Nothing, I just like your face,” Shea replied with a wink.

“Oh my god, I swear I’m going to kill you one of these days,” Sasha rolled her eyes playfully, her cheeks flushing pink. 

The train stopped, Shea perked up.

“This is us,” she said, her pearly white teeth peeking out from a satisfied smile.

Once again their hands interlaced in a gentle display of affection, Shea more familiar with public transport (despite a couple years of not using it) than Sasha, leading her through the complicated catacombs of the metro station.

They emerged in a park, and a smile immediately found itself creeping onto Sasha’s face. Reluctantly, they severed their skin-to-skin contact at the sight of the crowded lawn, Sasha dubitifully following Shea’s path.

Their altitude heightened and the amount of people decreased, and the sun shone bright on the two girls as the hill they climbed steepened.

Shea stopped, smiling at the sight of a familiar footpath. 

“It’s still here!” She pointed out, mainly to herself, almost jogging through an overhang of trees. 

Sasha scurried after her, the sun disappearing briefly behind the leaves before reappearing even brighter than before in a small, protected, deserted clearing, overlooking the entire city.

Shea stood at the edge, looking like nothing short of a painting with a slight breeze ruffling her long black hair, set against the picturesque landscape.

Sasha appeared behind her, the sunlight bringing out her rosy cheeks and freckles. 

In that moment they were joined together in the same work of art.

“Shea, this is so beautiful,” was all Sasha could say.

“I came here to think when I was younger, after school. I kind of hated my friends. And then I met new ones, and then we came here at night and we drank and we smoked. And then, you’ll never guess,” Shea explained excitedly. Sasha hung onto her every word like it was gospel, wanting to retain every single slice of the taller girl’s life.

“I think I have some idea,” Sasha laughed.

“I had my first kiss here, too. Only good memories. I haven’t been back for a while, but I guess I just never found the need to.”

“We’re coming back, Shea. When we get chased by paparazzi, we’ll go here,” Sasha said, her eyes darting from the city to Shea and back again, not quite sure which sight was more beautiful.

They found themselves laying in the grass, side by side, staring up at the clouds. Cliche, but so, so wonderful.

“I’m just glad we ditched that creep,” Shea mused.

“I just— what does he want? What does he want out of seeing us together?” Sasha pursed her lips.

“I think you know just as well as I do.”

“Yeah, the fans get even more fuel for their shipping fire.”

“We are always together… “

“Of course, but we’re not together together.” 

Pause.

Shea turned her head to Sasha, who was already looking at her. 

“What if I wanted… to be together. Together,” the words weren’t exactly unplanned, but they still sounded alien to Shea’s lips.

“Shea—”

“No, it’s fine if you don’t. I just thought, natural progression.”

“Shea, oh my god, I think I love you,” Sasha’s warm hands were on Shea’s cheeks. 

“Wh-” and the word was cut off by the most magical, euphoric, shiny sparkly fiery kiss that Shea had ever experienced in her life. The first thing she registered was the taste of coffee and vanilla still on Sasha’s lips. The second was each time their tongues found their way into the others mouth it an entire fireworks show exploded. The third was her arms snaking around the pale girl’s small waist and her own arms tracing up and down Shea’s side. 

“I love you,” Sasha repeated against Shea’s lips, catching them between her own red-stained mouth. 

“I love you, too, Sasha Velour. That’s what I wanted to say today. Thank you for making it easier,” Shea kissed the other girl’s nose.

“You put together this whole day for us, for it to get ruined, for you to bring me here?”

“We were coming here no matter what. Only good things happen here. Sasha, you’re the best thing yet.”

Sasha blushed, unabashedly now, then pressed another kiss onto Shea’s lips. She traced the side of the raven-haired woman’s face, Shea sighed into her mouth.

“Would you like to be my girlfriend?” she asked, Sasha laughing at the obvious question.

“Nothing would make me happier. Really.”

The gaydar of the world was correct, it seemed, in picking soulmates in the two girls.

Under the light of the sun, in the grass, with the breeze sliding over their faces, they were Living & New.

——

The door clicked shut.

And Sasha’s pale, slender hand dropped from the handle. She turned around, eyes scanning the woman taking off her jacket.

Shea looked back with a smirk, finding it hilariously sexy when Sasha tried to give ‘the look.’

“There’s no need for bedroom eyes, we’re already in your bedroom.”

“Really? I would have never guessed,” the blonde teased as she took their coats and shoes and placed them by the door. They’d come in so excitedly that they headed straight for Sasha’s room without thinking.

“But it’s okay,” the taller woman padded over to Sasha, lifting her chin up to face her. “I like it here.”

“You’d better, especially since you’ll be here so often” Sasha leaned in close, her voice a playful whisper.

“Will I, now?”

“Hmm,” was the Russian’s response, as her lips were already interlocked with Shea’s.

Their lips moved together familiarly, the feel and taste of each other’s mouths still fresh in their memories. Almost immediately Shea’s hands reached for the hem of Sasha’s turtleneck, beckoning her to remove it, and Sasha smirked as she pushed Shea back onto the bed. The woman was silhouetted against the nighttime cityscape behind the bed — similarly to earlier that day at the park. 

Sasha broke the kiss with a soft bite on Shea’s lip, wiggling out of the taller girl’s grasp. Shea made a noise in protest, but the blonde shushed her. She walked to the other side of the bed, so now her back was to the giant plexiglass window. 

“You want my shirt off?” she teased, watching Shea scan over her quizzically. 

The model nodded.

Sasha chuckled softly while slowly stripping off the cotton top. Her bra was lacy and white and pushed her breasts up slightly in a way that drove Shea mad. Shea crawled over the bed, beginning to unzip her own dress frantically.

“No, babe, wait,” Sasha smiled. “I thought you’d like a show.”

Shea’s eyes widened. “No way.”

“Yes way.”

“You spoil me,” she brought her hands to her heart. “This is so fucking sexy.”

The slight growl in the model’s voice sent a shock from the back of Sasha’s neck to her core. She fumbled with the zipper of her pencil skirt, trying her best to remove the stiff fabric in a provocative manner. Of course, the designer could fall flat on her face and Shea would still find it sexy, but Sasha was nothing if not a pleaser.

To Shea’s surprise and delight, Sasha was hiding a pair of matching white garters underneath the long skirt. All day. Just for her.

“Holy shit.”

“Like what you see?”

“Fuck, Sasha,” Shea raised a hand to beckon the shorter girl over. Her palms hovered over Sasha’s hips as she took the girl in entirely. “Can I—”

“Always,” Sasha bit her lip, brushing a finger through Shea’s dark hair. 

Shea guided Sasha onto her lap, the motion causing her minidress to ride up as she pressed her lips onto Sasha’s once again. Kissing Shea was an experience that could only be described as heaven on Earth, her lips encapsulating the entirety of Sasha’s psyche, the way her tongue intertwined with hers intoxicating and addicting and beckoning to push deeper into the kiss. Her hands threaded their way through Shea’s long black hair while Shea’s roamed Sasha’s small frame, feeling every bit of soft exposed skin and every inch of scratchy lace. 

Sasha felt Shea’s lithe fingers unclasp her bra, and hummed softly in affirmation as she let the other woman slide it off. Shea’s pillowy lips latched onto the crook of Sasha’s neck, tracing short and gentle kisses, sucks, licks, and bites down her clavicle. She looked up at Sasha to see her blue eyes blown out and dark, a pale finger swiping over her cheek and a smile creeping onto her stained-red lips. Shea smiled back mishieviously, taking the girl’s nipple in her mouth and swirled around the bud, her other hand cupping the other breast. Sasha let out a moan at the sensitive contact, greedily pushing the back of Shea’s head closer. Shea nibbled playfully in response and let out a muffled laugh into Sasha’s chest.

“You’re so needy!” she smiled. She pulled back and continued to knead the other woman’s breasts. 

“Shea, I made a mistake,” Sasha bit her lip. Shea confusedly paused, worry glazing her expression.

“Baby, are you okay?”

Sasha couldn’t stop herself from grinning foxily. “I shouldn’t have got you so worked up, now I have to wait for you to fuck me.”

Shea snort-laughed, her hands instinctively reaching out and touching Sasha’s arms. “You little shit! Get on your back already!”

Sasha contentedly obliged, getting comfortable at the head of the bed. Shea took off her dress in the meantime, crawling in between Sasha’s legs. 

“Is this better, my fair lady?” Shea asked sarcastically.

“Yes… but….”

“But….”

“Your mouth is up here, and not down there!”

“I hate you.”

“I love you!”

Shea smirked and crashed her lips on Sasha’s once again, her hands gripping at the hem of the pale girl’s underwear and shimmying it lower. She disconnected the kiss and stripped the rest of Sasha’s garters off, taking a moment to admire the woman laid before her. Sasha was thin, with toned arms from her hours of drawing and sewing, broad shoulders and smaller breasts and a tiny waist. Her skin was airbrush-smooth, and freckles dusted her collarbone and shoulders and thighs. Shea wanted to kiss every little spot on her body.

“You are so beautiful,” Shea breathed. 

“I’m beautiful for a mere mortal, but that’s nothing next to a goddess like you.”

Shea’s cheeks grew warm, the praise making her heady. “If I’m Aphrodite, you’re nothing short of Athena.”

“The lesbian love story the Greeks didn’t deserve,” Sasha laughed. Her hands were kneading at the sheets under her, and although Shea could tell she was trying to be intelligent in the moment, she was obviously growing impatient. Shea looked down and could see the wetness coating Sasha’s pussy and had to hold back a chuckle at how well the girl was holding herself back. 

Conversation ceased as Shea leaned down, fulfilling her self-promise and kissing up Sasha’s milky thighs, nearing closer to where Sasha wanted her the most. Shea avoided it, kissing around her pelvis and nipping where the skin was soft. Again, her mouth drew nearer and Sasha whimpered.

“What do you want, baby?”

“Shea…”

The model looked up with a glint in her eyes.

“It’s okay, Sasha, you’re with me. You don’t have to be so uptight, especially not now.” She kissed right on top of her clit. Sasha whined.

“What do you want me to do, baby?”

“Just—just… you know, just—”

“I don’t know,” Shea smirked.

“Goddamnit, just eat me out already!”

“Don’t have to tell me twice, princess.” 

And Shea was licking languidly down Sasha’s folds, savoring the way she tasted and going back for more. She probed around her entrance, the soft sounds Sasha was making before gradually growing into prolonged moans. The designer’s voice wasn’t high pitched naturally, so it translated into musical and full sounds under Shea’s touch and Shea couldn’t get her unique moaning out of her brain. She flattened her tongue against her clit and immediately a strangled ‘mmph’ sounded above and two small hands found themselves buried in Shea’s hair.

