DETERMINED

Part 1 Before the Accident In the kitchen, I called my boss. My heart was beating fast because I couldn’t work. I was a news reporter who sometimes got to anchor, and I loved it—practice for the dream: Good Morning America or the Today show someday. But the teleprompter was so far away, I couldn’t read it. I had to say the words I didn’t want to say: “I’m really sorry, but I don’t have a choice.” A really, really good opportunity for my career—and I couldn’t see it. Hello, short-term disability. My boss was furious. I was devastated … And I was scared. I tested for Lyme disease and for a dozen other things. I drove to the eye doctor. She said I needed a specialist for my weird vision. Uh-oh. I wasn’t comfortable driving, so my dad took me. The new eye specialist—Dr. Heiney—threw out scary words: lupus, cancer, rheumatoid arthritis, etc. No, no, no. I headed home to the Chicago area in a fog. My mom drove to a rheumatologist in Green Bay, Wisconsin. I was living there. I was over it; they took twenty-three vials of blood—ten solid minutes of drawing. I “knew” it was rheumatoid arthritis. My mom has it, her best friend has it, so surely I had it. We went to breakfast afterward. At the gym (of course, I loved the gym: I ran six marathons and a lot of half-marathons), my rheumatologist called to request another test to rule out infection. Fine. Safety first. No infection. Keep moving. Next up: an echo. My doctor thought it was a good idea. My mom and I drove to the hospital—piece of cake. I wore my lucky socks. I lay down for the echo, the tech working quietly, and he left. The tech and an older doctor walked in. “You have a heart infection,” the doctor said. I started crying. I called my mom, bawling. “Come here,” I said. I was admitted to the cardio unit. Terrified. My mom called my dad and said, “Drive to Green Bay right now.” Hospital time is weird time. I got bored. I downloaded Snapchat for the filters. I ordered broccoli because I’m a healthy vegetarian. Every day at home I made a Frappuccino, but now I was in a hospital bed. My mom drove to Starbucks every night to get me one. Four days later, they finally said I could go home—but not until they placed a PICC line. The nurse wore a full gown like a beekeeper. Infection protocol. I scrolled on my phone to distract myself, and then—sharp pain. The PICC hurt. I cried. I was released. We drove straight to the eye doctor. Two shots in my eyeballs. Then to my parents’ house—home base. We celebrated my mom’s birthday at my grandparents’. A home-health nurse came to help with the PICC. Still bored. My mom and I went to the grocery store; they were running that Monopoly game with all the little tickets. I helped her open them at the table. Then I had leg pain. My dad drove me to the hospital at dawn. The sun was bright. We walked in the ER. Only one person was there. I heard my name called. They had a room for me. The room was nice. Quiet. TV on. My nurse wore a Chicago Blackhawks pin. I complimented her because my dad was a huge fan. I changed into a gown. They started an IV, which was different from my PICC line. The doctor came, examined my leg, left, and called my Green Bay doctor. I could hear them talking in the hall. He came back with two choices: Warfarin or Eliquis. Warfarin would mean no vegetables. I’m a vegetarian so that was a no. Eliquis it was. I was scared; I never took medicine. I was exhausted. Later, we stopped at Forever 21 because my sister Kristin needed to shop. Fitz (my dog) rode along, and I babysat him in the car while my mom and Kristin went inside. The sun was blinding. I had sunglasses, but I still felt foggy. Ten minutes. Fifteen. Twenty. My chest tightened. Dizzy. Short of breath. Come on, I thought. I don’t feel right. My mom came back; Kristin kept shopping. Honestly, I was mad. Finally, she got in the car and we headed home. That night my dad and I drove to Green Bay for a follow-up with the infectious disease doctor. I took an Aleve. Headache—not terrible, not great. I took my new meds. The medicine was weird. I tried to sleep on the couch while my dad took the bed. But I couldn’t breathe. Something was off. I told my dad. “Give it five minutes,” he said. No. I really couldn’t breathe. We grabbed my coat—didn’t even zip it—and my Nike tennis shoes and headed to the hospital in the dark. In the waiting room, I felt hollowed out. I thought I could walk, but I couldn’t. Too weak. A wheelchair appeared. My dad pushed me to the ER. A woman guided us to the triage desk. Meanwhile, my mom, my sister, and her friend were at a Mexican restaurant. My dad called my mom and said, “Michelle is not good.” The friend had planned to stay over—but not anymore. My mom and Kristin drove to Neenah, Wisconsin. I had a helicopter for my accident. “It’s bad,” my dad told my mom outside.