Just the Break I Needed

One year ago today, on a beautiful, sunny morning, I took a step in my yard and slid backwards down into a 3 feet deep hole (dug by my dogs) that swallowed my leg and snapped my femur in two places.  That moment will be forever embedded in my memory.  And today, during a matinee performance of the play I'm in, as I was joyfully doing the charleston backstage, I flashed on all of the pain I endured, and all of the baby steps it took me to get as far as I've come.  Finally, after one year, I'm wearing high-heels again, skipping on-stage, and dancing.


If you've never had a serious accident, you might think I'm overdramatizing because you can't relate.  (Just like people who haven't lost their parents can't relate to what it's like to be a member of the parent-less club).  But as a member of the "Broken Femur Victims Unite" group on Facebook, I know there are others out there around the world who can relate.


I was talking to someone a week or so ago, who was telling me about his recent broken bone, and he made the statement, "it was just the break I needed."  "Wow," I said.  "What a great pun."  And I started reflecting upon how my break created a great break for me too.  It really shook up my routine.  It decimated my habits, and I've been developing new ones.  It slowed me down.  It made me think.  I discovered the generosity of friends and acquaintances.  I discovered that I could enjoy just laying around.  I re-discovered the absolute importance of daily exercise.  I started a blog.  I got back into acting.  And now, in retrospect, I'm really grateful that I got to have the life-altering experience of breaking my femur.


So, I'm celebrating my anniversary today, doing the charleston!  And every year on March 6th, I'll give thanks and congratulate myself for my resiliency, and my sheer determination to rise above a hugely challenging situation.  Both of my parents would be so proud. 

No Business Like Show Business!

It's hard to believe it's been four years since I've performed on stage in a play.  Four years since I got my real estate license and decided that I needed to focus on making money at the age of 50.  I'd been eking out a living as an actress and songwriter long enough!  I remember bemoaning my choice to my friend, Nancy, at a women's support group, and I'll never forget her words of wisdom:  "But you're still an Actress.  You're just acting like a real estate agent right now."  Truer words have never been spoken.


When I got my real estate license, I imagined a flexible lifestyle where I would incorporate all of my various creative interests:  Acting, songwriting, creative writing, fitness, home renovations and dog wrangling.  But somehow, I found myself always working (I believed I had to be available 24-7 to succeed in real estate).  That is, until I broke my femur last March.  Nothing slows you down like not being able to walk!  


Over this past year, being slowed down by the broken leg turned out to be a blessing (cliche, I know, but these things usually do turn out to be blessings in some way, if you choose to figure out the way).  It allowed me time to soul search, and while I was searching I realized I wanted to find my way back to doing what I love.  Fortunately, Steve, my "spousal equivalent", prefers to be around me when I'm happy, so when I announced that I was "auditioning for a play, and after I finish the play, I'll work hard at real estate again, " he cheered me on.  And, as if the Universe were supporting me too, the audition was one of those rare instances in my life where I went in expecting to be hired.    


So, it's been three weeks so far of reporting to rehearsals at 9:00 a.m., working with a group of professionals who share passion for the theatre, memorizing lines and stretching emotions, all under the direction of Maryanna Clark, who has built an impressive theatre company, The Tennessee Women's Theatre Project.  I haven't been this thrilled to get up in the morning since I had to be on set at 6:00 a.m. when I was a series regular on a short-lived soap in Los Angeles (with my very own trailer!).  
I've been hiking most days after rehearsal (for my femur) where I run lines, and soaking in the tub most nights (for my femur), where I run lines again.  I love the process of figuring out how my character walks, talks, and feels.  I'm obsessed with my role, it's all I can think about.  And, as if the Universe couldn't be any more on my side, I'm getting real estate calls, referrals and leads without focusing on real estate at all!


The play, "The Disappearance of Janey Jones," opens in one week, and I will get to "play" for three more weeks of glorious performances.  There's no business like show business, like no business I know.....

Famous Last Words

As my father was approaching his final days in this world, he told my sister Beverly and me one evening:  "You two have done all right for yourselves; "Holly, you never got what you wanted, but you've done okay."  Beverly and I exchanged looks and laughed, but I didn't know what he meant by the comment.  Was he talking about my failed marriage, my not-so-illustrious career(s), the fact that I never had children, or that I wasn't financially successful?


I didn't ask Dad to clarify.  He was tired, over-medicated, and dying, after all.  But now, two years since we lost him on February 3, 2010, I wish I could tell Dad that I'm better than "okay."  I always wanted him to be proud of me.


When I was a teen, Dad would often say, "don't worry about getting a boyfriend at your age, there are so many fish in the sea."  Late one night my freshman year, he showed up at my friend Tina's house, (where I was supposed to be spending the night) and sat in her drive-way until I rode up in a car with Tina's boyfriend at 3:00 a.m.  My dad grounded me for two weeks, but believed me when I told him that NOTHING happened in that car.  


When I was suspended from school my senior year for calling my band teacher a "prick", Dad met with the principal, and sided with me when I explained that my band teacher had ridiculed me in front of the class. 