Shea licked, pressing harder with each pass as Sasha got more and more worked up. Her voice was breathy and her hips were bucking off of the mattress and her head was turned to the side, and she just looked so pretty with the sheen of sweat coating her forehead and her hair around her head in a curly halo.

Sasha’s hands roamed to her own breasts, the motion being impossible to hold back as she kneaded them in time with Shea’s mouth. The taller woman hoisted Sasha’s thighs upwards and continued to lick, sucking over and over again at her clit, now at a better angle.

Sasha’s thighs were trembling as the pressure in her lower abdomen increased, her calves spasming as the sensations became too much to handle. She couldn’t stop herself—even if she wanted to— from letting obscene, low, drawn out sounds escape her throat. Shea’s mouth felt too good to suppress it, and Sasha was willing to let it go for once. If not for her own good, for Shea. 

Sasha tried to catch her bottom lip in between her teeth, but as soon as she bit it another shock of Shea’s tongue brought out another moan and her head was knocked back and her lips open.

It was when Shea heard her name being yelped over and over that she knew Sasha was close, and registered that she herself was probably dripping wet. If the nonverbal sounds turned Shea on, her own name almost sent her over the edge.

Shea brought her hand up to gently hover around Sasha’s entrance, continuing her assault on her clit. 

“S-sh-oh my god, oh my fuck-” was something along the lines of what Sasha rambled on about, gasping for air as her orgasm reached it’s very climax. Shea felt her tense briefly, before her entire body relaxed and Sasha was muttering softly and finally breathing regularly again.

Shea’s mouth was swollen, her tongue sore, her body tired. She fell beside Sasha on the pillows, turning and watching as the blonde regained her senses. She was a vision, wrapped up in the sheets with her makeup smudges and her eyes half shut and tired. Suddenly, she seemingly remembered something and turned to Shea.

“Do you need me to, now?”

“What, fuck me?” Shea smiled. Sasha nodded.

Shea looked down at herself. She was wet, that fact was undeniable. She was also tired, but as her arm tingled at Sasha’s feather-light touch, her energy inconspicuously returned.

Shea kissed Sasha softly, all lips and no teeth, as Sasha’s hand made its way lower and lower. Sasha cherished Shea as if she was a goddess — well, to her, she was. She wanted to feel every part of her warm skin, register it’s softness and make sure it was real and that the beautiful woman lying beside her was, in fact, tangible. Sasha caressed her thigh and moved inward, trying to fit her dainty hand in between Shea’s thighs.

Shea’s breath hitched when Sasha’s fingers hovered over her clit, and she gave the other woman more space so her hand would slip lower. Sasha gently slid her hand through Shea’s already-slick folds, and a little whimper drew itself from Shea’s throat.

“You sound so pretty, Shea,” Sasha’s voice was soft. 

“I-” Shea was interrupted by her own whine as Sasha pressed against her clit. “Not as g-good as—fuck—you, I bet.”

“I beg to differ,” Sasha replied with a smirk and a breathy tone, massaging small circles now. Their faces were nearly touching, but Shea threw her head back now, mouth stuck in an ‘o.’

“Aah—agree to disagree-ohh-” Shea looked back with wide eyes. “Right there, fuck, that feels so good,” her hips were doing their best to grind forward, knocking into Sasha’s pelvis a little.

Sasha had an idea, then.

“Darling, prop yourself up,” she smiled, planting a quick kiss on her forehead. Shea only had it in her to follow Sasha’s orders without a word.

With some maneuvering, Sasha managed to hook a leg over Shea’s and entangle herself in the other woman so that she could feel the heat from her sex on her own. Shea understood the scenario exactly, a giddy smile plastered on her face.

“Sash, you know me too well.”

With a considerable amount of effort, Sasha managed to bring their genitals into contact, and the sounds that escaped both women’s lips could have come straight out of a porno.

As they grinded in time, rubbing their pussies together, feeling probably the best they’d ever had ever and completely disregarding a need for lube because they were already wet anyway, they wondered why the hell they hadn’t thought of scissoring before. 

“Holy shit, Sasha, if I’d had known, fuck,” Shea tried to get out, but the pressure or Sasha against her clit just drowned out the words.

Sasha was basically post-verbal at this point— quite an achievement for someone such as herself— and she grabbed into Shea’s thigh in a vain attempt to ground herself. A feeling like this made her feel so high she wasn’t sure she’d come back down.

And so their cunts rubbed together, the only sound in the entire large three-story house the almost-hypersexual moans of the pair as those grew louder and closer to screams than anything.

“Shea, Shea, Shea, I-I think, oh god I’m going to—” Sasha frantically jerked her hips and yelled her relief as her second orgasm tore through her. The rush of fluid onto Shea’s pussy was enough to get her throbbing, and it wasn’t long before she finally got her release, shouting Sasha’s name.

The next few moments were a blur, the two women beyond spent, muscles sore and heads light. Apparently they both managed to hobble to the bathroom and tidy themselves up a bit, because the next thing Sasha fully registered was cuddling into Shea’s side. Shea didn’t even get that far, the moment her head touched her pillow, she was fast asleep.

Moonlight mixed with the lights of the city, basking the entire room in a periwinkle afterglow. It was entirely possible someone in one of the high-rise apartments across the street saw their whole ordeal, and the thought made Sasha laugh. If they’d known who they were, if they’d known what Sasha and Shea were doing, their lives would be over. The only thing that meant more to Sasha than Shea herself was Sasha’s work, her designs. To have that taken away was impossible, and she knew Shea felt the same about walking a runway.

Sasha squeezed Shea. In the privacy of her home, she could get used to this. In the light of the stars there was nobody to stop them from loving each other. No prying eyes and paparazzi stalkers. It was Sasha and Shea. And during the day, they could both have what they loved.

It was give and take. It was upsetting. But it was life, and the comfort of seeing each other after a hard days work made it all worth it, somehow,

Living in the sunlight, Loving in the moonlight.

#rpdr fanfiction #sasha velour #shea coulee #sashea #song fic #lesbian au #fluff #smut #model x designer au #chae #submission

[creativitytoexplore]

Swim by Christopher K. Miller https://ift.tt/3757ycN Christopher K. Miller's character is tired of ageing and called by the sea.

