{My Story} From City Slicker to Cowgirl

LEAVE A COMMENT 2012 April 3

How one FOF went from being an English teacher in Berkeley, California, to being a cowgirl in the Sierra Mountains–in four steps.

[Editor’s note: The essay below, by FOF Jane Rosenthal, is part of a series of personal blogs from our readers. Have your own story to tell? Email your idea to geri@faboverfifty.com.]

Step One: Git ‘er Done!
Here’s a definition of a “cowgirl” I pulled from the Cowgirl Hall of Fame in Fort Worth, Texas: “A cowgirl gets up early, decides what she wants to do and does it.”

All my adult life I’d wanted to do two things–live in the country and write novels. Not that there was anything wrong with my life as it was. My husband is an internationally-known scientist; we had a lovely home in Berkeley, California; and I had a challenging job in one of the top public schools in the state.

Yet, there was that nagging sense that I was living someone else’s idea of success and not my own.

So, on my fifty-fifth birthday, with my husband’s blessing, I found myself in a funky, double-wide trailer that passes for a real estate office out here in the wilds, plunking down big bucks for a fifty-acre ranch in the Sierra mountains.

My husband and I took a huge gulp and sold the house in Berkeley. For many people it was a classic dream home, and they thought we were crazy. You know what? It’s now someone else’s dream. I have a new one.

Ladies, I just did it. Simple as that. I didn’t let ‘not having a clue’ stop me.

Step Two: Sure, you’re scared. So what?
Here’s another bit of the cowgirl creed: A cowgirl might be scared, but she saddles up anyway.

Was I scared? You bet.  I’d just bought a run-down foreman’s cabin that looked like this:

The only builder around was the guy who owned the horse ranch next to mine, and I had one year to turn this place into something livable.

Like this…

If you have something you want to do, now is the time to saddle up and ride.

Step Three:  Give me land, lots of land, and the starry sky above. Don’t fence me in!

About that novel…

Right before I moved up here, I’d signed with an agent to represent me. They later rescinded, because, they said, there is no mass market for the my book because it is set in Mexico City.

In the city I might have moped around and felt defeated. But out here I live with cowgirls who deliver foals in the snow, hack heads off  of rattlesnakes, and pour concrete for the foundation of a house while they’re in labor (true story, I swear). Compared to what they do, I asked myself, “How hard would it be to self-publish?”

So I did–and now, you can read my novel, Palace of the Blue Butterfly, on my blog.

Unless it’s the Ten Commandments, girls, don’t let the rules fence you in.

Step Four: Get in touch with your inner Dale Evans
“Cowgirl is an attitude, really,” said Dale Evans, the Queen of the West.  “A pioneer spirit, a special American brand of courage. The cowgirl faces life head on, lives by her own lights and makes no excuses. Cowgirls take stands. They speak up. They defend the things they hold dear. A cowgirl might be a rancher, or a barrel racer, or a bull rider, or an actress. But she’s just as likely to be a checker at the local Winn Dixie, a full-time mother, a banker, an attorney, or an astronaut.”

These days, I’m still writing every day, and working on a novel set up here in ranch country. Yes, I have ranch and garden chores. When it snows, the cows need hay. There are always fences to mend and fallen trees to saw into firewood. We heat the house with wood all winter. I also have a big vegetable garden that I will be planting soon. I can and freeze the vegetables and fruit in the summer. In the fall, I plant tons of bulbs. Right now I’m reaping the rewards. I have five hundred tulips blooming and thousands of daffodils in the fields around the house.

Hey, FOFs, we’re all cowgirls, aren’t we?

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Jane Rosenthal is an award winning poet, radio journalist, romantic suspense author and educator. Fluent in Spanish, she covered politics and arts in Mexico for Public Radio’s bilingual program California en Revista and went on to teach English and Creative Writing in mostly Spanish- speaking, inner city high schools in Oakland, California. She blogs about her life at allaboutjanesranch.com.

