A Day in the Life: I paid for a whole seat.

I know, I know, it’s been a long while since I’ve written anything. There has been no lack of subject matter, but time and other commitments have gotten in the way. Today, I’m recovering from a bit of surgery, so I’m resting. Thus, time to write.

sunrise in indio with pool reflection

Sunrise in Indio, CA

After a lovely two weeks in Indio, California, visiting with my eldest brother and sister-in-law, I returned home to the frozen tundra. Unfortunately, the return flight was one of my most unpleasant ever. Here’s why. I paid for a whole, already-too-small seat on American Airlines. When I boarded and arrived at my row, a behemoth of a woman sat in the window seat, sharing half of my seat. Too large to put the armrest down, too large to buckle her seatbelt, clearly she, too, was uncomfortable. I sat squished for nearly four hours, her body leaning against me the entire flight. She was so obese that her body prevented my tray table from fully lowering. To add to my misery, she had some obvious hygiene issues. The flight was full, every seat taken; nothing could be done about it. I left the plane limping badly to where my wheelchair awaited, ready to ferry me to the bus terminal for my hour-and-a-half ride home.

By the time I arrived home around 8pm, my entire body ached and I could think only of sleep. I went to bed thinking I’d crash early, but sleep eluded me. The more I thought about it, the more disgruntled I grew. Seats are smaller than ever on airplanes. There is no way that woman did not know she needed two seats, and there is no way that the flight attendant who seated her from her wheelchair didn’t know she needed two seats. Lest I be accused of fat shaming, I don’t give a rat’s petootie how large or small, short or tall, anyone is. I care only that when I pay for a seat, I expect to sit in the entire seat, not half a seat. If you cannot sit in the seat with the armrest down, you should buy a second seat instead of taking up half of mine.

I emailed my complaint to American. Surprisingly they responded the same day, crediting my account with 7500 frequent flyer miles. I’d have preferred a refund for that part of my round trip. Adding miles to my account to placate me does nothing to address the problem created by the airlines regularly reducing the size of the seats and leg room for the explicit purpose of cramming more bodies into an aircraft. The complaints are justified, not just on American, but on all the domestic airlines.

Rant over.

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A Day in the Life: Mom discovers Instagram!

Morning at a Chiang Mai flower market. instagram.com/j.dewitz/ All rights reserved.

OK, my title is more than a bit misleading, since I don’t post to Instagram, myself, and I’ve known about it for some time. However, my elder son, who lives in Chiang Mai, Thailand, has a fabulous Instagram page that vividly portrays the culture and architecture of his city. From street scenes, to temples, marketplaces, and much more, his photographs are a wonderful, vicarious look at daily life.

I’ll be sharing some of his photos on this blog, not just because I’m a proud mama, but also, because they are beautiful, informative and worth sharing. Each photo is accompanied by background information that helps to give a sense of the experience. Since there are 1000 or so temples in Chiang Mai, many of his photos depict their art and architecture that surround him in his daily life.

Yes, it’s hard to have my son live half a world away. He is, however, following his heart and his passion, and I’m proud of his courage and determination to choose his own path. Please check out his Instagram page, and share with friends. His website will be coming soon and photos will be offered for sale. instagram.com/j.dewitz/ 

Chiang Mai at night. Photo by James Dewitz. All rights reserved.




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A Day in the Life: More Slice and Dice

More slice and dice in the OR

I know I’ve neglected my blog for a while. I’ve had quite a lot going on, some of it not really things I’m comfortable sharing with the whole world. After my stroke, I had so little energy that I couldn’t even think to write. As I recovered from that, I began having some serious issues with my spine, and have now had several rounds of injections at L1, which have brought immense relief. I was scheduled to have shoulder repair surgery on June 16, but that never happened because…

On June 6, I underwent yet another slice and dice to implant a sacral neurostimulator. For whatever reason, despite boatloads of sedation—propofol, Versed and Precedex, along with both local and topical anesthetics—I somehow failed to sedate. In plain language, I underwent surgery without benefit of anesthesia. I could feel every move, hear every sound. Quite a few times, I cried out in pain. “Nevertheless, [I] persisted” and surgery continued, that is, until very suddenly and without warning, my heart stopped for 10 seconds. Had I not been in the OR, that might have been disastrous. As it were, OR staff administered a shot of epinephrine, bringing me right back. And while blood now pumped through my heart, severe dry heaves wracked my body until a shot of anti-nausea medicine eliminated them. After a few minutes, I was fine and surgery completed.