Every February, for the past nine years, you and your second husband, Jack, drive down from Ottawa to Anna Maria Island. Official snowbirds now. Always stay at the same rental semi on the beach: a well-appointed cabin, really, with cable TV and high-speed internet. Central heat and air - most days you need both. Shared cedar deck with a big gas barbecue, saltwater pool, and hot tub, too, of course. Mornings you drink coffee with whipped cream and watch pelicans dive-bomb for fish. Last year, a woman you met on an island boat tour said she'd heard they eventually go blind from all those eyes-wide-open impacts, and starve. So no pelican ever dies of old age. Afternoons, it's burgers and beer at Skinny's. A snack shack with a bar. Close enough to walk. Decorated totally with dollar bills. Thousands of them. Like the owner tacked up the first one he made, but then couldn't stop. Then, after a nap, dinner someplace nice. Evenings, unless it's cloudy, you watch the big orange blob of a sun sink into the Gulf. Drink pink Zinfandel you buy at the local Publix for twelve dollars a gallon. Lean on the railing. Talk to the couple next door. Last year, dairy farmers from Wisconsin. From the moment the sun's orb touches the horizon until it's completely gone takes only a few minutes. You can stare without hurting your eyes. Second time you watched, you took a cell phone video and posted it on YouTube. You don't want to die of old age, either. You've given this some thought. Every day on the road is one less day in Florida. Plus you and Jack both hate motels. Always seem to have this musty smell, even the non-smoking units. Noisy heaters mounted beneath dirty windows overlooking parking lots. Crappy TVs, usually bolted onto something. Flimsy doors that either stick or refuse to latch. Shallow tubs with gritty anti-slip tread strips. Leaky toilets. A waste of time and money. So you just drive straight through. Easy in the Caddy. GPS. Cruise. OnStar. Jack, who used to work for QNX, says it's just a matter of time until the car'll drive itself. Still, it's a long haul. Twenty, maybe twenty-two, hours speeding down I-79. Depends on pit stops. Between Jack's prostate and Sheetz's bottled cappuccinos, you take almost as many exits as you pass. The first Waffle House is in Philadelphia: Welcome to Waffle House! Tim Hortons as far south as Georgia now. Not as busy as the Canadian franchises, though. Last year, driving back through Summersville, West Virginia, you thought your headlights weren't working. It was raining and, between the slick and the glare, you couldn't see the center line. Jack does all the driving now. Says he doesn't mind a bit. The trick's to not eat too much. And pacing the caffeine. This year's neighbor's a financial planner, also from Ontario. Works for one of the big banks. Maybe CIBC... or could be the Royal. Hands Jack his card. Tells him he oughta consider moving some of those GICs when they mature into oil and precious metals, maybe even cash out early if that's an option, pay the penalty. The mighty "petrodollar" is gonna crash soon. He uses his fingers to indicate quotes. Like didja see where Germany wants its gold "repatriated." Again with the fingers. But The Fed don't have it. Can't produce it. Prolly sold it to the Asians. No wonder they refused the Germans' request for an audit. Been wallpapering the Globex with naked shorts, unredeemable gold warrants, since Christ knows when, trying to drive the price down. Quash interest rates. Desperate to sweep Obama's latest QE clusterfuck under the rug. To mask inflation. Prop up the nation's credit rating. His wife, who looks maybe half his age, hasn't said a word. Probably heard it all a million times. Appears stoned in some asocial way, or maybe just super bored, as she watches the sun set, dusk fade. No breeze. The ocean looks coated in orange plastic. Like a giant sheet of Canadian fifties. You've heard that a good way to die is to swim out as far as you can. At first, you'd turn on the car's defrost. Then you blamed cataracts for the fog. Jack had them a few years back. Half your friends already, too. Really, nowadays, almost everyone gets them. Even babies. Jack thinks it has to do with all the cell towers and microwave radiation around. A million texts a minute zapping through your body. Fortunately, an easy fix. You researched it on Wikipedia. How they used to slice open the eye. Replace the lens. Stitch it shut. How you'd spend three days flat on your back in a halo hoping your retina didn't detach. Now it's a topical anesthetic. In-and-out with a needle. A simple ten-minute procedure. OHIP's rates lag the technology. A good ophthalmologist can do thirty a day, make three million a year easy. After dark the neighbors join you in the hot tub. Dip their toes in. Ask if you mind. She's fit enough for a two-piece. But he's too big for a speedo. How is it men are oblivious to their fat? The water rises with his entry. There's a restaurant/bar with an outdoor patio maybe half a kilometer down the beach. Semi-live music. Just a guy singing karaoke, really. Maybe a guitar. Everly Brothers. Simon & Garfunkel. Beach Boys for the younger set. Drowned out when Jack turns on the jets. He and the financial planner are working on a happy drunk. A loving drunk. Guy's explaining derivatives trading. How today, thanks to computers, that's where ninety-eight percent of the market is, and how a wise money manager uses 'em to hedge, not leverage. His foot keeps touching yours. The stars look out of focus. The moon's full and low, but murky. As if shrouded in smog. You point to where you think a city-sized cruise ship's lights decorate the horizon. But no one confirms. Jack says the stock market's always frightened him the way casinos should compulsive gamblers. Even after RIM bought QNX and handed out call options like Halloween candy and made him and everyone he worked with rich, he never cared for it. You wonder if he's playing footsie, too. Surprised that you don't care. What at first you think's a falling star turns out to be either a satellite or some high-altitude plane. Or maybe the space station. Even looking at it out of the corner of your eye, where objects are at their clearest, it's impossible to tell. Might just be something floating across your cornea. You were a pretty decent swimmer back in high school. Swam men's varsity your freshman year, only girl on the team. Still remember your times. Fifty yard freestyle: twenty-three seconds flat. Two-oh-nine-seven once in the two-hundred individual medley. Coach Burton's face in yours every time you breathed: Swim! Last year, at your eye appointment, you wondered if all the chlorine might've caused your condition. Dr. Hopfner, the optometrist, thought not. Anything's possible. But AMD's a genetic thing. More common in women, eh? Your mom died in a car crash when you were sixteen. On her way home from a Christmas party. Drunk. But you remember her mother as seeming kind of blind, always trying to see you better, always pulling you a little too close but never looking straight at you. Back then you figured it was just an old person thing. Like wrinkles. Like bad hair and teeth. Dr. Hopfner advised you not lose hope. Leafy green vegetables. Intravitreal injections. An SSRI if necessary. Though you were right about the cataracts. Just not mature enough to be operative yet. Better to take a wait-see approach. Weigh the risks down the road. The financial planner's wife steps into the pool. Says she needs to cool down. Her breasts are too big for the rest of her. Her swimming looks like some combination of doggie paddle and sidestroke. And drowning. The way she rolls and gulps. Appendages flailing. All working against each other. You almost want to rescue her. Takes forever to swim two laps. You can tell she's proud of her aquatic prowess, though. The way she leans over the shallow end's gutter drawing deep, even breaths. Like hyperventilating. Like she's just crossed the English Channel. Jack asks the financial planner why he thinks it is the US still hasn't gone with plastic money or chip cards, and why you gotta pay cash in advance at the pumps, which is a total pain the ass. This causes the guy to launch into a diatribe about the US economy being so bust now that it actually relies on a certain "manageable" level of forgery and identity theft. He puts his drink down to do the quotes. No one could even begin to counterfeit a fraction of what The Fed does each and every day. Not even close. So who cares, right? And did you know they get most of their oil from us? So how come gas is so much cheaper here? He advises Jack terminate any exposure his portfolio might have to US currency. Not just cash, but any mutual funds containing US bonds or equities he might have kicking around in RSPs and whatnot, too. He places his hand on Jack's shoulder. Giving free advice seems to evoke in him a sense of largesse. The ocean is black and smooth. Like an oil slick. Swells and ripples instead of waves. You wonder if dolphins sleep at night. Sometimes, in the morning, a pod will swim by, surfacing and diving. Up and down, up and down. Like swimming the butterfly. As if stitching invisible seams. You used to rush out to see. Peer through the binoculars. Though not anymore. It's funny how the amazing blurs into the commonplace. How you can become inured to anything. Like the sun. The good life. The whole universe. But probably not blindness, despite Jack's theories about its leading to enhanced spatial and eidetic memory, better hearing, and probably better sex. At first you thought they were sharks. You climb out of the hot tub's fever-temperatured water. Say you think you'll try a swim, too. But in the ocean. The financial planner seems actually impressed. Are you nuts? What about undertows? What about sharks? You tell him there's no such thing as an "undertow." Only rip currents. They'll drag you out, but never down. And that you're more afraid of jellyfish. Jack brags you're an unbelievable swimmer. A regular fucking dolphin. Sounds a little inebriated. Glances at the woman, again floundering in the pool. Looks a little worried. What about cramps, though? You take off your ring. Wouldn't want to lose it. Four flawless carats. Wouldn't want to attract barracuda, either. Jack's glad to hang onto it till you get back. No worries. Your muscles are limber. You haven't eaten in hours. Your fingers graze his palm. A kiss might seem too final. There's a gate, then a path leading down to the sand. Scrub grass on either side. You close it behind you. South on the beach, the entertainer's singing an old Lou Christie hit. Faraway voices blend with the nearby lapping of water. Two Faces Have I, but not quite Christie's keening falsetto. High tide. Probably headed out soon. The ocean's cool, but not much cooler than the air. You're still hot from the tub. The sand's soft and smooth. Early every morning a grader truck rakes up all the stones and shells. Someone said they use them on driveways. It seems to take forever until the water reaches your knees. The moon is almost straight ahead. You recall reading somewhere that its orbital period and women's menstrual cycles are identical in length. When the ocean tickles your thighs, you dive, and swim for it. But after only a dozen strokes your hands grab sandbar. Standing makes you feel heavy. Unwieldy. Removing your suit helps. You surrender it to the tide. Now the air seems cooler than the water. After the sandbar, the bottom drops away quickly. As if on the edge of a steep underwater hill. Or cliff. You raise your arms up over your head and perform a standing surface dive. The deep water's colder. But your feet don't touch bottom. So you kick back up. Swim for the moon. Effortlessly. Like flying in a dream. You wonder if you should pace yourself. And, if so, how? For the mile? Your personal best was 17:59. But that was in a twenty-five yard pool. A long time ago. Sixty-five flip-turns. Coach Burton screaming himself hoarse the entire final hundred yards. Bringing you home. Every breath to poolside, screaming in your face: Swim! Both Jack's sons are visiting next week with their daughters. No wives, though. Separated. The three girls call you Gamma. Like the radiation. Your step-sons call you Jeanne. Always have. You're glad they don't call you Mom. Even though you've known them since they were little. Kissed their owies. Helped with their homework. And, later, their finances. Even though you love them, and you're pretty sure they love you, you suspect it's not the same. Sometimes you wish you'd had children of your own. Though not right now. Stroke stroke stroke, breathe. Steady flutter-kick. Goddamn your feet are big. First thing Coach Burton ever said to you. Regular flippers. Mermaid feet. Huge smile on his face. Stroke stroke stroke. Your armpit forms an air pocket. Breathe. Stroke stroke stroke. You skip a breath, laughing. Never paced yourself for maximum distance. Stroke stroke stroke, breathe. Guessing eighty-second hundreds. Pulse maybe picking up a little. Sixty-eight or so. More from exhilaration than effort. The current seems to carry you. Even when you stop and tread water. Your longest competitive open-water swim was five kilometers. Organized by Swim Ontario. Then there were boats and buoys and other swimmers to guide you. You seem to have drifted south a little. Toward the open Atlantic. Toward the restaurant, which is almost directly behind you now. The singer sounds tinny. Lost in the tide. Strings of red, white and blue bulbs outlining the patio look like violet webbing. To the north, past your rental, past your husband and the financial planner bonding in the hot tub, a hotel's pool lights leer aquamarine. Ahead, the moon seems to have drifted to your left. Surely an unreliable guide. You've never heard of sailors navigating by it. Only the stars. Fuzzy and faraway. You wonder if it's really true that if all the stars visible to the naked eye were grains of salt, they'd only fill a teaspoon, whereas all the stars you can't see would fill