{My Story} From home designer to…homeless–one FOF’s story

LEAVE A COMMENT 2012 February 22

We’ve all heard “rags to riches” stories, but what about the other way around? FOF Norma Byrd, a successful California interior designer went from decorating multi-million dollar homes to sleeping on friends’ couches. It could have been any of us…

[Editor’s note: The essay below, by FOF Norma Byrd, is part of a series of personal blogs from our readers. Have your own story to tell? Email your idea to geri@faboverfifty.com.]

When I’d see a homeless person with a hand-scrawled sign standing at an intersection, I wondered “How? Why?”  If you were industrious and conscientious such a thing could never happen to you… right?

Wrong. Three years ago I learned the hard way that it could happen, because it happened to me.

I’m an interior designer and have made a modest living since 1986. I built strong relationships with my clients and even became the president of my local chapter of the ASID (American Society of Interior Designers).

But, in 2000, I embarked on a fast train to disaster. I sold my condo and bought a 1947 vintage house in a lovely San Diego, California neighborhood. I felt I should have a home reflecting my personal design tastes–a showcase of my work that would one day meet my needs for retirement.

My mortgage broker and friends asked if I would be able to handle the stiff payments needed to make my dream home a reality. I was sure that if I couldn’t, I’d simply sell the new house. I never thought it would come to that.

Enter unplanned exigencies. The architect took two years to complete construction plans; the bank took another year to approve and fund the loans. Demolition revealed that the existing foundation and flooring systems couldn’t support the new structure, setting back the whole operation even more. The cost of building and materials rose dramatically; real estate went into decline, and I was running out of funds with the house nowhere near completion. Then, a major client, a successful builder, virtually went out of business, taking my major source of income with him. In desperation, I borrowed heavily against extensive credit card limits and maxed them all out trying to pay subcontractors working on my house.

In September of 2008, I moved into the unfinished house living for months without heat or electricity. I was still clinging to hope that some miracle would save me. In 2009 the unthinkable happened–my dream home and an investment property I had mortgaged for the new construction, both foreclosed.

I have never experienced such wrenching heartbreak in seventy-plus years. I was forced to leave my home, which at the time was only six percent from completion. I had no money, no savings, no investments–nothing left. I sold my SUV, put the rest of my possessions into storage and for the next fifteen months lived with friends. It was tough not to beat myself up for taking on something so monumental and then blowing it completely. There were times over the past three years, I wondered if I’d be joining those homeless people on the street corners, and without friends, maybe I would have.

In October of 2010, I moved from San Diego, where I’d lived for 47 years, to Durango, Colorado. There, with state aid and Social Security, I moved into my own tiny apartment. I’m adjusting. I still hope to get my design business going again, so that I can get back on my own two feet. The venerable adage, “If God leads you to it, he’ll lead you through it,” has never been more true. Life has not given up on me–there’s something good to come, but I have to help make it happen. AND… I WILL SURVIVE!

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{My Story} “I’m recording my first solo album…at 53.”

LEAVE A COMMENT 2012 February 6

As a teen, FOF Sheri Nadelman wished she could become a rock star. Most people would say, “dream on.” She did, and, in her 50s, turned that dream into a rockin’ reality.

[Editor’s note: The essay below, by FOF Sheri Nadelman, is part of a series of personal blogs from our readers. Have your own story to tell? Email your idea to geri@faboverfifty.com.]

Before the days of American Idol and YouTube, there was little hope that I, a chubby-but-nice-Jewish-girl-from-Brooklyn, would make it as a singer. My dad wanted me to go to college, and my mom wanted me to marry a doctor. My dream was to become a rock star.

When I was 12, my dad got me a guitar, which I learned to play by ear. I sang for anyone who would listen. For the longest time I thought my middle name was “shut up.” No one ever took me seriously, but the truth is that I had a good voice.