As one might imagine, my energy has once again flagged. I’m just beginning to get back to the “normal” that is me, and I’m hoping to be more inspired to write and to create new artwork. Please bear with me.

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A Day in the Life: An Abundance of Zucchini

curried zucchini soup

Curried Zucchini Soup. Serve hot or cold.

As some of my friends know, I love to cook and I love to experiment, adapt recipes from others, and make my own. When my dear friend, Mary, brought me an abundance of zucchini, I pondered how I’d use it all. I’m not much for baked goods, but I do love my veggies.

I saw a zucchini soup recipe online, so I figured I’d take a crack at it…sort of. When it was finished, I tasted it and found it disappointingly bland. I knew I had to do something to “fix” it. Because I love curry, I figured I’d add some curry, and then a little coriander, a dash of oregano, a little cayenne, some fresh basil…. By the time I was done, it actually was pretty good, but I decided that when making the next batch, I’d add a few things to the basic recipe.

Herewith is my recipe. This creamy soup has no cream or dairy products, but is thick and rich tasting, and deliciously satisfying served either hot or cold.

Curried Zucchini Soup

6 C zucchini in small cubes
1/2 C diced sweet yellow onion
2 tbsp minced garlic
1/2 C chopped celery
2 small carrots, peeled and chopped
1 small cubano pepper, chopped (or 1/2 other sweet pepper)
4 C chicken stock (I used homemade)
1/4 C olive oil
2 tsp curry powder
2 tsp ground coriander
Cayenne pepper to taste (optional)
2 bay leaves
1/2 C basil (packed into measuring cup)
Salt and pepper to taste

1.  In a 5-quart Dutch oven, saute the garlic and onion in the olive oil on medium heat
until translucent, about five minutes.
2.  Add zucchini, carrots, celery, pepper and 1 cup of stock.
3.  Cover and cook for about 3-5 minutes.
4.  Add the rest of the stock. Cook just until zucchini mashes against the side of the pot.
5.  Add fresh basil leaves and stir in.
6.  In a blender, carefully puree the mixture, making sure to hold the top down.
I did mine in three batches.
7.  Pour back into pot, add bay leaves, curry powder, ground coriander, cayenne (optional) and salt and pepper to taste. Let simmer for another 20 minutes for flavors to blend.

Serve hot, or refrigerate and serve cold. Garnish with a bit of chopped basil.

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A Day in the Life: Stroke (of Luck)


The vision on my right side disappeared into blackness.

This past Monday morning, as I came upstairs from the basement with an armload of clean clothes, the entire right side of my vision disappeared, while at the same moment, an excruciating pain shot through my head, creating the worst possible headache one could ever imagine. As I reached the kitchen, I glanced at the clock on the microwave and realized that I could see only the hour—nothing to the right. Turning my entire body toward the right and looking out the left side, I was able to see the time—8:14am.

Apparently my younger son is right—I’m an under-responder. I thought perhaps I was having some sort of migraine, although I’d never actually had a migraine before. I’ve had so many issues with my vision ever since I got toasted by LASIK in 2001 that I’m accustomed to visual oddities. I took meds for headache and went about my business. I asked my friend to pick me up for our lunch date, given the lack of vision, which seemed to be returning by millimeters, and after lunch, we ran a couple of errands. By 3pm, I was home and ready to rip my brain out of my head from the pain. I took more Fiorinal, laid down for a bit, and when the phone rang a little before 4pm, I was happy to hear from my ophthalmologist returning my earlier call.

“This is not a visual issue. You need to call your neurologist—RIGHT NOW.”

Hung up, called my neurologist immediately. “You need to go to the ER—RIGHT NOW!

I grabbed my down vest, my keys, phone and wallet, and eight hours after onset, I jumped into the car and off I went to the ER a mile away. I should have known after I walked in and explained my symptoms that something was very wrong, since despite a waiting room packed with groaning, moaning, unhappy people, they shuffled me back right away. I waited another hour until someone could see me.

“We’re going to take you for a CT scan in a minute, hon.” Off we went.

“We’re just getting a room for you now.”

Wait, what? “Are you admitting me? Why?” (Apparently, I’m not that bright.)

“We’ll just need to do some more tests in the morning. We’re going to give you some benadryl that will help you relax, and then we’ll get you upstairs once your room is ready.”

The minutes ticked by. Nearly three-and-a-half hours after my arrival, a kind soul came in and asked me if I wanted anything. A dry turkey sandwich quelled my hunger, and soon after, I went up to the fourth floor.

Hooked up to an IV and heart monitor, and with additional benadryl and the promise of further tests in the morning, I fell into a fitful sleep, interrupted by lightning striking in the left side of my head. Thankfully, my vision had recovered.