a lake. The sun's amber glow still lingers on the horizon. Like a tease. You swim for it. Coach Burton always thought you had a shot at Lake Ontario. Would've gladly helped you train. You wonder if he's still alive. He was about the age you are now. So how old would that make him? Probably too old. It occurs to you, and for the first time, that maybe it wasn't all about mentorship. Maybe his will to your athletic success was mired in something more. Stroke stroke stroke, breathe. Of course. He had a crush on you. You with your big feet, flat chest and pimples. He just wanted to be with you. Even if it meant sitting for days in a small boat, gripping a sputtering outboard's steering arm. Tossed about. Hour after hour. Occasionally vomiting into Lake Ontario's rough, cold water. Just to watch you swim. He also taught Health Ed. Breathe. Stroke, stroke. Breathe. Only to the left now. One reason you never took on Lake Ontario was all its lamprey eel. Maybe the ugliest creatures on earth. Long, slimy suction cups with needles for teeth. Love to attach to swimmers. But the real reason, the main reason, was those who'd gone before. You wouldn't have been the first, the youngest or the fastest. Though now, it occurs to you, you could be the oldest. Something slick and firm bumps, really more like nudges, you on the thigh. As if to remind you that you're not alone. Maybe a manatee. You pause for a rest. Look around. Pee. That last glass of Zinfandel. The air's much cooler than the water now, which is cooler than your body. Your urine. You relax. Float. Easy. Seawater's buoyant. You settle into it, only your nose and mouth exposed to the chill air. Feel the ocean's rise and fall. As if breathing. As if in a deep sleep. You listen for the eerie howling moan of whale song. Hear only the drone of some faraway ship's engines. Then surface. Look around. Ears and cheeks cooling. All horizon now. Everywhere you look. You wonder if it's true that sailing ships of old always carried swine. That a pig, thrown overboard, will always swim for the nearest land. You feel a little dizzy. A mild vertigo. Disoriented. Faraway lights could be a ship, or a pier. Or an illusion. But the moon seems real. And about where you remember it. You've always had a good sense of direction. You consult your inner swine. Then do the opposite. Swim for the farthest shore. You're in the Gulf. So somewhere on the coast of Mexico. Or Texas. Or even Louisiana. Cuba, if you're way off course, would be much closer. But still far enough. Switching to backstroke works a different set of muscles. Gazing up into the night sky is not unlike gazing down into the deep. Both are unfathomable in their way. You imagine Jack has lost interest in matters of national economic import by now. Whatever buzz he's managed to tie on, you've probably killed. But surely the other couple hasn't gone to bed. Left him standing alone on the beach. You wonder how long he'll shout your name before he breaks down. Calls 911. The coast guard. No. It'll be someone else who does. Maybe someone from the restaurant. Americans are way friendlier than Canadians. Especially in the South. What's the problem, buddy? What? How long did you say? Oh man! Jack might even argue a little. A few hours in the water ain't diddly. Not for you. Hell, there've been Lake Ontario crossings took over forty. Some who've swum across and back. Even after the call is made, he'll keep trying to find you. Run up and down the beach all night. Screaming like Coach Burton. Like you're not the one who's lost. You stay on your back, but switch to a frog kick, with a lazy underwater double-arm sweep. Not a competitive stroke. Well maybe in synchronized swimming. Super easy. Have to be careful not to kick too hard, though. Don't need a calf cramp. But you have to keep moving. You've heard sharks have to swim to breathe. If you stop swimming, you could freeze. Seems funny someone could freeze to death at room temperature. Because that's what the water is. There's a kind of tension, a clenching, that precedes shivering. The air seems colder now. You push a little harder. Just enough to get warm. You don't want to sweat. You don't want to cry, either. The ocean is big enough. So you stop thinking about Jack and the kids. Roll over. Get back to some serious swimming. Count your strokes. In a pool it's about fifteen hundred per mile. In open water, usually more. Depends on waves and current. There are no waves out here. Not the breaking kind. Only swells. You rise and fall. Rise and fall. It's made you a little queasy. You also have a niggling headache. Like someone's squeezing your eyeballs. Dr. Hopfner mentioned glaucoma. Not to worry. You don't have it. But your IOP's at the high end of normal. Both eyes. Could complicate things down the road. Something to keep on top of. Did you know swimming goggles have been shown to raise intraocular pressure? Do you still swim? Goodness! No wonder you're so trim! You start over every thousand strokes. But was it nine or ten? Your arms are heavy. Burning. And, at the same time, a little numb. Breaststroke's just as hard on your lats, but easier on your shoulders, and better for looking around. Not a lot to see, though. Water. Sky. Stars. The spoonful that are visible, anyway. Tough on the knees. For about a hundred strokes, whenever you pull up to breathe, you think you hear a helicopter. Far away. And getting farther. Till it's just your heart thumping in your ears. Seems a waste of energy to try to shake or knock the water out of them. Should've worn earplugs. Sustained, breaststroke's hard on the neck. It's made your headache worse. Rolling to your back turns your stomach. Turns your queasiness into full blown nausea. Thinking about Skinny's onion rings doesn't help. What goes in a veggie burger? Do meats ever masquerade as vegetables? You need to shit. On the road, you're at the mercy of public washrooms. Restaurants, gas stations and service centers. You can usually hold out longer than Jack. But you get less warning. Still, you both try to sync washroom breaks with refueling. If you don't need gas, you buy an Almond Joy and something to drink. You feel like you should pay something. You wonder if whales ever hold it in, either as an exercise or out of some sort of marine etiquette. But you're just visiting. No holding back for you. You push. Sync it with your whip kicks. No wiping after. Nice thing about being naked in the middle of the ocean. Cleans you right up. Like a giant bidet. It helped. You feel less nauseated. Less bloated. But your head still hurts. All the way down your neck and back, really. Whoever said swimming out into the ocean as far as you can was a good way to die probably never tried it. Or wasn't a very good swimmer. Think about something else. You don't believe Coach Burton had a wife. A family. You remember how obsessively he bit his nails. Probably from being responsible for things over which he had no control. Like your times. Gnawed them till they bled. Right down to the quick. Right into the meat even. Had to have hurt. Probably be prescribed an anticompulsive today. Except when screaming, always had a finger in his mouth. Angry scabs oozing yellow pus. Especially his thumbs. You wonder if they ever got infected. Seemed to infect his breath a little. Your own, too, when blown back into your face. Bile rises up into your throat so, instead of air, you inhale that. And cough. And cough. Makes your head pound. Once, at the YWCA, you took a lifesaving class. Got your certificate. What you're doing now is called a jellyfish float. Tucked into the fetal position, curled like a question mark, you cough into the ocean. Gulp your own saliva and stomach acids. And seawater. Brackish and warm. Like blood. Like urine. Underwater, you vomit. Heave. Bits of veggie burger and deep fried onion and whatever it was you had for dinner... spinach salad and blackened ahi tuna... it all spews from your mouth and nose. Swirls around you. Like chum. But again, you feel better. Cleansed. Lighter. And thirsty. In lake crossings there's juice and pop. In country crossings there's bottled waters. Sweetened teas. Flavored coffees. Whatever you want. Everywhere you stop. But here there's only your saliva. You swallow. Roll to your back. The stars are gone now. The moon, too. You forge ahead, nonetheless. Feel for the farthest shore. Trust your inner pig. Ignore your thirst. The ache in your shoulders and back. Think about something else. Maybe Coach Burton's eating his fingertips was just his way of sharing your pain. How can you expect to push others to maximum endurance if you aren't willing to suffer yourself? Bleed yourself? That reminds you. He had a scalp condition, too. Maybe eczema. A wreath of scratches and pricks. Always a few tiny flakes of skin sprinkled on his glasses. Thick bifocals that made his eyes look as if they were floating in water. Try sidestroke. A lifesaving stroke. But, unless you're carrying someone, an inefficient stroke. Asymmetric and slow. Or maybe you just never practiced it enough. Butterfly is almost as fast as the crawl. But more demanding. A woman did once swim Lake Ontario using it, though. Land mammals all instinctively swim doggie paddle. But you wouldn't. Not if your life depended on it. Switch back to breaststroke. Then freestyle crawl some more. Then just lie on your back and kick those big feet without using your arms. Your mouth is dry. A kickboard would be nice. All the salt you've gulped. You feel weak in a way that transcends mere muscle fatigue. Drained at the core. Your headache is back. But you're almost there. Once, in a psychology class you took back in university, they showed a video of an experiment some psychologists had performed to determine how long rats would tread water before drowning. Some lasted as long as ninety-six hours. Four days. How this knowledge could possibly ever benefit anyone was a complete mystery to you then. You stop. Tread water. Ahead in the distance, you think you see the lights of that city-sized cruise ship again. But then it's gone. The sky and the ocean are black. But with different textures. Seem to reflect one another. Each distorting the other's image. Again and again. Over and over. Like floating between two vast funhouse mirrors. An assistant coach, whose name you forget, once told you Coach Burton had swum for the University of Michigan. On scholarship. Even qualified for Olympic trials. Made it all the way to the finals despite a very tough field that year. Then missed the two-hundred meter freestyle cut by less than a tenth of a second. Tragic in a way. The relay team took gold that year. All that hard, hard work. You think high school workouts are tough? You have no clue what tough is. Heat after heat, with only a few breaths to recoup. Then, after all that hardship and pain, to lose by a fraction of a second. Difference between a six-figure Wheaties endorsement and coaching high school. So maybe Coach Burton just wanted for you what he couldn't give himself. You wonder if he chewed his nails off to keep from scratching his head. Funny how a man can come into focus after so many years. Be seen clearer at a distance. You always wondered why you never saw him in the pool. Never saw him swim. Maybe the chemicals. You try a few more strokes. But, no. Nothing left. And so here you are. Finished. You made it. As far as you can go. So thirsty now. You look up at the starless sky. Feel like you should say goodbye or something. But instead say, Help. Not loud. Not to attract attention. Not even as a prayer. You don't pray. Wouldn't to save your life. You say it only as a kind of joke. Between yourself and the universe: Help. Still you can laugh. A hissing sweeps across the water. You hear the rain before you feel it. Then splashing all around you. Mottling the ocean's smooth surface. At first you think it's a bad thing. Just more water. You feel hope sink. Yourself, too. From below the surface, the rain sounds like it's shushing you. Telling you to listen. Then you realize: it's a gift. And rise up as from the dead. As if reborn. Lie on your back. Feel it pelt your eyes and face. Open your mouth and drink. And drink. Drink until all is quiet. Until the stars return. Again you try to swim. To forge ahead with your plan. Again your limbs refuse to obey. Your arms are numb. Legs, too. Only your lungs still burn. Only your heart still aches. Everything else feels like rubber. So this is it. This really is as far as you can go. Behind you, as if to agree, and to confirm the correctness of your course, dawn shimmers on the horizon. Offering guidance. Promising warmth. In a few minutes the entire sun will peer up over the edge of the world. Rising as it fell. You wonder when humans stopped worshiping it, and why. You feel a warm gust of wind in your face. Like Coach Burton's breath. Feeling has returned, accompanied by a prickling in your extremities. Still, you cannot swim any farther. Not another stroke. Not ahead. And so there you are. Two directions remaining. Down into the unfathomable. The inevitable. Or back into the morning's light. And whatever else awaits. All or nothing, now. Nothing, or all... And so you pirouette. Turn. Reverse course. Breathe. Stroke. Roll. Breathe. You probably look like the financial planner's wife. The way she does her laps. Stroke. Roll. Breathe. Still, progress is progress. Pain a blessing. Endurance unfathomable. This you have learned. This he has taught you well. Crab-walking along beside you. With that awkward crouching stride that must've killed his knees. At times, stooped almost as in prayer. Keeping pace. Bringing you home. Just as you remember. Bent down with that thorny crown. Those drowning eyes. Leaning right out over the water. One hand on the deck for support, and, in the other, holding forth, clenched in bloody fingers - not for you to read, but only to emphasize the importance of time remaining - his silver stopwatch. Screaming, blowing your breath back into your face. Every time you breathe: Swim goddammit! Swim!