At age 19, I mustered up the courage to sing for renowned vocal coach Marty Lawrence, a close family friend. “You’ve definitely got something,” he said–in true Simon Cowell fashion. I started lessons, which eventually lead to a recording contract. The financing fell through, and the album never came to fruition. I was devastated.

I was faced with the choice of pursuing my music career or marrying my boyfriend. I could not do both because his med school training would require us to move frequently–not an ideal situation for a musician trying to make it big.

We married and moved to Hawaii and started a family. When I was three months pregnant, my mom died of a stroke–she was only 46. My daughter was born six months later.

Years later, we settled in Florida and tragedy struck once again, I lost both my dad and my brother. My dad lost a bitter battle to emphysema. My brother died at the age of 40 after complications from gastric bypass surgery. Adding to my grief was the demise of my marriage. It was such an emotional roller coaster, I couldn’t bring myself to pick up the guitar for years.

At 45, I got divorced–I felt unhappy and unfulfilled. My daughter was getting ready to leave for college, and I worried I’d miss her terribly. A girlfriend and my daughter encouraged me to do an open mic night. I got involved in the local music scene and began performing solo at first and then with other musicians in an acoustic band. I never thought I’d marry again, but later that same year, I was swept away by a businessman with an extensive background in music.  He believed in me like no one had before.

At 53 years old, when most women my age are winding down, I am just beginning! I am in the midst of recording my long overdue solo album. I sing lead and play guitar in a popular Tampa Bay area cover band called soulRcoaster. Not only do I get to live my dream–singing everything from Etta James to Lady GaGa–I get to share it with my husband, who is now our soundman! “You can hear Sheri’s passion captured in every single note she sings,” Bud Snyder, a sound engineer for the Allman Brothers, once told me.  I guess I’m just a late bloomer.
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For the record (pun intended) I just wrapped up my album “Fate Steps In,” which will be be available on iTunes soon. You can visit her website for more information.

{My Story} “I am the primary caregiver for my father . . . and I’m lucky.”

LEAVE A COMMENT 2012 January 31

When FOF Liz Vogel’s father got Alzheimer’s, she became his caretaker. Most would be devastated, here’s why she feels “lucky.”



[Editor’s note: The essay below, by FOF Liz Vogel, is part of a series of personal blogs from our readers. Have your own story to tell? Email your idea to geri@faboverfifty.com.]

I have come to realize I am one of the lucky ones. I am the primary caregiver for my father. He lives two miles away in an independent living community, but I see him, or am in touch with him, every day. We lost my Mom three years ago, and since that time I’ve had the true pleasure of getting to know my Dad.

He has navigated his way, with amazing grace, from Mild Cognitive Impairment/Dementia to Alzheimer’s over the last three years. When he needed help writing checks, because his handwriting was getting worse, he asked for it. When his balance was declining and I felt his safety was at risk, he was gracious about letting me get a walker for him. When I thought a safety pendant for emergencies was prudent, he agreed. When I told him he had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, he looked at me, winked, smiled and said, “It is what it is, right? The good news is I probably won’t remember tomorrow!”

Not everyone has this experience. Dementia and Alzheimer’s can rob us of the person we once knew and replace him or her with a stranger. The man I have come to know in these last few years is filled with compassion, wonderfully dry humor, curiosity, sincere interest in participating with his community, and a deep appreciation for the beauty of the natural world. I suspect I may be seeing the essence of the man versus the father.

As a physician, my father spent his life caring for others. In fact, I think the last three years have been an opportunity for him to take a well deserved rest. But, perhaps because he provided so much to others for years, he understands the role of caregiver and provides me with the freedom to help him when he needs it.​​

I am learning: I don’t know what it is like to be 86, but I suspect it’s not that much different than being any other age. You want a life filled with opportunities and choices and to be treated as an equal. Every day, my father teaches me how to live and behave with grace, and I hope I do him proud as I wander through these next years.

Liz Vogel is President & CEO of Dots, Inc., and on-line service that connects the dots between the people, communities and information involved in healthy aging and caregiving.  See more at www.trustdots.com.