Dad believed in me.  When I was jealous of Beverly in high school because she was prettier, more popular, and head songleader, he'd say, "yes, but she can't play the flute! You're the first chair flute player!"  And, when I got my first professional theatre job at Disneyworld, it was my dad who received the call, came down to the Modesto Junior College, and pulled me out of class to excitedly give me the news.  


There were so many times when my dad was there to pick up the pieces when I crumbled emotionally, and many more evidences through the years of my dad's support of me and my dreams.  Oh, how I wish he could've been around this past year to watch me overcome a broken femur, and see me slow down enough through the healing process to realize that I can choose to spend more time doing what I love.  He'd be thrilled to know that I'm performing again in a professional theatre production!


As I sat here writing this, I had an epiphany:  What my dad was trying to convey with his comment was that he still believed in me, all the way to the end.  He was trying to tell me that not only have I "done okay", I am okay. 

 Dad, joking around while making pancakes! 

(Oh, how I long to be) Fit and Fabulous After 50!

With every new year, comes the promise of a new beginning, and this year, 2012, I'm grateful that I have a leg to stand on, and I'm ready to start really using it!  While I was laid up last year with my broken femur, I had time to read a few books, and one of the books I read, "Younger Next Year, (For Women)" stresses the importance of exercise after the age of 50.  The fact that exercise is good for you is something I've known for decades--I got into aerobics back in it's heyday, 1981, where I was trained by fitness guru Karen Voight herself.  I was one of the instructors on the original 20-Minute Workout T.V. Show, and was a personal trainer in Los Angeles for many years after that.  But exercise was never really my passion, just a means to an end.  I wanted to be taken seriously as a Hollywood actress, so I actually turned down the second season of the 20-Minute Workout because I didn't think it would further my career!  


When I finally cast aside my dreams of stardom in 1998 to move to Nashville to pursue a new career as a country songwriter, I became further and further removed from exercise.  The food in the south, the lifestyle of drinking wine at every songwriter round, and the relaxed environment all contributed.  I've allowed myself to get out of shape and overweight (Karen Voight would be so ashamed).  Being laid up last year with a broken femur didn't help matters any.  But the book, "Younger Next Year," makes it ultra clear that I need to get myself moving, and not just a little bit.  This book makes a strong claim that if I want to live a long, full, life, I need to exercise strenuously for  a minimum of 6 days a week--not just to lose weight, but to avoid bone loss and osteoporosis.  I've already broken one major bone, I sure don't wanna break any more!


So this year, I'm going to follow the advice of "Younger Next Year."  I have possibly 40 pounds to lose in order to be as small as I was back in 1983 (when the 20-Minute Workout show aired) but I don't think I need to get that small again!  Right now, I'm simply going to focus on getting out of my "big girl pants" and comfortably back into my pants from 2010!  (Notice that I don't disclose the size of my pants).

          
I'm now on day three of an experiment:  


1)  I'm committed to working out to the 20-Minute Workout dvds I have in my possession EVERY DAY to see how it works for women past 50.  I can already confess that I must modify the work-out to a low impact version.  I still can't jump on my recovering leg, besides, I recall that somewhere back in the late '80's while I was still an aerobic instructor at the Voight Fitness Center, high impact aerobics were beginning to be considered "dangerous" and low impact aerobics became the norm.  


2)  I'm still continuing my Senior(yikes!!)Water Aerobics class three days a week, where I do get to jump in the water without hurting myself. 


3)  I'm committed to hiking 2.5 miles around Radnor Lake twice a week.


So this is the plan, until I come up with a better one (or some lame excuse).  'Til then, my younger self is inspiring me with a     four more, three more, two more...

Out With the Old!

Old News

"I broke my femur," is old news.  


I had my six month check-up on September 9th.  When the orthopedic surgeon came into the exam room, I was missing.  I had gone to the bathroom, and was returning down the hall, when he came out of the room looking for his patient.  When he saw me, it was apparent that he didn't recognize me.  He stared, and then said, "If I didn't have this chart to refer to, I wouldn't know which leg I operated on!  You are walking really well!"  (And I paid $400 for this appointment??)


I told the doctor that I was still having persistent pain when bending my knee and walking down stairs.  I mentioned that he had told me previously that I'd be back to normal at six months-walking normally, doing all of my normal activities, even dancing.  "Did I say that?"  He chuckled.  Then he said with a grin, "You'll never be back to normal."  


What????


I sat there, aghast.  I  think he was making a light hearted joke, but I didn't appreciate it.  He went on to say that I was always going to be aware of my injury.  I told him my hip hurt when I walked.  He said, "well maybe you have some arthritis, I haven't checked your hip."  WHAT???  I said, "don't tell me that!  I haven't had any hip problems prior to this accident, I think it's related to my injury."  He said, "maybe."  MAYBE??


The irony is that I had almost cancelled this appointment.  I knew it was going to be expensive (they take $300 worth of 
x-rays every time I go in), I already owe over $30,000, and I figured I wouldn't learn anything new.  The doctor would just say I was healing well.