#FICTION on the WEB short stories

[dmozal-cancer-walk-in-50states]

Illinois, the 50th State Attended

Before I share about the Relay event I attended in Kewanee I want to give a very special thank you to AmericInn and their fantastic staff for their kindness and help in providing a beautiful room for my husband and I to stay in. If we come this way again (and we certainly hope to) we will be staying with you. Thank you for the help in proving a beautiful atmosphere, friendly service and a room cost we couldn’t beat! I sincerely recommend this as a great place to stay.

https://www.wyndhamhotels.com/americinn/kewanee-illinois/americinn-lodge-and-suites-kewanee/overview?CID=LC:AA::GGL:RIO:National:fid&iata=00065402

Kewanee, Illinois – August 25, 2018

My goal to walk in all 50 states comes to a close at the Henry & Stark Counties Relay. My relationship with Relay for Life started with my son and his friends, who decided they wanted to walk in my honor at our local event a few months after I was diagnosed. The idea to attend all 50 states was born when I walked in a Relay with my sisters, niece, and a dear friend, Mary Ann Hudson. And the goal was complete in Kewanee, Illinois as I walked with the survivors, caregivers, my husband, and that same friend who walked with me in Indiana several years ago.

My dear friend, Mary Ann Hudson and me

The event was held in the beautiful Windmont Park. The weather was hot but it didn’t detour anyone who was there! Everyone was there to support one another and raise money to help others.

The beautiful surroundings of Kewanee’s Relay in Windmont Park

Just a couple of the many smiling faces participating in the Relay

Picture by Mary Ann Hudson of Survivors and Caregivers getting ready to release balloons

Picture by Mary Ann Hudson as balloons are first released

I was lucky that I was able to chat with a few people who were kind enough to share their stories.

I met Samantha Cone, a very energetic woman who helped with the Relay For Life event. She has been involved with Relay for two years and has participated in Susan G. Komen’s Race For the Cure for many years before Relay.

Samantha Cone and me

Samantha’s Grandmother on her Dad’s side has had several cancers since her original diagnosis of breast cancer at 42 years old. She has been fighting cancer for 34 years.

Her mother was also diagnosed in July with sarcoma in her arm at the age of 56.

Samantha spoke at the Relay, is a volunteer with a very generous heart, hates cancer, and has a very cool hairstyle!

Samantha sharing her story and involvement with Relay For Life

Nichelle Nichols-Morey is a 22-year survivor (May, 2019). She was diagnosed when she was 26 years old with germ-cell cancer which is related to testicular cancer in men. When she was diagnosed she had no health care insurance, which meant she kept putting off seeing a doctor. Nichelle had a persistent cough and because she was out in Colorado she blamed it on high altitude, asthma, a cold, etc.

Nichelle Nichols, Event Chair for Henry & Stark Counties, and me

She came home for her grandparents 50th wedding anniversary and it was a good thing she did. Nichelle had severe shoulder pain. Her mother took her to the hospital where it was discovered that she had a tumor so large in her chest cavity that it had collapsed her lung and moved over her heart. Nichelle was placed on oxygen, transported to Peoria Illinois, and the next morning they did a biopsy.  Soon she received her diagnosis. Nichelle said as strange as it sounds it was good that she was home when her health crisis occurred. She was able to be diagnosed and have all her treatments while at home with her family.

The doctors told Nichelle that this was one of the best types of cancer if she was going to have this disease. The one thing that was difficult was the lack of statistics of a female having this type of cancer.

Her treatment was high doses of chemotherapy to shrink the tumor. There were two possible outcomes: shrinking the tumor down to nothing or shrinking it enough to have surgery. Nichelle’s treatment of 3 months of chemotherapy was tough on her 6-foot frame. She lost 18 pounds, so she only weighed about 130 when she finished her treatments. She was told that if the 4 treatments she received didn’t work there wouldn’t be anything else they could do. They worked to significantly shrink the tumor so she could have surgery to remove the remainder of the tumor.

Nichelle went to Indiana because that is where she found a doctor who would take her since she didn’t have insurance. She also needed someone who could perform her very specialized surgery. The doctor said although he’s performed many surgeries, he thought she was possibly his first female patient.

The surgery was much like open heart surgery. She was even put on the ward for open heart surgery, along with the older patients who normally have open heart surgery. The staff wasn’t sure what to do with Nichelle as she was so young and healed quickly (they did know, it was just surprising to have someone so young). She said they found that what was left of the tumor was benign. It was considered a yoke sack tumor at diagnosis and was left over because the tumor was so large.

Her timeline was impressive. She was diagnosed in May, chemo for 3 months, then surgery in October, and back to Colorado in November.

She had a great support system. Her mother took care of her and her town had a wonderful benefit for her.

Nichelle said she started off seeing her oncologist every 3 months, then extended visits to 6 months, then a year, and finally after 11 years she was released. It was actually a bit sad for Nichelle. Dr. Alan Vukov was a fantastic doctor. He was a person who really invested in his patients. He didn’t have to look at his patient’s file, Nichelle said. He knew each patient, their family and their life. He cared beyond the disease and she really appreciated him. The doctor split his time between Kewannee and Peoria. One time the staff forgot patient’s files for the day, but Dr. Vukov didn’t need them. He really did know his patients!

I asked Nichelle if her family has to watch for this disease as possibly being hereditary, but she was told no.

As tough as those first several months were Nichelle feels very luckily that her fight was much shorter than what she has seen people go through over the last 22 years since her diagnosis.

She said that one of the things she was surprised about was that no one asked about saving her eggs because she was told the probability of having children was very low due to the high doses of chemotherapy. Nichelle attributes the healthy lifestyle she was living in Colorado; clean eating, exercise, etc. with the fact that two years after her treatments she was pregnant.

Nichelle was very worried that the cancer was back, and she was getting sick again. Before she went to the doctor she did a pregnancy test. She has a 19-year-old son and now has a 6-year-old daughter as well. She also has guardianship of another young girl so if you ask Nichelle she will tell you she has 3 children.

Nichelle sharing her story and talks about the importance of raising money for a cure!

Nichelle started getting involved with Relay about 18 years ago. She first started helping, then had a team. Once she started working at the bank they encouraged her to be involved in the community which worked perfectly with her desire to be a part of Relay for Life. Nichelle co-chaired the event for about 4 years and then was the 2017’s and 2018’s Event Lead for Henry & Stark County.

Nichelle’s drive to bring the community together along with her own experiences with cancer continue to prompt her involvement with Relay For Life. She doesn’t want anyone to have to suffer with cancer.

Nichelle signing my T-Shirts

I was inspired by Nichelle. She cares about everyone and loves what American Cancer Society and Relay represent….hope, support, and community!

Courtney Bryner was almost 17 years old when I met her. She is a survivor that took the time to talk to me and share her story.

Me and Courtney

When she was 10 years old Courtney was diagnosed with glioma, a type of cancer that affected her left optic nerve. At Christmas in 2010 she visited with her grandmother who was from Virginia and didn’t see Courtney every day. Her grandmother asked if Courtney had a lazy eye because her left eye looked a little strange but that was not the problem. Her mom set up an appointment for Courtney to be examined.

When the doctor entered the room he also noticed that something wasn’t right. He examined her right eye which seemed fine but when he checked on her left eye he realized that Courtney couldn’t see correctly. She could see things but only within parts of her line of vision, like banana-shaped spots in her line of site. She could only see in black and white. Courtney didn’t realize that her vision was changing because it was gradual. They estimate the changes happened over about an 8-month period and because her right eye was working, the issues weren’t as noticeable.

New Year’s Eve Courtney had her eye exam and she was formerly diagnosed January 10th, 2011. At that time her grandmother, who was fighting lung cancer, was living with Courtney’s family.

The week she was diagnosed and had her MRI, Courtney’s grandmother passed away, so they had her funeral. That same week Courtney also had her port placed. Tisha, Courtney’s mom,  and Courtney say it was a very difficult time for them. As you can imagine Courtney and her Mom had a lot of discussions because of the concerns Courtney had, especially because she saw her grandma pass away from cancer.

Once the MRI results came back they could see the cancer. Courtney said she named her cancer “Wilbur” (from Charlotte’s Web) because “it kind of looked like a pig on the MRI”. She named her cyst “Anna”. Very funny! What a great sense of humor she has.

Courtney was supposed to have chemotherapy for a year, however they found after 6 weeks that it wasn’t working so it was stopped. The same day they stopped the chemo Courtney started radiation. She received 30 treatments which she had every day until she was done. Courtney’s chemo made her sick so she had to go to the hospital to get fluids. Sometimes she would take those fluids home or need to take the fluids with her to school.

Courtney wanted her eye removed, but because of her size and age they didn’t want to perform the surgery yet. The doctors believed that damage could be caused during her growth. She did have surgery to remove the cancer which included removing the cyst, tumor, and optic nerve. She developed trigeminal neuralgia which caused the whole left side of her face to become red, swollen, and very painful.

Even though Courtney is young she is wise beyond her years. She asked that they remove her eye right from the beginning, but she shared that it seemed like every year and a half they would do something (not when she wanted it done). At 12 she asked that they take “everything”, the eye, etc. but she was again told that they wanted to see if by waiting there might be new medical discoveries (such as stem cell) that would help to save the eye.  Courtney is not only “wise beyond her years”, her Mom says “she’s always been an old soul”, because 4 years later they had to remover her eye. It was too damaged to save. The doctors also cauterized the nerves, so the pain is not nearly the intensity it used to be. She explains that her body tries hurt but can’t because the nerve is no longer there. Courtney is very in tune with her body and health.

Courtney had a deviated septum because of several factors: her nose had been broken when she was very young, then the tumor pushed against her sinuses so that pushed the septum even further out of place, and the radiation made it even worse. She took each situation in stride.

Even more amazing is the fact is that Courtney had been released from the hospital the day of the Relay (just hours before I met her). She’s had orbital cellulitis before but this time she was in the hospital for facial cellulitis. It is very painful, but you would never know it from the smile on Courtney’s face, and the energy she exuded!

I asked her about how her friends acted when she was diagnosed. When she was diagnosed she had a book about cancer, but Courtney really didn’t want her friends to know about her disease. They kept pushing her to see what was wrong. Shelly Lee from St. Jude was a child health care specialist. Shelly brought in a doll to school that had a port for chemo and was a great way for the kids to learn about why Courtney might miss school sometimes, why it was so important that they wash their hands, or stay away from her if they weren’t feeling well, etc.

There is a St. Jude’s in Peoria, a Midwest affiliate, so that is where Courtney went for a lot of her treatments. Once she needed brain surgery, however, she had to go to Memphis and see Dr. Boop (yes his name is BOOP!) and Dr. Fleming. Dr. Boop is world renowned. In fact he did a teaching video on Courtney as well.

Courtney is like the energizer bunny. As a Junior for 2018-2019 she continues to go, go, go. Tisha said that she never missed a year of softball, is involved in cheer, and participates in pageants. Like I said….energizer bunny!!!

Tisha said that her friends continue to support them through their journey. They had a benefit that allowed the girls to dress up (along with their parents) to attend the “ball”. A very generous company, Country Bride, gave Courtney the dress she wore along with the alterations, supplied Trish with her dress, plus they gave away about 20 dresses. They also had a special area with discounted dresses for those who needed them. Courtney continued to go to them for all her dress needs!

Tisha said that everyone Courtney meets is just amazed at her stamina, sense of humor, and care for others. Tisha said Courtney is her hero (mine too)!

Courtney wants to do one of the following: A pediatric neuro-ophthalmologist, a make-up artist, or work with special needs.

This young woman shows that cancer may slow you down a bit but can’t stop you!

Courtney has a Facebook page https://www.facebook.com/Courageous-Courtney-173958419374401/

She also shared a very special video

https://www.facebook.com/pg/Courageous-Courtney-173958419374401/videos/

So as the night ended and the impact of the luminaria event allowed people to be reminded of the loved ones they walk for, raise money for, and pray for… I thought of my family members and friend who have fought this disease. Some have won and some have lost so I was again reminded of why I started this journey.