{My Story} “I was nervous, tired, flushed . . . but I never expected this diagnosis.”

LEAVE A COMMENT 2012 January 25

FOF Linda McCoy reveals why every FOF should know the warning signs of Atrial Fibrillation

[Editor’s note: The essay below, by FOF Linda McCoy, is part of a series of personal blogs from our readers. Have your own story to tell? Email your idea to geri@faboverfifty.com.]

It started out as a routine visit to the doctor’s office. I was scheduled for lab work and a refill on my prescription for high blood pressure, which has been under control for years. The doctor quietly listened to my heart and asked the nurse to take a cardiogram. I wasn’t alarmed; I’d had Rheumatic Fever as a kid and been through many electrocardiograms.

When the doctor came back, she looked at me seriously and told me I had Atrial Fibrillation and that I needed to see a cardiologist right away. When I asked her to explain exactly what that meant, she told me my heart was not pumping correctly, and that blood was sitting in my heart chamber, which could cause it to form a blood clot.

I learned that during Atrial Fibrillation, the the upper chambers of the heart beat very rapidly and irregularly–“quivering” instead of contracting normally. By  itself, AF isn’t life threatening, but it can cause uncomfortable symptoms like palpitations, fatigue, dizziness, and nausea. It can also lead to other rhythm problems and congestive heart failure. The most serious complication is stroke: AF increases a person’s risk of having a stroke by five times the normal level.

My doctor arranged an appointment with a cardiologist for the next day. Meanwhile, I was sent home with a prescription for blood thinners and a heart drug. Of course, I had to find out what Dr. Google said, which made me more apprehensive. I spent a restless night worried about the next day’s visit.

My visit to the cardiologist confirmed my family doctor’s diagnosis. He explained that they don’t know what causes AF, but many people have it. He said I would have to remain on blood thinners and advised a procedure called cardio-version, during which an electrical shock is applied to your heart to regulate your heartbeat. A week later I got the cardioversion, but my “a-fib” came back. A month later, I got another cardio-version, but it didn’t work either.

Next, the doctor recommended ablation, a procedure where they cauterize the heart cells that are miss-firing. The decision to have it done wasn’t an easy one. Ablation is a long procedure, carries some risk, and there are no guarantees it will work. Sometimes it has to be done more than once. It took me a year to muster up the courage to go forward with it.

I arrived at the hospital pretty calm. I trusted my doctor, and, after all, I was going to be under anesthesia. They sent a young male orderly in to shave my groin area, since this is where the catheters are inserted into your legs. I sent him packing! ‘Can’t I please have a female nurse do that?’ When the nurse arrived with a razor in hand she told me what a wonderful young man the orderly was and that he had been there for years, surely trying to make me feel guilty. She did the deed with efficiency. Having the catheter put in wasn’t nearly as bad as I imagined it would be. Thank God!

Before they wheeled me into the operating room, my husband and daughter came in to say goodbye. There I was, in tears (is this normal?),  “bye then, see you later.” Next I found myself in a room that looked like the bridge of the “Starship Enterprise”–more computers than anyone could imagine. I was put completely out. I woke up seven hours later; I don’t remember being taken back to my room.  I was advised to lay flat for six hours and that the catheters (three in each leg) would come out when my blood reached a certain level. They allowed me to eat raspberry sorbet. I told my husband and daughter it was the best thing I ever ate. What was I thinking?  The blood level they were after was not obtained until seven the next morning.

They asked if I wanted a pain killer before they took the catheters in my veins and arteries out. The nurse said they sometimes make people sick,  so I declined. This REALLY hurt, and I regretted saying no. (Note to self: When the hospital staff offers a pain killer, take the drug and say “thank you!”) As soon as I was disconnected from the Foley catheter and intravenous fluids I was allowed to go home under strict instructions. The numbness and soreness in my legs bothered me.