What a surprise to learn that I would "never be back to normal."  


Note to self:  a)  Doctors don't know everything.  b)  Who wants to be normal, anyway?

A Poolside Lesson in Humility

This past Tuesday, my friend Carolyn's husband asked me, "So, why did you break your leg?"  

I was taken aback for a moment by the audacity of the question.  Usually, when one suffers a tragedy, or has an accident of some kind, one will wrack their brain trying to figure out why it happened.  "Why me?," has always been a popular question.  But what he wanted to know was, "why did you create the accident?"


I believe in the spiritual philosophy that I create my own reality, but I told him that I'd not been able to come up with a reason that made any sense.  

Still, he got me looking at some questions that I hadn't bothered to think about lately.  In addition to "Why did I break my leg?" Questions like:  What have I learned over the past six months?  What benefit did I get out of the accident?  Why am I still using the broken leg as an excuse to be a victim, to get sympathy, to be liked, to be lazy, to take it easy. Whaaaa?  What was that last part?  To take it easy?  What's wrong with taking it easy, I wonder?  And why am I still using the broken leg to beat myself up?  Why am I not letting go and moving on with a new story about the broken leg, and what new story can I tell?.... 


After living with these questions all day Tuesday, I went to Senior Water Aerobics class on Wednesday with a renewed sense of acceptance.  (Although I hadn't come up with an answer to "why" I broke my leg, I know I wouldn't have joined a "Seniors" class had I not needed gentle water therapy).


After the class, I stayed in the pool to do extra leg exercises.  An elder woman from the class whom I'd often smiled at, but never talked with before, made a casual comment:  "You haven't had enough, huh?"  I answered with, "well, I just need to strengthen my leg."  She asked me if I was recovering from a surgery.  And I said, "yeah, I broke my femur in March."  I saw the sadness in her eyes as she said, "my son did that."  She paused.  Then she said, "he got a blood clot."  I paused.  "Did he make it?" I asked.  "No."


She went on to tell me that her 37 year old son fell in a hole, much the same way that I did, and landed wrong, just like I did.  He had surgery, just like I did, was recovering well, went home, and two weeks later developed a blood clot that traveled to his lung and killed him.  She said she didn't understand why the doctor hadn't prescribed a blood thinner, why her son had only been prescribed aspirin.  (Blood thinners are usually prescribed after femur surgery, because the risk of developing a blood clot is so high).  She said she didn't understand why her son, who was a good Christian, happily married with two children, was taken so soon.  But, she said, she had to accept that "the Lord must've needed him for some reason." 


As I quietly listened, I thought about the fact that I chose not to take the blood thinners that were prescribed to me after surgery.  And I wondered why I escaped a blood clot.  Why was I so blessed?  Why was I given the opportunity to survive, live, grow, change?


Today, I'm still pondering all of the questions and I am filled with humbleness and gratitude.

Progress, not Perfection

I'm such a sham.  

I write these posts, and I attempt to come across somewhat positive, but behind the scenes I'm a whiner.  I cry after every single physical therapy session.  I cry not only from the overwhelming pain, but also with the fear that my right leg may never be like it used to be. 

I started my New Year (June 1--see my last blog), and it started out well.  Steve and I went to the Senior Water Aerobics class and I felt stronger.  My pain was tolerable.  I even swam some laps in the pool.  After we got home though, my energy was zapped.  I needed a nap.  I kept reciting my new mantra, "do what inspires you," as I rested in bed most of the afternoon until my physical therapy appointment.  

I really expected June 1 to be my last P.T. appointment.  And I reserve the right to be wrong again!  They keep upping the ante with more exercises and I continue to feel that I've not made enough progress to stop.  They say, "good job!" as they tell me, "you should be doing these exercises every day.  The Senior Water Aerobics is not enough."  At the end of every session, I sob.  Then my friend Brian picks me up and we go to "Happy Hour." 

I also occasionally shed a few tears when a potential real estate deal falls through--I'm especially vulnerable now, with my hospital bills looming.   This past Friday, a deal fell through and I found out by phone on the way to Senior Water Aerobics.  As I danced in the pool, I fought back the tears when I shouted out to Steve with a forced smile:   "Ah well, it's the Summer of Fun!"

I'm at the 13 week mark today.  Life is back to business as usual.  I'm back to making dinners at home, back to work with real estate, and back to trying to keep my self-imposed fear demons at bay.    I've come a long, long way with my leg, but I have no idea when I'll be walking normally without pain and a cane. 

So today, I recite the mantra:  "Expect progress, not perfection."  (A slogan borrowed from Alcoholics Anonymous)

Rich Little Poor Girl

5 years ago on Sunday, May 28, 2006, at 12:00 noon, my mama died.  It was a new moon and Memorial Day weekend.


Winifred Anne Butler,  "Winky", was born in Chattanooga during the depression.  She graduated high school at the age of 16 because she was super intelligent.  She became Miss Chattanooga (I don't know the year), toured with Mickey Rooney in a traveling medicine show, and then  joined the army when she was 20, so she could travel the world.  Her plans changed when she got pregnant, and got married instead.  My oldest brother was born in 1951.