Luminaria bags lined up in honor or memory of someone affected by cancer

The beauty of the park helps as we silently walk in honor or memory of those touched by cancer

Being the center of an event was not my intention when I attended the Relay’s but if people read articles written about this journey and are inspired to attend either their local event or one held in a state they are vacationing or visiting relatives, etc. then I’m more than happy to share my story.

http://www.starcourier.com/news/20180823/relay-for-life-this-weekend

I made a plan over 8 years ago to attend a Relay for Life in every state so I could meet survivors, caregivers, family members and friends who have been affected by cancer. Although this part of my journey is over, I am will continue to share people’s stories when I get a chance.

I’m excited to complete this goal but sad that it is done at the same time. The fight isn’t over, it continues every day as we raise money for continuing research as well as the programs and legislature needed to protect all of us from this disease. People are still being diagnosed every day, family members are still losing loved ones to this disease, so the fight isn’t over….. just the completion of my journey of walking in all 50 states. I will continue to share stories of people I meet because their stories are the inspiration I need to look forward, and I hope it is for all of us to be inspired. It’s important to know that we are not alone in this battle. There are many who are conquering cancer and new research will help so no one has to lose the battle.

I am thankful to every person whom I have met. I appreciate all the hard work that goes in to each of these events. I appreciate both sides of cancer; as a caregiver for my mother who lost her battle almost 24 years ago and as a survivor who will be celebrating 10 years cancer free in 2019.

The fight isn’t over, the disease still attacks those we care about, but we all know that love is bigger than this disease.

Thank you, each and every person who has taken the time to talk to me, share their stories, or taken the time to read this blog. The only word I can think of for this journey is humbling. Humbling because I see how loving and caring people can be to a stranger. Ok two words, honored. I am honored to have been able to share so much with such amazing people. Please continue to care for one another as well as doing what you can to take care of your health. God bless you!

#Illinois Henrycounty Starkcounty relayforlife americancancersociety 50states momonamission curecancer cancer

[milenasanchezmk]

I Didn’t Get a Migraine That First Week. Or That Second Week. Or Ever Again.

It’s Friday, everyone! And that means another Primal Blueprint Real Life Story from a Mark’s Daily Apple reader. If you have your own success story and would like to share it with me and the Mark’s Daily Apple community please contact me here. I’ll continue to publish these each Friday as long as they keep coming in. Thank you for reading!

Five years ago, a young and “healthy” 22 year old, I was working as a groom at a high end horse ranch in Western Colorado. I suddenly found myself with debilitating migraines. I’d never had migraines before so it was a bit shocking for me. But they were bad. Really, really bad. Like, 10-14 days long. I couldn’t function. My boss was as understanding as can be so I didn’t lose my job (thank goodness), but I remember my head felt like it was splitting in two, even dim light was painful, and I’d have to get a horse, go into the barn, shut the doors, turn the lights off, wear sunglasses anyway, and try to do my job. That’s neither sustainable nor a solution. It was horrendous. And ridiculous.

But the many doctors didn’t have any solutions. Migraine meds didn’t do a thing. The neurologist ordered a battery of blood tests and an MRI of my brain. Everything normal, nothing to fix here. Just keep trying the migraine meds. In the meantime, I was frantically trying to find a way to improve my health. I figured, What do healthy people do? They run marathons right? Let’s google how to do that. I didn’t really want to run (who was I kidding, running sucks!) so when one of the results was an MDA article about training for marathons with a link to an article against chronic cardio I checked that one out. I figured it might give me an excuse to not have to take up running. Ha! I had no idea it would lead to something way better.

From there I checked out the rest of the site. So, if lions are designed to eat meat and zebras to eat grass, what are humans meant to eat? What a common sense question, why hadn’t I ever thought to ask that? I signed up for the introductory emails but didn’t even wait for them before I binge read everything on the blog, cleared my pantry, and started in. There was a local rancher that sold grass fed steaks at the grocery store. I liked veggies. I really liked bacon so if this new diet said that was in, I was in. It’s funny to think back to all that now.

But I tell you what, as much as that low carb flu kicked my butt, I felt better. And I didn’t get a migraine that first week. Or that second week. Or ever again.

Then I discovered the missing piece of the puzzle. On the way to the neurologist’s office to hear my MRI results, I hadn’t had time to eat at home so I grabbed some convenient chicken fingers on the way. 80/20, I figured. The neurologist was out of town so the nurse practitioner saw me. When she gave me a look over, my thyroid was swollen. Like, huge. Scary swollen. And I was starting to get a headache. We started talking. And then she figured it out. (I tell you, nurse practitioners can be pretty amazing people.) It was gluten. I was having an autoimmune reaction to gluten—celiac. I had celiac. As it turns out, and I later found a Chris Kresser article explaining it, the gluten protein looks similar to something thyroids are made of, so when your body attacks the gluten your thyroid can get attacked too. How about that.

It all made sense now. As a kid I had what I now know to be symptoms of celiac in children. Underweight, constant stomachaches, etc. And before I started getting those migraines, it was summer time so I was with the horses at the high altitude portion of the ranch living in a tiny 120 square foot cabin. The grocery store was a long trip down the mountain. And with only a small mini fridge and no freezer, I ate a lot of shelf stable food. Processed food. Mostly pasta and granola. Really, my diet was about 80% wheat. And my body had finally had enough.

So Mark’s Daily Apple led me to find that I was celiac. But just as important it gave me a way of eating that made me feel healthy.

But I also helped in a far bigger way. A year and a half ago my husband and I found out we were going to be parents. And I kept eating primally. And I had about the healthiest pregnancy I could imagine. Alright, so the morning sickness was miserable and persistent. But otherwise it was perfect. I was one of those “belly only” pregnancies I hear people aim for. I was like a walking beach ball. But I felt great. And the delivery went great. I chalk it up to good nutrition and faith in my body’s ability to do what it was made to do. We had our baby at home with a midwife because that’s what I was comfortable with. After a short 3.5 hour labor (which was uncomfortable but honestly not painful. I now hate the expression “the pain of childbirth.” I think it sends the wrong expectation to women about how birth feels but I digress) we had a healthy 7 lb 12 oz baby girl. She’s so perfect and so healthy. I feel so lucky.

When I was pregnant I read a lot of Weston A Price articles. They brag a lot about how their nutrient dense diet produces healthy pregnancies and healthy babies with a wide jaw (which is an indication that the mother had good nutrition, especially plenty of Vitamins A and K). While I was pregnant I did take dessicated grass fed beef liver, occasionally some Dr Ron’s freeze dried organs and glands, a high quality prenatal with 5-MTHF folate (as recommended by Chris Kresser), fermented cod liver oil, and some high vitamin butter oil in addition to the Primal diet. So I did follow a couple WAPF recommendations. But I was not interested in buying raw milk. I don’t even like drinking milk so I did not want to pay the local raw milk producer the equivalent of $25 a gallon. I didn’t want to hunt down fresh organ meats and eat them. Yucky taste, no thank you. And I didn’t bother soaking/fermenting grains because, well, I’m Primal and I don’t even really do grains. Occasionally I do rice but it’s not that exciting so meh.

I know every parent says this, but my baby is the cutest little sucker in the world. I don’t think it’s just luck either. I think the nutrient dense diet I learned from MDA and the PB are why I’m so healthy and why my daughter is so healthy and so beautiful.

I’ve lost all the “baby weight” with zero effort. I actually weigh less now than I did before I was pregnant. I walk my daughter in the stroller a few times a week for 5 miles while she naps. She keeps me active and busy. I never have time to sit down. Lift heavy things? That baby’s a heavy thing and I carry her constantly. Sprints…Well I’ll get back to those and normal workouts eventually. But I’m not worried about it. I’ve got my walks and my yoga for now.

So I might catch a little flack for my five toe shoes and my obsession with bone broth but gosh dang I couldn’t be happier or healthier. Thank you again and again Mark, you changed my life.

Kate

[cristinajourdanqp]

I Didn’t Get a Migraine That First Week. Or That Second Week. Or Ever Again.

It’s Friday, everyone! And that means another Primal Blueprint Real Life Story from a Mark’s Daily Apple reader. If you have your own success story and would like to share it with me and the Mark’s Daily Apple community please contact me here. I’ll continue to publish these each Friday as long as they keep coming in. Thank you for reading!

Five years ago, a young and “healthy” 22 year old, I was working as a groom at a high end horse ranch in Western Colorado. I suddenly found myself with debilitating migraines. I’d never had migraines before so it was a bit shocking for me. But they were bad. Really, really bad. Like, 10-14 days long. I couldn’t function. My boss was as understanding as can be so I didn’t lose my job (thank goodness), but I remember my head felt like it was splitting in two, even dim light was painful, and I’d have to get a horse, go into the barn, shut the doors, turn the lights off, wear sunglasses anyway, and try to do my job. That’s neither sustainable nor a solution. It was horrendous. And ridiculous.

But the many doctors didn’t have any solutions. Migraine meds didn’t do a thing. The neurologist ordered a battery of blood tests and an MRI of my brain. Everything normal, nothing to fix here. Just keep trying the migraine meds. In the meantime, I was frantically trying to find a way to improve my health. I figured, What do healthy people do? They run marathons right? Let’s google how to do that. I didn’t really want to run (who was I kidding, running sucks!) so when one of the results was an MDA article about training for marathons with a link to an article against chronic cardio I checked that one out. I figured it might give me an excuse to not have to take up running. Ha! I had no idea it would lead to something way better.

From there I checked out the rest of the site. So, if lions are designed to eat meat and zebras to eat grass, what are humans meant to eat? What a common sense question, why hadn’t I ever thought to ask that? I signed up for the introductory emails but didn’t even wait for them before I binge read everything on the blog, cleared my pantry, and started in. There was a local rancher that sold grass fed steaks at the grocery store. I liked veggies. I really liked bacon so if this new diet said that was in, I was in. It’s funny to think back to all that now.

But I tell you what, as much as that low carb flu kicked my butt, I felt better. And I didn’t get a migraine that first week. Or that second week. Or ever again.

Then I discovered the missing piece of the puzzle. On the way to the neurologist’s office to hear my MRI results, I hadn’t had time to eat at home so I grabbed some convenient chicken fingers on the way. 80/20, I figured. The neurologist was out of town so the nurse practitioner saw me. When she gave me a look over, my thyroid was swollen. Like, huge. Scary swollen. And I was starting to get a headache. We started talking. And then she figured it out. (I tell you, nurse practitioners can be pretty amazing people.) It was gluten. I was having an autoimmune reaction to gluten—celiac. I had celiac. As it turns out, and I later found a Chris Kresser article explaining it, the gluten protein looks similar to something thyroids are made of, so when your body attacks the gluten your thyroid can get attacked too. How about that.