My recovery is still in process, my left leg is still quite numb, which I am told will fade. My bruises, a dark bluish purple, will eventually disappear.  The most difficult part of the recovery is fatigue, which lasts about three months, until my heart heals completely. On the upside, my heart is now in normal rhythm and hopefully it will stay that way.  My sleep is undisturbed, my family wonders why I am so calm (is this the new me?), and importantly, I should be able to go off blood thinners in the near future.

Many people walk around with undiagnosed atrial fibrillation. Some of the symptoms I missed? I was nervous, tired, agitated, my face was flushed, I had sleepless nights, and loud noises made me jump out of my skin. I am 64 and past menopause, so I should not have ignored these symptoms. I could feel my heart jumping around, although like many people I didn’t want to think it might be something serious, and I attributed it to my penchant for coffee. This is an incredibly common medical issue. Millions of people have it, doctors don’t know what causes it, but one thing is for sure: if you find yourself with these symptoms, you owe it to yourself to make a visit to your doctor. It can be managed. Heads up on this one FOFs!

{My Story} A widow for four years

LEAVE A COMMENT 2012 January 10

One FOF describes the singular and universal experience of losing the love of your life.

[Editor’s note: The essay below, by FOF Rosemarie Sussex, is part of a series of personal blogs from our readers. Have your own story to tell? Email your idea to geri@faboverfifty.com.]
I lay on my side of the bed, still unable to move move to the center. I’ve tried but I can’t.

I thought this feeling was unique to me, but I’ve learned from talking to other women who have lost their husbands that this is not unusual. One friend, also a widow, confided in me: “I don’t flush the toilet at night.” I was so shocked since I did the same thing.  We were both afraid that the toilet would overflow in the middle of the night. Then what do you do?

My husband Paul died in 2008. The first three months afterward were the easiest. People were there; the phone rang; I could wallow in the grief and no one expected anything from me. It was winter so it was easy not to go anywhere except work and home.

Then the spring came.

Friends and family wanted to get on with their lives and be happy again. Not that they were forgetting him, just moving on. Well, that was great for them because they had someplace to move too. I didn’t. My life, I learned, was going to stay the same.  No one to eat with at night, to discuss the day’s events, watch television, to sleep with or love with.

Before Paul died, I had a time line after work: Get groceries, come home, cook, set the table, eat dinner etc.  Now I had no clock to follow. I found myself going to the mall after work and walking until I was exhausted; then I would come home and just go to bed. Except for going to work on time, the rest of the day was not accounted for. If I was standing in line at a store, I didn’t care if I had to wait. Where was I going? Who is waiting for me?

Weekends are the worst time of the week. Everyone else seems so excited about Friday coming. For me the days just loom ahead with chores that also seem senseless now. Before, the weekends held promise of fun, family and friends or even just tacking a project in the house. Being together, sometimes even in silence, but together.

Filling out paperwork at the doctor’s office brings on a whole gambit of emotions.Those horrible little boxes: Married, Single, Widowed (and sometime Other–what does that mean!). Changing your “next of kin” to your kids. Taking his name off charges and utilities. It took me three years to put the car insurance in my name. I’m not even sure it was legal not too. I just couldn’t do it.

The first time I was faced with a repair in the house was numbing.  My dryer and hot water heater went at the same time. When the delivery man came to bring the dryer, I burst into tears because I just realized that the gas would have to be shut off to take out the dryer.  Luckily the man was so nice, he disconnected it and reconnected the dryer without a problem. But in my head I just kept thinking “You’re alone-handle it.”

My family is wonderful and I am blessed with 6 grandchildren, but they do not fill the space that the love of my life left. We were married for 38 years and together for 42. We went through so many trying times together. Our last battle was his pancreatic cancer. He handled it like he did life–with strength, humor and song. He had the most beautiful voice and sang with a group. Often he would come right from chemo and go onto a stage and sing lead for hours. I would watch him and want to shout to the audience: “This man has pancreatic cancer and just had chemo!!!!”