Mom raised 6 kids, while teaching Spanish at a high school full-time. She became so involved with her job (and her students) that she became an absentee mother for a while, and throughout high school I felt much closer to my dad.  But once my parents finally got a divorce when I was 18, I moved out with Mom to help her cope.  

My mom performed in a production of Hello Dolly with me, and loved coming to see every play I was ever in.  She showed up for a one-woman revue I did once dressed in a t-Shirt emblazoned with the words:  "Holly Butler Fan Club, Charter Member."  When I started to write songs, my mom started writing songs too, and had high hopes for both of us!  During my lowest point when my own marriage was failing in 1994, Mom gave me a pep talk that was quite possibly life-saving.  In her final years, she wrote a memoir titled, "Rich Little Poor Girl" about her childhood, and I sure wish I knew where her manuscript ended up.  

During these past three months I've really just wanted to call Mom and tell her about my broken leg.  I keep remembering different events, like when she flew down to L.A. in 1985 to nurse me back to health after a car accident, and about the time she visited me in Nashville in 1999.  She was always tearful as she said goodbye at the airport, about the wonderful time she had.  I realize that I inherited her tendency to cry easily, and her love for high drama, and I cherish both of these qualities.  

I miss you, Mama.  Did I tell you that I broke my leg 12 weeks ago today?  You'd be so proud of my progress--I'm walking again!

Stagnation or Incubation?

Stagnate:  to stop developing, growing, progressing, or advancing: as in "My mind is stagnating from too much T.V."

I was complaining to my friend Vickie on the phone yesterday about how I am sooooo over this  too-long-of-a-broken leg vacation.  How I'm so upset over not being able to grow my real estate business while I've been nursing my leg.  How I've not been able to write any songs, or practice my guitar, or try writing a novel.  How now that I'm finally attempting to walk with a cane at 11 weeks, the pain is worse than ever.  I'm not progressing, I'm just stagnating.

And Vickie said, "Maybe you're incubating."  (Huh?)

Vickie went on to say that when she was pregnant with her only child it was a very difficult and sometimes painful nine months, but of course the birth of her daughter was well worth the long process of incubation.  (I thought, oh please dear God, don't let this pain go on for nine months!!  Coincidentally, I recently read an article that claimed breaking a femur  is more painful than child birth...).

My wise friend Vickie continued,  "Maybe you're just incubating, you know, you're healing, and then when you're done healing, you'll be a creative genius, and you'll be more productive than ever!"  This made me feel better. 

So I looked up incubation and found these definitions that I really liked: 
1. incubation - Latin incubare, the source of incubate, literally meant "lie down on"; incubation once had the sense of sleeping in a sacred place or temple for oracular purposes, 2. incubate - grow under conditions that promote development,  3. To form or consider slowly and protectively, as if hatching.

So I'm incubating.  More like a chicken with her head cut off, screaming the sky is falling, but I'm incubating! 

"A Blip In Time"

That's what the doctor said at week five.  He said I'd be back to normal before I knew it and it would feel like a "blip in time."  Now I'm saying, "Like Hell!"  I'm coming up to week 11 and I am NOT back to normal.  Last week, I was all brave, and determined and with gusto, walking up those flights of stairs with my walker trying to impress a potential real estate client (who still hasn't hired me or returned my phone calls, thank you very much!)

That was sooooo last week.  This week I'm walking with a cane, and paying the price.  My right leg is throbbing regularly, and most of my other body parts are sore from overcompensating.  And my old pal, Impatience has come to call.  I know her well, and I haven't missed her.  It's been nice not having her around on a regular basis (like when I'm really busy and stressed out while working for a living).  But this morning, I woke up and Impatience was back, screaming in my head:  "I'm frustrated, angry, and tired of hobbling around!  No more Miss Nice Girl!  Everyone says I've been handling this situation so well.  Well Bullsh-t, I'm sick of it!!  I want to walk without a cane!!!  I want to run!!  I want all of my energy back and I want and need to make some money.  I'm tired of this so called "life of leisure."  I'm tired of laying around!"

My friend Brian said, "You're not yourself today.  Where's my Holly?" 

Steve said, "A mood has you.  Stop talking with that potty mouth, you sound like white trash."  

Because all I could do all day today was cuss!  "F this" and "F that".  "Where is my F--king book?"  "Where did I put the G--Damn, Mother F--cking paper I need?"  "I am so F--king pissed."  (I read a scientific article recently that stated that cussing helps to alleviate pain.  And damn it, I believe it!)

Now I lay me down to sleep.  Tomorrow is another day.  A Blip in Time?????   My Ass.

The Beginning of the End

This past week I took three senior water aerobics classes with Steve (I fit right in with my need to move slowly and cautiously).  At physical therapy, I walked "hands free" for about eight feet and was given the go-ahead to walk with a cane if I preferred.  And, I had my first real estate listing appointment since my accident.  