It all made sense now. As a kid I had what I now know to be symptoms of celiac in children. Underweight, constant stomachaches, etc. And before I started getting those migraines, it was summer time so I was with the horses at the high altitude portion of the ranch living in a tiny 120 square foot cabin. The grocery store was a long trip down the mountain. And with only a small mini fridge and no freezer, I ate a lot of shelf stable food. Processed food. Mostly pasta and granola. Really, my diet was about 80% wheat. And my body had finally had enough.

So Mark’s Daily Apple led me to find that I was celiac. But just as important it gave me a way of eating that made me feel healthy.

But I also helped in a far bigger way. A year and a half ago my husband and I found out we were going to be parents. And I kept eating primally. And I had about the healthiest pregnancy I could imagine. Alright, so the morning sickness was miserable and persistent. But otherwise it was perfect. I was one of those “belly only” pregnancies I hear people aim for. I was like a walking beach ball. But I felt great. And the delivery went great. I chalk it up to good nutrition and faith in my body’s ability to do what it was made to do. We had our baby at home with a midwife because that’s what I was comfortable with. After a short 3.5 hour labor (which was uncomfortable but honestly not painful. I now hate the expression “the pain of childbirth.” I think it sends the wrong expectation to women about how birth feels but I digress) we had a healthy 7 lb 12 oz baby girl. She’s so perfect and so healthy. I feel so lucky.

When I was pregnant I read a lot of Weston A Price articles. They brag a lot about how their nutrient dense diet produces healthy pregnancies and healthy babies with a wide jaw (which is an indication that the mother had good nutrition, especially plenty of Vitamins A and K). While I was pregnant I did take dessicated grass fed beef liver, occasionally some Dr Ron’s freeze dried organs and glands, a high quality prenatal with 5-MTHF folate (as recommended by Chris Kresser), fermented cod liver oil, and some high vitamin butter oil in addition to the Primal diet. So I did follow a couple WAPF recommendations. But I was not interested in buying raw milk. I don’t even like drinking milk so I did not want to pay the local raw milk producer the equivalent of $25 a gallon. I didn’t want to hunt down fresh organ meats and eat them. Yucky taste, no thank you. And I didn’t bother soaking/fermenting grains because, well, I’m Primal and I don’t even really do grains. Occasionally I do rice but it’s not that exciting so meh.

I know every parent says this, but my baby is the cutest little sucker in the world. I don’t think it’s just luck either. I think the nutrient dense diet I learned from MDA and the PB are why I’m so healthy and why my daughter is so healthy and so beautiful.

I’ve lost all the “baby weight” with zero effort. I actually weigh less now than I did before I was pregnant. I walk my daughter in the stroller a few times a week for 5 miles while she naps. She keeps me active and busy. I never have time to sit down. Lift heavy things? That baby’s a heavy thing and I carry her constantly. Sprints…Well I’ll get back to those and normal workouts eventually. But I’m not worried about it. I’ve got my walks and my yoga for now.

So I might catch a little flack for my five toe shoes and my obsession with bone broth but gosh dang I couldn’t be happier or healthier. Thank you again and again Mark, you changed my life.

Kate

[fishermariawo]

I Didn’t Get a Migraine That First Week. Or That Second Week. Or Ever Again.

It’s Friday, everyone! And that means another Primal Blueprint Real Life Story from a Mark’s Daily Apple reader. If you have your own success story and would like to share it with me and the Mark’s Daily Apple community please contact me here. I’ll continue to publish these each Friday as long as they keep coming in. Thank you for reading!

Five years ago, a young and “healthy” 22 year old, I was working as a groom at a high end horse ranch in Western Colorado. I suddenly found myself with debilitating migraines. I’d never had migraines before so it was a bit shocking for me. But they were bad. Really, really bad. Like, 10-14 days long. I couldn’t function. My boss was as understanding as can be so I didn’t lose my job (thank goodness), but I remember my head felt like it was splitting in two, even dim light was painful, and I’d have to get a horse, go into the barn, shut the doors, turn the lights off, wear sunglasses anyway, and try to do my job. That’s neither sustainable nor a solution. It was horrendous. And ridiculous.

But the many doctors didn’t have any solutions. Migraine meds didn’t do a thing. The neurologist ordered a battery of blood tests and an MRI of my brain. Everything normal, nothing to fix here. Just keep trying the migraine meds. In the meantime, I was frantically trying to find a way to improve my health. I figured, What do healthy people do? They run marathons right? Let’s google how to do that. I didn’t really want to run (who was I kidding, running sucks!) so when one of the results was an MDA article about training for marathons with a link to an article against chronic cardio I checked that one out. I figured it might give me an excuse to not have to take up running. Ha! I had no idea it would lead to something way better.

From there I checked out the rest of the site. So, if lions are designed to eat meat and zebras to eat grass, what are humans meant to eat? What a common sense question, why hadn’t I ever thought to ask that? I signed up for the introductory emails but didn’t even wait for them before I binge read everything on the blog, cleared my pantry, and started in. There was a local rancher that sold grass fed steaks at the grocery store. I liked veggies. I really liked bacon so if this new diet said that was in, I was in. It’s funny to think back to all that now.

But I tell you what, as much as that low carb flu kicked my butt, I felt better. And I didn’t get a migraine that first week. Or that second week. Or ever again.

Then I discovered the missing piece of the puzzle. On the way to the neurologist’s office to hear my MRI results, I hadn’t had time to eat at home so I grabbed some convenient chicken fingers on the way. 80/20, I figured. The neurologist was out of town so the nurse practitioner saw me. When she gave me a look over, my thyroid was swollen. Like, huge. Scary swollen. And I was starting to get a headache. We started talking. And then she figured it out. (I tell you, nurse practitioners can be pretty amazing people.) It was gluten. I was having an autoimmune reaction to gluten—celiac. I had celiac. As it turns out, and I later found a Chris Kresser article explaining it, the gluten protein looks similar to something thyroids are made of, so when your body attacks the gluten your thyroid can get attacked too. How about that.

It all made sense now. As a kid I had what I now know to be symptoms of celiac in children. Underweight, constant stomachaches, etc. And before I started getting those migraines, it was summer time so I was with the horses at the high altitude portion of the ranch living in a tiny 120 square foot cabin. The grocery store was a long trip down the mountain. And with only a small mini fridge and no freezer, I ate a lot of shelf stable food. Processed food. Mostly pasta and granola. Really, my diet was about 80% wheat. And my body had finally had enough.

So Mark’s Daily Apple led me to find that I was celiac. But just as important it gave me a way of eating that made me feel healthy.

But I also helped in a far bigger way. A year and a half ago my husband and I found out we were going to be parents. And I kept eating primally. And I had about the healthiest pregnancy I could imagine. Alright, so the morning sickness was miserable and persistent. But otherwise it was perfect. I was one of those “belly only” pregnancies I hear people aim for. I was like a walking beach ball. But I felt great. And the delivery went great. I chalk it up to good nutrition and faith in my body’s ability to do what it was made to do. We had our baby at home with a midwife because that’s what I was comfortable with. After a short 3.5 hour labor (which was uncomfortable but honestly not painful. I now hate the expression “the pain of childbirth.” I think it sends the wrong expectation to women about how birth feels but I digress) we had a healthy 7 lb 12 oz baby girl. She’s so perfect and so healthy. I feel so lucky.

When I was pregnant I read a lot of Weston A Price articles. They brag a lot about how their nutrient dense diet produces healthy pregnancies and healthy babies with a wide jaw (which is an indication that the mother had good nutrition, especially plenty of Vitamins A and K). While I was pregnant I did take dessicated grass fed beef liver, occasionally some Dr Ron’s freeze dried organs and glands, a high quality prenatal with 5-MTHF folate (as recommended by Chris Kresser), fermented cod liver oil, and some high vitamin butter oil in addition to the Primal diet. So I did follow a couple WAPF recommendations. But I was not interested in buying raw milk. I don’t even like drinking milk so I did not want to pay the local raw milk producer the equivalent of $25 a gallon. I didn’t want to hunt down fresh organ meats and eat them. Yucky taste, no thank you. And I didn’t bother soaking/fermenting grains because, well, I’m Primal and I don’t even really do grains. Occasionally I do rice but it’s not that exciting so meh.

I know every parent says this, but my baby is the cutest little sucker in the world. I don’t think it’s just luck either. I think the nutrient dense diet I learned from MDA and the PB are why I’m so healthy and why my daughter is so healthy and so beautiful.

I’ve lost all the “baby weight” with zero effort. I actually weigh less now than I did before I was pregnant. I walk my daughter in the stroller a few times a week for 5 miles while she naps. She keeps me active and busy. I never have time to sit down. Lift heavy things? That baby’s a heavy thing and I carry her constantly. Sprints…Well I’ll get back to those and normal workouts eventually. But I’m not worried about it. I’ve got my walks and my yoga for now.

So I might catch a little flack for my five toe shoes and my obsession with bone broth but gosh dang I couldn’t be happier or healthier. Thank you again and again Mark, you changed my life.

Kate

[watsonrodriquezie]

I Didn’t Get a Migraine That First Week. Or That Second Week. Or Ever Again.

It’s Friday, everyone! And that means another Primal Blueprint Real Life Story from a Mark’s Daily Apple reader. If you have your own success story and would like to share it with me and the Mark’s Daily Apple community please contact me here. I’ll continue to publish these each Friday as long as they keep coming in. Thank you for reading!

Five years ago, a young and “healthy” 22 year old, I was working as a groom at a high end horse ranch in Western Colorado. I suddenly found myself with debilitating migraines. I’d never had migraines before so it was a bit shocking for me. But they were bad. Really, really bad. Like, 10-14 days long. I couldn’t function. My boss was as understanding as can be so I didn’t lose my job (thank goodness), but I remember my head felt like it was splitting in two, even dim light was painful, and I’d have to get a horse, go into the barn, shut the doors, turn the lights off, wear sunglasses anyway, and try to do my job. That’s neither sustainable nor a solution. It was horrendous. And ridiculous.