In the morning, I underwent a brain MRI, a carotid MRI with dye and an echocardiogram. And then I waited. An inedible lunch came and went and I waited some more. The afternoon dragged on with texts and calls from friends and family asking about me. Worried about my cats, I really just wanted to go home. An inedible dinner arrived (roadrunner, mushy carrot, mushier peppers) and I waited for someone to come and tell me what was going on.

Since I had arrived with nothing at the hospital, I called a friend to ask a favor—please bring my chargers and tablet, and a few personal effects. Once those arrived, I was able to brush my hair, change my undies (thank goodness!), and reconnect with the outside world—nearly human.

Around 7:30pm, I overheard chatting at the nurses’ station right outside my door. “Here’s what we’ve got in the pod tonight. 24 is a stroke, 26 is…..” I was 24. And that is how I learned I’d had a stroke.

An hour or so later, the hospitalist came to talk to me. That’s a thing now, doctors contracted to the hospital through a third party, who only care for hospital patients, running up your hospital bill with out-of-network providers.

H: “So, you’ve had a stroke. I’m putting you on Lipitor for cholesterol.”
Me: “Umm, no. Not taking it. I was on Lipitor for several years and it ate up all the muscle mass in my arms and legs. It took me a year of rehab to recover.”
H: “Well, your cholesterol is a little high.”
Me: “I’m taking cholesterol meds now, just not a statin.”
H: “They aren’t strong enough.”
Me: “Whatever, I’m not taking a statin. You may note that the patient refused medication as indicated.”

Thankfully, the neurologist on call arrived to rescue me.

N: “I see you’ve had a very small stroke. Your cholesterol is a tiny bit high. Are you taking meds? Any family history of stroke?”
Me: “Yes, I am on meds, but I confess to not having been vigilant about taking them regularly. I will do better now. And yes, my father had a stroke in his 70s. He recovered well.”

According to the neurologist, I had a tiny stroke; it’s nothing to worry about; it’s not likely to happen again; it appears to be a bit of an anomaly, since my carotids, my heart and my brain, except for the tiny area of the stroke in the left occipital lobe, are clear and unaffected. My diabetes, regardless of how well controlled, and a family history of stroke increase my risk. Not unexpected, but what I learned next stunned me.

Most often, vision loss of this sort with a stroke is permanent. MINE RECOVERED. Sheer luck.

The ongoing, horrid headache now presented the only obstacle to my release. Another night spent in the hospital, another breakfast—but this time, I was smart. When the dietary aide arrived, I asked her politely for a hard-boiled egg, coffee, cranberry juice, and some dry rice chex, rather than the usual disaster. (Not much you can do to ruin them.)

By noon, I was home, still had a headache, but didn’t care. I fed the cats, took some Fiorinal and aspirin, enjoyed a wonderful lunch my dear friend brought for us, and then I took a nap.

I slept like a rock last night (for a change), woke up with only a slight headache, and by 8am, was in the dentist’s chair getting a tooth capped. Life is good—and once again, I’ve been blessed by a “stroke of luck!”

P.S. I’ll be following up with my regular neurologist and my internist next week, and with the ophthalmologist later this month to check for any loss of visual fields. All is well.

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A Day in the Life: Overexposed


Bronze leaf pendant with green cubic zirconia (Sherry Viktora of Out on a Limb), embellished by me with vintage copper and brass chain and findings, lampwork beads, crystal, and hand-formed, 14K GF S-clasp. (Request for donation declined.) (SOLD)

I recently posted a Facebook status about artists being asked to use their work for free, with the promise of exposure or promotion. Another artist had directed me to the website of someone who makes a living as a coach for “infusing spirit to transform your life.” Amongst the many items for sale on the site are CDs, which sell for about $22. The cover art on her CDs is quite nice. Psychologists have told us for a long time that people respond to things that are attractive to look at, which accounts for the overwhelming sales of books and recordings with pretty covers and wretched content. The problem here is that this person asks artists to donate their work, promising exposure and promotion. In fact, only two of those offerings provide a credit to the artist (the same artist for both) on the website, where the public could see it.

So this person saw the post, in which I mentioned they had asked another artist friend to donate the use of a piece of artwork, with the promise of “promotion.” (“Oh, it will be great exposure.”) The artist declined, but our conversation made me think about all those times over the 46 years of my creative career that I’ve been asked to donate my graphic design, writing, editing, handmade jewelry or fine art and promised great exposure. As a reasonably successful artist, designer and jewelry maker during that time, I have always been generous, donating at least several times each year, items which sometimes have a retail value in the hundreds of dollars, far more than the cost of materials (which is all the IRS allows artists to deduct from our taxes). Sometimes, I even get a thank-you note. However, in all the years of donating my creative talents, I have yet to get a paying job as a result. Turns out, the paying jobs go to their friends or to high-priced, big name firms, whose work is no better than my own or any of the countless other professionals who are asked to donate.