I didn't tell the potential listing client in advance that I'd be showing up in jogging shoes and getting around with the aid of a walker (I chose the walker because I knew the home had some stairs and I wanted the extra security).  I told him that my husband would be chauffeuring me, because we had taken my car in for an oil change (I didn't mention that I still wasn't driving, since I broke my right leg).  I didn't want the potential client to imagine that I'd have any limitations as his real estate agent.  


When Steve and I arrived for the appointment, we both exclaimed, "Oh, no!  Look at those stairs!"  The entrance to the home looked grand, but daunting.  Steve was especially worried, but I was determined to appear completely capable. The steps up to the front porch turned out to be shallow and I managed them with unexpected ease.  I knocked and we waited.  The home was vacant and through the windows it looked newly renovated and gorgeous.  


Finally, the potential client, David, came around from the back of the house and said that unfortunately, he had forgotten his keys and that we'd have to reschedule!  He didn't seem to pay much mind to my walker and jogging shoes.  He said, "we can walk around to the back of the house and look in the windows.  You'll be able to see most of the house that way, and you can tell me your opinion on a list price."  Then he asked,  "Can you get around okay?"  "Absolutely", I exagerrated,  "I'm just using this walker for support while I recuperate."  We strolled very slowly to the back of the house, then I spotted the three sets of stairs up to the back deck.  (YIKES!)  I didn't let on as I winced in pain with every step up.  We walked back down, across rocks and cobblestones and uneven terrain just as David's brother showed up with the house key.  So, a tour of the inside began with yet more stairs and much more standing and walking.  Steve was invited to come in from the car and he listened to my entire listing presentation.  Talk about being put on the spot!  


Afterwards, Steve took me to lunch and told me how impressed he was with my real estate knowledge and my sales presentation.  I asked him to tell me again at least three times.  I felt a great sense of accomplishment even though I was  exhausted and in pain when we got home and I had to nap for several hours.  


I haven't heard back from David or his brother, even though I followed up.  I'll be disappointed if they don't hire me, but I know I did my best.  It's been 10 weeks, and although I'm not completely healed, I'm getting there.  I'm slowly re-learning how to walk.  I'm slowing getting back up on the horse (figuratively) as far as remembering my real estate skills.  I'm slowly thinking ahead to getting on with my life.


It feels like the beginning of the end of my broken leg odyssey, and the beginning of a new beginning.

Water Therapy

Mother's Day.  It was a gorgeous, sunny, spring day, and it started out horribly.  I'm nine weeks into my broken leg recovery and it seems that during this time almost everything else in the house is broken as well!

     

This morning, Steve and I woke up to a flooded master bathroom.  My renovated bathroom, completed just over a year ago, is falling apart.  The toilet tank has mysteriously cracked down the middle and I noticed it when I saw water dripping onto the floor a couple of days ago.  I had wiped  it up then, jiggled the toilet handle, and the toilet stopped running.  It seemed fine.  Steve called the plumber who said he could come this Monday.  I turned the spigot behind the toilet, thinking I had turned off the water.  The toilet was silent, so I thought our problem was temporarily solved.

While we were in bed last night, I heard the toilet start running again.  I thought of asking Steve to go down to the basement and turn off the main shut off valve, but it was after midnight and we were both sleepy.

So, this morning there was a half inch of standing water on the floor, water gushing from the tank, water running through the grout of the tiles, through the sub-floor and into the carport below.  The carport where piles of junk still sit from last year's May 1st flood.  
 

I was so freaked out by the floor that I temporarily forgot about my broken leg as I attempted to get on my hands and knees to mop up the mess with the only towel in the bathroom.  Bad move.  "Ouch!"  "Steve!", "Steve!", "Steve!"  Steve was nowhere in earshot and Brian was still asleep in the guest room.  I was in pain trying to get up off the floor with my right leg only able to bend part way.  Somehow I balanced most of my weight on my left leg and got back up.  I hobbled over to the shower seat, sat with a thud and waited. 

     

As usual, poor Steve takes the brunt of my wrath.  I hear him come clunking down the hall.  "Where were you?!", I scream at him while he leisurely plods past the bathroom in his slippers.  "What do you need?", he asks.  I scream, "What do you think I need, the floor is flooded, get me some towels!  I would think you'd be a little more concerned about our floor being destroyed!!"  (I found out later that Steve was outside trying to keep our three dogs from escaping the back yard.  I had heard the ruckus, but I was focused on the flood).  

It took me a few hours to shake my foul mood as I went into overwhelm about not only the broken toilet, but the broken kitchen faucet, the broken water filter, the broken microwave, all the other broken stuff around here, and the crap sitting in the carport for the past year, now wet again.

I don't know when we would've gotten back to combing through the stuff in the carport, if it weren't for today's flood.  And after Brian helped me get rid of a dumpster full of junk from the carport, we went to the YMCA where I spent an hour exercising my leg in the swimming pool. 

Turned out to be a cleansing day!



 

Rain, Rain, Go Away

Steve and I were awakened in the middle of the night again last night by the sounds of loud thunder and pounding rain.  As I lay in bed listening to the rain's continuous rhythm,  an old ditty, one I hadn't thought of in years, was running through my head.  "It's Rainin'," was one of the first songs I'd ever written, 17 years ago, during an especially low point in my life.  