But the many doctors didn’t have any solutions. Migraine meds didn’t do a thing. The neurologist ordered a battery of blood tests and an MRI of my brain. Everything normal, nothing to fix here. Just keep trying the migraine meds. In the meantime, I was frantically trying to find a way to improve my health. I figured, What do healthy people do? They run marathons right? Let’s google how to do that. I didn’t really want to run (who was I kidding, running sucks!) so when one of the results was an MDA article about training for marathons with a link to an article against chronic cardio I checked that one out. I figured it might give me an excuse to not have to take up running. Ha! I had no idea it would lead to something way better.

From there I checked out the rest of the site. So, if lions are designed to eat meat and zebras to eat grass, what are humans meant to eat? What a common sense question, why hadn’t I ever thought to ask that? I signed up for the introductory emails but didn’t even wait for them before I binge read everything on the blog, cleared my pantry, and started in. There was a local rancher that sold grass fed steaks at the grocery store. I liked veggies. I really liked bacon so if this new diet said that was in, I was in. It’s funny to think back to all that now.

But I tell you what, as much as that low carb flu kicked my butt, I felt better. And I didn’t get a migraine that first week. Or that second week. Or ever again.

Then I discovered the missing piece of the puzzle. On the way to the neurologist’s office to hear my MRI results, I hadn’t had time to eat at home so I grabbed some convenient chicken fingers on the way. 80/20, I figured. The neurologist was out of town so the nurse practitioner saw me. When she gave me a look over, my thyroid was swollen. Like, huge. Scary swollen. And I was starting to get a headache. We started talking. And then she figured it out. (I tell you, nurse practitioners can be pretty amazing people.) It was gluten. I was having an autoimmune reaction to gluten—celiac. I had celiac. As it turns out, and I later found a Chris Kresser article explaining it, the gluten protein looks similar to something thyroids are made of, so when your body attacks the gluten your thyroid can get attacked too. How about that.

It all made sense now. As a kid I had what I now know to be symptoms of celiac in children. Underweight, constant stomachaches, etc. And before I started getting those migraines, it was summer time so I was with the horses at the high altitude portion of the ranch living in a tiny 120 square foot cabin. The grocery store was a long trip down the mountain. And with only a small mini fridge and no freezer, I ate a lot of shelf stable food. Processed food. Mostly pasta and granola. Really, my diet was about 80% wheat. And my body had finally had enough.

So Mark’s Daily Apple led me to find that I was celiac. But just as important it gave me a way of eating that made me feel healthy.

But I also helped in a far bigger way. A year and a half ago my husband and I found out we were going to be parents. And I kept eating primally. And I had about the healthiest pregnancy I could imagine. Alright, so the morning sickness was miserable and persistent. But otherwise it was perfect. I was one of those “belly only” pregnancies I hear people aim for. I was like a walking beach ball. But I felt great. And the delivery went great. I chalk it up to good nutrition and faith in my body’s ability to do what it was made to do. We had our baby at home with a midwife because that’s what I was comfortable with. After a short 3.5 hour labor (which was uncomfortable but honestly not painful. I now hate the expression “the pain of childbirth.” I think it sends the wrong expectation to women about how birth feels but I digress) we had a healthy 7 lb 12 oz baby girl. She’s so perfect and so healthy. I feel so lucky.

When I was pregnant I read a lot of Weston A Price articles. They brag a lot about how their nutrient dense diet produces healthy pregnancies and healthy babies with a wide jaw (which is an indication that the mother had good nutrition, especially plenty of Vitamins A and K). While I was pregnant I did take dessicated grass fed beef liver, occasionally some Dr Ron’s freeze dried organs and glands, a high quality prenatal with 5-MTHF folate (as recommended by Chris Kresser), fermented cod liver oil, and some high vitamin butter oil in addition to the Primal diet. So I did follow a couple WAPF recommendations. But I was not interested in buying raw milk. I don’t even like drinking milk so I did not want to pay the local raw milk producer the equivalent of $25 a gallon. I didn’t want to hunt down fresh organ meats and eat them. Yucky taste, no thank you. And I didn’t bother soaking/fermenting grains because, well, I’m Primal and I don’t even really do grains. Occasionally I do rice but it’s not that exciting so meh.

I know every parent says this, but my baby is the cutest little sucker in the world. I don’t think it’s just luck either. I think the nutrient dense diet I learned from MDA and the PB are why I’m so healthy and why my daughter is so healthy and so beautiful.

I’ve lost all the “baby weight” with zero effort. I actually weigh less now than I did before I was pregnant. I walk my daughter in the stroller a few times a week for 5 miles while she naps. She keeps me active and busy. I never have time to sit down. Lift heavy things? That baby’s a heavy thing and I carry her constantly. Sprints…Well I’ll get back to those and normal workouts eventually. But I’m not worried about it. I’ve got my walks and my yoga for now.

So I might catch a little flack for my five toe shoes and my obsession with bone broth but gosh dang I couldn’t be happier or healthier. Thank you again and again Mark, you changed my life.

Kate

[cynthiamwashington]

I Didn’t Get a Migraine That First Week. Or That Second Week. Or Ever Again.

It’s Friday, everyone! And that means another Primal Blueprint Real Life Story from a Mark’s Daily Apple reader. If you have your own success story and would like to share it with me and the Mark’s Daily Apple community please contact me here. I’ll continue to publish these each Friday as long as they keep coming in. Thank you for reading!

Five years ago, a young and “healthy” 22 year old, I was working as a groom at a high end horse ranch in Western Colorado. I suddenly found myself with debilitating migraines. I’d never had migraines before so it was a bit shocking for me. But they were bad. Really, really bad. Like, 10-14 days long. I couldn’t function. My boss was as understanding as can be so I didn’t lose my job (thank goodness), but I remember my head felt like it was splitting in two, even dim light was painful, and I’d have to get a horse, go into the barn, shut the doors, turn the lights off, wear sunglasses anyway, and try to do my job. That’s neither sustainable nor a solution. It was horrendous. And ridiculous.

But the many doctors didn’t have any solutions. Migraine meds didn’t do a thing. The neurologist ordered a battery of blood tests and an MRI of my brain. Everything normal, nothing to fix here. Just keep trying the migraine meds. In the meantime, I was frantically trying to find a way to improve my health. I figured, What do healthy people do? They run marathons right? Let’s google how to do that. I didn’t really want to run (who was I kidding, running sucks!) so when one of the results was an MDA article about training for marathons with a link to an article against chronic cardio I checked that one out. I figured it might give me an excuse to not have to take up running. Ha! I had no idea it would lead to something way better.

From there I checked out the rest of the site. So, if lions are designed to eat meat and zebras to eat grass, what are humans meant to eat? What a common sense question, why hadn’t I ever thought to ask that? I signed up for the introductory emails but didn’t even wait for them before I binge read everything on the blog, cleared my pantry, and started in. There was a local rancher that sold grass fed steaks at the grocery store. I liked veggies. I really liked bacon so if this new diet said that was in, I was in. It’s funny to think back to all that now.

But I tell you what, as much as that low carb flu kicked my butt, I felt better. And I didn’t get a migraine that first week. Or that second week. Or ever again.

Then I discovered the missing piece of the puzzle. On the way to the neurologist’s office to hear my MRI results, I hadn’t had time to eat at home so I grabbed some convenient chicken fingers on the way. 80/20, I figured. The neurologist was out of town so the nurse practitioner saw me. When she gave me a look over, my thyroid was swollen. Like, huge. Scary swollen. And I was starting to get a headache. We started talking. And then she figured it out. (I tell you, nurse practitioners can be pretty amazing people.) It was gluten. I was having an autoimmune reaction to gluten—celiac. I had celiac. As it turns out, and I later found a Chris Kresser article explaining it, the gluten protein looks similar to something thyroids are made of, so when your body attacks the gluten your thyroid can get attacked too. How about that.

It all made sense now. As a kid I had what I now know to be symptoms of celiac in children. Underweight, constant stomachaches, etc. And before I started getting those migraines, it was summer time so I was with the horses at the high altitude portion of the ranch living in a tiny 120 square foot cabin. The grocery store was a long trip down the mountain. And with only a small mini fridge and no freezer, I ate a lot of shelf stable food. Processed food. Mostly pasta and granola. Really, my diet was about 80% wheat. And my body had finally had enough.

So Mark’s Daily Apple led me to find that I was celiac. But just as important it gave me a way of eating that made me feel healthy.

But I also helped in a far bigger way. A year and a half ago my husband and I found out we were going to be parents. And I kept eating primally. And I had about the healthiest pregnancy I could imagine. Alright, so the morning sickness was miserable and persistent. But otherwise it was perfect. I was one of those “belly only” pregnancies I hear people aim for. I was like a walking beach ball. But I felt great. And the delivery went great. I chalk it up to good nutrition and faith in my body’s ability to do what it was made to do. We had our baby at home with a midwife because that’s what I was comfortable with. After a short 3.5 hour labor (which was uncomfortable but honestly not painful. I now hate the expression “the pain of childbirth.” I think it sends the wrong expectation to women about how birth feels but I digress) we had a healthy 7 lb 12 oz baby girl. She’s so perfect and so healthy. I feel so lucky.

When I was pregnant I read a lot of Weston A Price articles. They brag a lot about how their nutrient dense diet produces healthy pregnancies and healthy babies with a wide jaw (which is an indication that the mother had good nutrition, especially plenty of Vitamins A and K). While I was pregnant I did take dessicated grass fed beef liver, occasionally some Dr Ron’s freeze dried organs and glands, a high quality prenatal with 5-MTHF folate (as recommended by Chris Kresser), fermented cod liver oil, and some high vitamin butter oil in addition to the Primal diet. So I did follow a couple WAPF recommendations. But I was not interested in buying raw milk. I don’t even like drinking milk so I did not want to pay the local raw milk producer the equivalent of $25 a gallon. I didn’t want to hunt down fresh organ meats and eat them. Yucky taste, no thank you. And I didn’t bother soaking/fermenting grains because, well, I’m Primal and I don’t even really do grains. Occasionally I do rice but it’s not that exciting so meh.

I know every parent says this, but my baby is the cutest little sucker in the world. I don’t think it’s just luck either. I think the nutrient dense diet I learned from MDA and the PB are why I’m so healthy and why my daughter is so healthy and so beautiful.

I’ve lost all the “baby weight” with zero effort. I actually weigh less now than I did before I was pregnant. I walk my daughter in the stroller a few times a week for 5 miles while she naps. She keeps me active and busy. I never have time to sit down. Lift heavy things? That baby’s a heavy thing and I carry her constantly. Sprints…Well I’ll get back to those and normal workouts eventually. But I’m not worried about it. I’ve got my walks and my yoga for now.

So I might catch a little flack for my five toe shoes and my obsession with bone broth but gosh dang I couldn’t be happier or healthier. Thank you again and again Mark, you changed my life.

Kate

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