It will be 4 years soon, and slowly I’m crawling out of the deep hole that has been my life. What I’ve learned through most of this is that the grief one goes through, although one’s own, is also universal and shared. It is my hope that I can help someone else make this journey.

{Beauty} A Cancer-Survivor Comes “Clean” About her Beauty Products

LEAVE A COMMENT 2012 January 4

A year ago, FOF Tracey Brown was willing to put just about anything on her skin. As the founder of the popular beauty blog Blinging Beauty, and a former Sephora executive, she received mountains of sample products. Creamy foundations, luxe lipsticks, smoothing peels and hydrating lotions–Tracey tested every one. She admits to especially loving super-powered cosmeceuticals: “If something burned me to death or turned my skin red–that was my thing,” she says. “I liked to feel it working.”

Then, in 2010, she was diagnosed with cancer.

Specifically, chronic lymphocytic leukemia–the very blood disease that had killed her mother at 67 and her grandmother at 98.

Suddenly, she saw beauty products differently. “Having cancer made me want to use less chemicals on my skin. Period.” she explains. “Your skin is your largest organ, and what you put on it is absorbed into your bloodstream. It also made me think about my own daughters and what they use.”

According to a report from The Campaign for Safe Cosmetics, a nonprofit that lobbies to keep dangerous chemicals out of consumer products, “more than 1 in 5 personal care products contain chemicals linked to cancer and 56 percent contain penetration enhancers that help deliver ingredients deeper into the skin.” While the chemicals in any one product are unlikely to cause cancer in an individual, there’s simply no definitive research on the cumulative effects of being exposed to multiple products every day.

For Tracey, finding products that were safe, but also effective, became a priority. “When it comes to skincare, I’ve gone 100% to clean products,” she says. “There’s no easy way to know what’s safe. A product labeled ‘natural’ can have some pretty scary ingredients. I look at the labels, at all the ingredients (not just the active ones), and compare them to the list of chemicals that we know are dangerous.”

The Campaign for Safe Cosmetics recommends checking against this list of the 12 most harmful chemicals found in cosmetics, which includes pthalates, parabens, fragrance, petroleum and sulfates.

The good news: “The new generation of ‘clean’ products, as I call them, is amazing,” says Tracey. “I use them now because I actually prefer them to the products I used to use.”

Check out Tracey’s favorite products, below, and tell us in the comments, is there any ingredient you avoid when buying cosmetics or skincare products?

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Tracey Brown and her staff try out all sorts of products for her fab blog, Blinging Beauty. (But she uses the products above “day in and day out” she says.)

{My Story} Resolutions of a newly-minted (FOF) bartender

LEAVE A COMMENT 2012 January 4

[Editor’s note: The essay below, by FOF Cheryl Rich Heisler, is part of a series of personal blogs from our readers. Have your own story to tell? Email your “What I Know Now” idea to geri@faboverfifty.com.]

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By profession, I am the president and founder of a career consulting business for attorneys frustrated by their traditional career options. By formal education, I am one of those self-same attorneys.  But, by avocation, I am what I perhaps should have always been—a mixologist.

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As a career consultant, I get a great deal of satisfaction helping people uncover their passions. But this past year, I decided I hadn’t realized one of my own lifelong passions–becoming an expert at making cocktails. I have poignant memories of heart-to-heart talks with my Dad over the tops of chilled martini glasses, and I get a wicked kick out of mixing and matching libations of all flavors and colors to create something new, different and kind-of clever.

However, giving up my day job to pursue this passion wasn’t a sacrifice I was willing to make. As an FOF, I realized you can have your cocktail and drink it too. While I continued my career consulting business–meeting clients in the mornings and in the afternoons–I studied for my mixology license. I love the reaction I get when I tell people I passed a second “Bar” exam. It was one of my major highlights of 2011.

But now it is 2012: how will each of us expand our horizons over the year ahead?

The lawyer in me suggests prudence:  plan better, save more.