In August of 1994, I was living in Vancouver for the summer with my then husband, pursuing acting work.  The t.v. and film industry was booming in Vancouver, and my ex was getting quite a few jobs, because he had dual citizenship.  Although I auditioned plenty, I couldn't get arrested.  I wasn't a citizen, and I was a female in my late 30's--three strikes against me as far as acting roles were concerned.

I combed the classifieds daily, looking for something, anything, to fill my time.  One morning, I saw an ad for a lead singer in a country band, and I figured, what the hell!  I'd never sung country songs in my life,  I didn't even listen to country music, but I figured I could bluff my way into the job, since I had fronted pop bands (albeit, very few) in Los Angeles. 

On a Sunday, I drove down to meet with the band leader in a small run-down house about 30 miles south of Vancouver.  He seemed to be in his mid 40's, with not much to show for it.  After our introductions, he asked me to sing a couple of songs.  I had some karaoke tracks of pop songs which I sang to, and he apparently thought I was qualified enough because he sent me home with about 25 country songs to learn for a gig the following Wednesday.

Over the next three days I spent all of my time memorizing the lyrics and the tunes.  I showed up eager and ready for the gig at a VFW hall and had a blast.  It was a three person band:  The band leader who played guitar, the bass player, a drum machine, and me.  The rest of the summer we did weekend gigs playing at VFW halls, seedy bars, and nursing homes.  I got  $50 a night.  


One late night, while on a break, I ran across a magazine article written by Pam Tillis about songwriting, and how to write from title.  On the drive home, I thought up a title and came up with my first pathetic attempt at a country song, called "Ten Times A Day."  (A catchy little title, I thought!)


Singing in the band, and writing my songs (while my husband criticized), became my lifeline that summer.  My marriage was crumbling.  I cried often over my failing acting career, and contemplated suicide more than once.  As I wrote bad songs, my soul was soothed.  One dreary and rainy morning I wrote, "It's Rainin'."  The first line of the chorus began, "Rain, Rain, Go Away....it was catchy and uptempo...and although I can remember my melody clearly right now, the lyrics are tucked away, forgotten, in a drawer somewhere. 


That Vancouver summer was a huge turning point in my life.  Of course, I didn't see it at the time.  When we returned to L.A., my husband asked for a divorce,  I signed up for songwriting classes, and a new chapter began.


Today, on this rainy day, I'm wondering if this lengthy broken leg recovery period is another turning point.  


Time will tell.

It's May Day!

May 1st, often called May Day, has a long and notable history as one of the world's principal festivals.  It's a celebration of Spring.  It's a pagan festival, a saint's feast day, and a day for organized labor.  In many countries, it's a national holiday.  

In Nashville, May Day is now remembered by most Nashvillians as the anniversary of the 2010 Flood.  A day when many lives were changed, and the blessings of help and love were bestowed by friends and strangers alike upon those affected by the flooding.  The people of Nashville rose as rapidly as the flood waters to help in every way imaginable.  As a city, we were a shining example of how folks really pull together when called upon by tragedy.  

Last year, I  felt somewhat guilty that our enormous basement only suffered three inches of water.  With the help of a couple of friends we got everything out, and within four days, had the basement dry and re-organized (although one year later we still have piles of junk in our covered carport).  I felt guilty receiving help, when our flooding was so minimal.  I felt guilty that I didn't help others as much as I could have or thought I should have.   Steve and I did attend some flood benefits, but I felt that I was copping out, that attending a benefit was the lazy person's way to help. 

Now, this year, on May 1st, as I am 8 weeks into my broken femur recovery,  I can't help thinking about all of the friends and acquaintances, and even strangers, who came to my aid after my surgery.  Emotionally, spiritually, and physically, I was supported by greeting cards, phone calls, e-mails, delivered meals, car rides, and so much more.  I didn't once judge the level of someone's help.  I only saw that I got more help than I ever could have imagined. 

I can't go back and re-do last year and help with the flood recovery.  But I can and will remember that every gesture of help, no matter how seemingly small, makes a huge difference to someone in need.  And, as a result of all the love I've received, I will remember to pay it forward.

Happy May Day!

From Wheelchair to Walker

On Easter Sunday, I finally started leaving the house with the use of a walker.

Up until this point, all my venturing out had been done in a wheelchair.    While Steve's been working, my friend Brian has helped push me to my real estate office, to Radnor Lake, to the Nashville Film Festival, and to a few restaurants that have wheelchair access.  Although the doctor said that I could use a walker or crutches weeks ago, the fact that I can't weight-bear and must hop on one leg has made me choose the wheelchair when leaving home.  Hopping on one leg is tiring!  And you can't carry anything while using a walker.

While at the Nashville Film Festival last week, I saw a couple of ladies getting around quite well on crutches.  I was envious, so I decided I'd chuck the chair and start using crutches.  Steve had been given a pair by his physical therapist, but unfortunately they were too short.  He also had two sets of crutches in the basement, but they were too tall.  So I succumbed back to the chair to finish out the festival.  Besides, being in a wheelchair gave me advanced seating, and pretty much the best seat in the house.