Let’s just say that exposure doesn’t pay the electric bill, nor does it put food on the table. If you’re really serious about promoting an artist whose work you’d like to adorn your project, pay them for it and commence with the promotion and exposure. Put yourself in our shoes, and imagine this:

Suppose I ask you for a free CD from your website for a workshop that I’m planning to hold over the course of a year or so, for which people will pay to attend, with the promise that I’ll promote you and you’ll get lots of exposure. Now suppose that no one buys your CD as a result of all that exposure over the course of a year, while I’m making money using it. Now suppose that you are asked once a month over the course of a year, every year, for free products, with that same promise of exposure/promotion. How likely would you be to say yes, knowing that you have sold nothing as a result of your previous generosity, that you have bills to pay, and knowing that you will be asked again and again? This is the life of an artist and creative. It just really doesn’t do it for us.


This sort of behavior indicates to me that the person making the request either a) has little to no concept of what goes into producing a creative work, b) just doesn’t care and has no respect for creatives, or c) is solely concerned with making a buck for him or herself at someone else’s expense.

This person to whom I referred contacted me and accused me of posting cryptic messages. There was nothing cryptic about the message, but apparently I hit a nerve. I responded and mentioned  the above scenario. The response to my message was about as angry, negative and lacking in spiritual transformation as it could have been. Your sales or non-sales of your work as an artist has everything to do with your mindset: what’s going on between your ears. Anger, resentment, beliefs that people are taking advantage of you, beliefs that you can’t make a living, beliefs that as an artist you will always be poor, attacking people who have a thriving business as being thieves or whatever you want to see me as, is exactly what keeps you broke, poor and miserables (sic)”, and ended with this gem: “Good day, and go spend time fixing your mind, instead of attacking individuals who promote art.” I laughed out loud, and in my reply, suggested, “You go work on your own. This is one of the most negative, least transformative things I’ve read. PS. I am neither broke nor miserable. Sounds like projection to me.”

P.S. I asked whose artwork formed the banner on this person’s FB page. No response to that, but I have it on good authority that the artist was neither asked, nor did he give permission to use it. That, dear readers, is called theft of intellectual property, also known as stealing. And that is not a very “spiritually transformative” thing to do. And if I’m mistaken, I’ll gladly print a retraction.

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A Day in the Life: Wandering Thoughts


Snowing today for the first time this season, the world is white and quiet, a peaceful scene. Still in the trough of the mental health roller coaster, I resist the urge to interpret what seems patently unreasonable in some reasonable, logical way, and instead, I take pictures out the living room window through the mini-blinds, stare out at the falling snow, and work at emptying my mind to allow peace to flow in. Obviously, since I’m writing this, I’m having no small difficulty with the blank-slate-mind thing.

I don’t sleep well most nights. Last night, as I lay in bed hoping for sleep, I thought to myself, “Why couldn’t I have a nice, simple, happy life like other people?” And then I tried to think of even one person to whose life I could point and say, “Yep, that’s what I mean.” I laughed, reminded myself that life is messy—sometimes, unmanageably so, other times, not so much. I telly myself that this, too, shall pass, as it always does, that one way or another, things will work out in the end (but not necessarily the way I’d like them to), and if they don’t, well, it’s not the end. The universe does work, but beyond that, I have control only over myself—my thoughts and feelings, my behavior—choosing whether to sit around being miserable and afraid, or whether to choose happiness and engage my being in that pursuit.

I decide to give my disquieted mind a rest this afternoon, so I watch the snow accumulate as the fat, luscious, silent flakes fall, awed by the power and beauty of nature. Not wanting to run up the gas bill by turning up the furnace, I sit with my feet encased in three pair of socks, leg warmers over my leggings, hugging myself in a blankie against the cold, and begin to relax and let go a little. I look out across the street and see the neighbor boy running around in the snow with bare feet and short sleeves, obviously looking for something. He retrieves a pair of sneakers and disappears indoors. Once again, it’s a pleasant vignette, not unlike an old-time Christmas card, albeit without glitter.

I remember that yes, I do have to venture out in this later for a birthday party, but I’ve still got two hours—time for a nap. The trough no longer seems so deep.

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