The career coach in me says add more play, uncover a new passion, take those horseback riding lessons I’ve been thinking about.

And the bartender in me? She says lighten up, life is short.  Have a drink.  Toast to health and happiness and all the unpredictable, wonderful surprises that a New Year can bring.

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Start the New Year off right with this refreshingly sweet n’ spicy cocktail shot:

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{My Story} Only when this FOF retired, did she find her dream job.

LEAVE A COMMENT 2011 November 17

[Editor’s note: The essay below, by FOF Linda Lindsay, is part of a series of personal blogs from our readers. Have your own story to tell? Email your idea to geri@faboverfifty.com.]

I’ve been called the ‘accidental vintner.’

Never in a million years did I think I’d end up in the wine industry, a predominantly male business. Instead, I spent most of my life as a realtor, selling houses in and around Southwest Portland.

On the weekends in the 80s, my husband and a group of our friends would visit another friend’s gorgeous property in McMinnville, Oregon, about 35 miles southwest of Portland. It was beautiful, pristine and private–one of those special places you visit to escape the hustle and bustle of your daily life.

The Oregon wine industry was in it’s infancy, and we thought, ‘hey, maybe we could grow grapes here.’ So, each weekend we started planting vines and before we knew it, we had created a vineyard.

In the early 90s, my husband and I began our search for a retirement home with more property. We looked high and low, and even as a realtor, I couldn’t find anything just right. Then, in 1996 our friend told us he was looking to sell his McMinnville property, thinking we might buy it. We did. We built our home there and along the way, bought another vineyard. We named them Stone Wolf Vineyards, a compromise between our two favorite name ideas, Stone Bridge and Little Wolf.

Since we purchased the property, I’ve spent my days running the vineyard and producing, marketing and selling wine. Living among the vines is romantic, but it’s a lot of hard work too. Your partner is Mother Nature who can be unpredictable. Plus, the competition is fierce. But, we’ve been lucky–we sell every drop we make. Despite the recession, we’ve grown our business to include three labels–Rascal, Stone Wolf, and Lindsay Cellar and are the first winemaker in the U.S. to offer wine in a fully-recyclable keg. Our wine has won many prestigious awards.

The wine industry is still male dominated, but there’s increasingly more and more women at the helm. I’m not treated any different because I’m a woman. I’m one of them. A few years ago, I released a ‘matriarch series,’ of wine, a tribute to mothers and grandmothers. That label rocked.

I still have my real estate license and do a couple deals a year–mostly dealing with vineyard acquisitions. I can’t give it up.

It’s funny, years ago I was a realtor searching high and low for a great retirement home. Now, I own the best real estate on the planet, and maybe I’m not “retired” in the traditional sense, but I love what I do. I’m getting ready to go into my 16th vintage and this year, we’ll produce about 35,000 cases of wine. I’m Queen of the Vineyard.

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{My Story} To Heal My Mind, I Had to Fix My Body

LEAVE A COMMENT 2011 November 9

[Editor’s note: The essay below, by FOF member Mary Gobbo, is the first in a series of personal blogs from our readers. Have your own story to tell? Email your “What I Know Now” idea to geri@faboverfifty.com.]

I got my life back.

It’s as simple and as complicated as that.

For years, I struggled with my weight. I stand just under 5 foot 4 inches tall, and a year ago, I weighed 315 pounds. My health was in shambles. My kidneys were failing. I had an ocular hemorrhage. My blood pressure and blood sugars were out of control. According to one of my physicians, I was rapidly heading to the point of no return.

My children, all five boys, were very worried that I would not be around for them. I was worried too. I obviously wasn’t worried enough to do something serious about it, though. Oh, I tried Weight Watchers, the Rotation Diet, the South Beach Diet, the Grapefruit Diet, the Cabbage Soup Diet. With each one, I’d lose a little, only to get discouraged when I hit the inevitable plateau, at which point I’d gain back what I lost, plus several more pounds for good measure.