On my first trip out of the house to go to the doctor's office 3 weeks after surgery, I was moved by how helpful and friendly strangers were when they saw me in the wheelchair.  People offered to hold doors, they let me on the elevator first, they asked me questions and offered sympathy.  I was taken aback by the attention.  When we went to restaurants I was given special treatment with seating and doors being held open as well.

What I noticed once I progressed to the walker is that I didn't get the same level of attention.  We went out for an Easter Brunch, and while we waited on a bench to be seated at our table, I had my leg outstretched for comfort.  No one seemed to notice, while Steve kept trying to keep people from tripping over me.  We took a drive down to Lieper's Fork to show Brian around, and I decided to get out of the car and join Brian and Steve who had gone into Puckett's grocery.  Two guys hanging out on motorcycles casually watched me crossing the street, hopping on the walker, and asked me if I had hurt my foot.  They had no idea the pain I've been in!!


Later, we went to Trader Joe's and I had to use the restroom.  It was a long brutal stretch getting from the car to the back of the store, only to find a line.  I was appalled that while I was exhausted, struggling to "hold it"  and leaning for balance against a garbage can, the lady ahead of me didn't offer to let me go in!  By the end of the day, all I could think of is "waaaaaah, I want my wheelchair back."  I guess this is why some people can get sick over and over again:  because the attention feels so good!

All day Monday I lay around recovering from the big, tiring, Easter outing. And  yesterday we went to Goodwill and bought some crutches.  

Yeah, I'm gonna miss all of the special attention, but I'd rather be well.

With A Little Help From My Friends

It's amazing how time can fly by, when one is just laying around.


For the first 4 weeks after I broke my femur, I lay in bed while Steve made me de-caf and fruit salad for breakfast, while he took the dogs out and dumped my porta-potty, while he made sure I had a phone within reach,  then rushed around frantically trying to get on with his own day.  When Steve would leave the house, various friends were scheduled to come by and  "baby-sit."  I was overwhelmed with gratitude that friends went out of their way to visit with me, bring food, help make my bed, wash my hair, sweep my floors, do rieki treatments, and cheer me up!  I was completely dependent on others, and the friends and neighbors who helped were a Godsend.  We had more gatherings at our house during those 4 weeks then we'd had in the previous two years.  A game of Balderdash one night, a writer's round another.  It was great to have parties delivered to our home. 


I couldn't get enough of Facebook, and the feeling of connectedness it  provided, or all of the "how to heal a broken femur" blogs I found comfort in.  Most of my mornings were spent on-line, most afternoons were spent visiting with friends who came by with food, and most of my evenings were spent watching re-runs of "Bones" and "Glee".  I was rarely bored.  I was in pain, but the days went by quickly. 


For some reason, I couldn't get into reading the piles of books that friends brought by.  I talked about writing some songs with people, but I couldn't seem to stir up the creative juices for songwriting either, although I only tried twice.  I stopped doing my morning journaling, my writing was reduced to 3 line haikus posted on Facebook.  I was beating myself up for not being creative with all this time on my hands.  I wasn't being productive either.  I wasn't able to generate any income from my real estate business.

The loss of my routine was very unsettling to me.  My ideal routine over the past several years has been to get up by 7:00 a.m., go outside with my dogs, journal for about an hour while I drank coffee,  walk the dogs, then start my business day either with real estate (since 2008) or with the music business.  I didn't have time to "waste" hours lounging around on facebook, visiting with friends and watching T.V. 

Now at 7 weeks into this broken leg recovery, I've settled into my current life of leisure.  A dear friend of mine, Brian Beltran, who I have known since I was 4 years old, came out from Portland, Oregon, and moved into our home 3 weeks ago to help with cleaning, driving me to appointments, taking me to the store, and just about everything else I need.  He has fashioned a work-able wheelchair ramp,  set me up on Skype, organized the pantry, re-arranged all of our paintings, cleaned out our bookshelves, and become the entertainment coordinator with his Camera and his Netflix account!

With the house more orderly, I've surrendered into letting the time go by.  I'm forced to heal, and it will take however long it takes.  Suddenly, the creative juices are beginning to trickle out.

I'm getting by with a little help from my friends!

The 20-Minute Way!

So, I've officially, and finally, started a blog.  Now what?  How do I drum up interesting, insightful, and anecdotal things to say while stretching my right leg, trying to ignore the pain?  What is the point of a blog anyway?  

My friend yesterday said, "it's like an on-line diary, and I don't feel like sharing my private thoughts with the world." 

I get that.  I've always felt that writing a blog would be a self-indulgent act.  I mean, who cares what I have to say???

Still,  I've fantasized about starting a blog since last June.  Ever since I had lunch with my old pal, Bess Motta of the 20-Minute Work-out, in Los Angeles last summer.  (The :20 Minute Workout was a t.v. show that I starred in back in 1983 when I was 26 years old.  According to information I’ve recently gleaned from the internet, the :20 Minute Workout was the longest running syndicated exercise show and aired in 57 countries.)  