My primary care physician asked me repeatedly to consider weight loss surgery. I always refused, believing I could do it on my own. But when my kidneys began failing from diabetes, I knew it was time. I wanted a normal life. I deserved a normal life.  (We won’t discuss at this point what caused my weight gain. A team of psychologists is not needed. Suffice it to say that I had issues. I knew what they were, but I didn’t know how to really deal with them effectively. I just knew I wanted to live.)


I scheduled an appointment with a recommended surgeon.

After talking with the doctor about the four basic bariatric surgeries, I chose a procedure called the “duodenal switch” which minimized the risk of vomiting, “dumping” (a rapid rush of food into the small intestine, which causes nausea, faintness, sweating, etc) and, most of all, gaining the weight back. I could write a whole other essay about the different surgeries, and maybe that will be my next post!

When I set the date for the surgery, I was nervous, but one final incident gave me the motivation I needed.

The week before I was scheduled to have my procedure, I went on a choir trip to New York City with my youngest son. When I arrived at the bus, there was only one seat left. The man sitting next to me did not speak to me during the five-hours before our first stop. I was more than a little uncomfortable.  After our stop for dinner, I learned that he had told his son and a number of his friends that he didn’t want to sit next to “that FAT woman.” Devastated, I secured a seat in the very back of the other bus for the rest of the trip.

One week later, Dr. Marek Lutrzykowski performed the awe-inspiring, but intensive procedure. I spent a few days in intensive care. Recovery was challenging. I hurt! But I got through it. Once home, I made sure to walk several times a day and eventually hit the treadmill for 30 minutes a day. The weight started falling off.

Five months later, I am down over 100 pounds. I have 85 pounds to go to get to my ideal weight. Physically I’m so much stronger. But the emotional change is even more profound. With perspective, I can look back and admit how much my weight had taken over my life before the surgery. The truth: I had no self esteem. I didn’t want to be around other people. I hated myself.

Before my surgery, I came up with every excuse to avoid going out. Where would I park? How far did I need to walk? How many stairs would I need to climb? I recall a basketball game I attended at our local university. We were seated in the last row. On the way up, I had to stop several times to let other people pass. My heart was pounding and I could barely breathe when I got to the top. Once the game started, I had to go to the bathroom, but I held it in, knowing once I went down I would never make it back up the stairs.

This past weekend I attended a basketball game where we were seated, again, high in the stands. I made it up with my breath intact. The next night, I attended a Sting concert. My husband Steve, a very outgoing individual, had been very unhappy with how introverted I’d become. He loves getting out and about. Now I do too. We are going to Hilton Head for the holidays, and I intend on renting a bike to go all around the island and down the beach. I would never, ever have considered doing any of these things before May 18, 2011, the day I had my life changing surgery. It is now a pleasure putting on clothes. I take care of my hair now, and actually wear (a minimal amount of) makeup. I do my nails. I care again.

I saw a very good friend today.  I recounted to her that I just saw the man from the bus at a recent choir concert. My husband sat beside him, not knowing he was the one. I did not acknowledge him. Later, my husband asked me why I didn’t point him out so he could have said something to him. I replied, “That’s why. You can’t fix stupid.”  The truth is, I’ve forgiven him. Actually, I would love to say to him some day, “do you recall when you said those horrible things about me?  Well, THANK YOU!  It was because of you that I moved forward with my surgery, and now I have my life back.”

I want to help the many ladies out there who find themselves in the same boat I was in. I know I have many “sisters” who could benefit, and I hope to guide them through the troubled waters that are our lives.  Waters that can be calmed. They were for me.

Thank you for listening.

FOF Mary Gobbo, 56, is originally from Long Island, New York. She currently resides in Lansing, Michigan, and works part time for the State of Michigan as a secretary and part-time from home as a medical transcriptionist. She is now considering going back to school to complete her college degree.  She is also at work on a novel about a woman who “comes of age” at 45.