I hadn’t seen Bess in a decade.  After I left Hollywood in 1998 to pursue a songwriting career in Nashville,  I only kept in touch with Bess for a couple of years.  In June 2010, while I waited for her to arrive at Hugo’s restaurant in Studio City, I secretly hoped she would be overweight, but noooo, she strutted up in 3 inch heels, as fit and trim as ever, looking all of 28.  She still has the same energy, the quick-witted sense of humor, and the mane of curly black hair.  She looked fabulous.

Over lunch, Bess and I got caught up on each other’s lives.  Then we reminisced about the :20 Minute Workout,  and how it seems to have  a following (on the internet) even after all these years.    It was then that I realized  just how much information is shared on the world-wide web.

So, back from my California trip, I combed  the internet, watching old episodes of the :20 Minute Workout on YouTube, starring ME!   I found one web site where I read the following about my co-stars and me:  “Holly, Annie and Leslie, what a bunch of GODDESSES!!!”  and another web site where I read:  “OMG, They were like Barbie dolls with coordinating body suits and leg warmers.”  And this post from just 6 months ago on You-Tube:   “Thank you so much for this!  I’ve never seen Holly before!  It’s like exercising with Lady Di!”   

I had given up the idea of stardom years ago.  Or had I?  The idea of being famous now, as a former :20 Minute Workout Girl, brought up a lot of deeply buried longings.  For months after meeting with Bess, and combing the internet, I found myself struggling with feelings of jealousy (about other friends who'd made it in the "business"), depression (about how my life has gone), regret (for not staying in L.A.), and self-loathing (because at 53, I'm out of shape and overweight).  I started a 20-Minute Work-Out Group page on Facebook.  I created a new website for myself, trying to give myself a web presence so "fans" could find me. All longing to be noticed.


Then, in November, I was noticed.   I got a call from a P.R. firm out of Toronto, who considered hiring me this year to promote bone health.  They said they found me on the Web.  The premise of their advertising was for me, as a former star of the 20-Minute Work-Out, now in her 50's, to talk about how exercising at 50+ years of age (along with a medication I'd be promoting) could help prevent osteoporosis.  

I started the new year determined to lose weight and get in shape so that I'd be ready to promote their osteoporosis product in the Summer!  But on February 13th, I lost out on the job, and it went to Bess (After all, she was the real star of the show).

I was still determined to get back into shape anyway.  I'd get my 20-Minute Work-Out body back, so I could be ready for whatever would show up!!  On March 1, 2011, I started a very disciplined work-out regimen and diet.  On March 6th, I fell and broke my femur.   

And now, I'm exercising on my stationery bicycle for 20 minutes a day, per doctor's orders, until I can walk again.  

It's the 20-Minute Way!

The Bane of My Existence?

They look innocent in the photo, but these three are the culprits.  They are the reason for my current unfortunate circumstance.  They are the cause to my clumsy effect.  It's foolish to say "it's all their fault", because I'm the one who stepped in it, but they are the diggers.  They dig to stave off boredom, they dig to amuse themselves, they dig for the sheer joy of it!  How could they have possibly known that their pack leader would slide into one of their deep (3 foot, 10 inch), dark, perfectly executed tunnels?  


And now we're ALL grounded.


It's been 6 weeks since the fateful fall that broke my femur in two places, and landed me in surgery.  I'm still in a wheelchair, and I've not been able to play with the dogs.  Daily dog walks are a thing of the past.  After all,  I am the dog walker around here.  They are my dogs for all intents and purposes.  I am the one who insisted on rescuing each one of them.  I dragged Spike (the black one) and her sister, Sugar, home after finding them as tiny pups in the street a block from our home.  (Sugar has already gone to Dog Heaven, but that's another doggone long story).  


When Spike was about 8 months old, she escaped our yard and got hit by a car.  She nearly lost her leg, and I nursed her back to health for several months while she couldn't walk.  Over these past 6 weeks, Spike and I have been commiserating.  She and I both know who the lead digger is, and Spike is very, very sorry.  Little Shortie, (the red one) doesn't know what to make of the frightening walker, but she's gotten the knack of avoiding the wheelchair.  Lily, seems to have adjusted okay to having her tail run over by the wheels.  They all miss their routines immensely, but they seem to know their leader has fallen.  (pun intended)


So here I am, lounging in bed, late into the day, day after day.  I have lost all routine.  I have no ambition.  I have no hustle, no creative juices flowing.  I have no new real estate prospects. I've lost clients.  I have no income!   I didn't ask for this respite, and I am wondering what the hell I'm supposed to learn?  That I'm lazy?  'Cause I'm kind of getting used to being unproductive.  What do I want to do with my life once I can walk again?  Who knows?  All I can do right now is heal.  And all because on a glorious Sunday morning six weeks ago, while playing with Spike,  I stepped back and fell into a deep, dark, dog dug hole.


Yeah, I'd say they're the bane of my existence.  But not because I don't love them.  But specifically, because I can't walk them.