What I did on my summer vacation

I finally got my teen summer dream job. Only took 65 years.  Proof that there’s always hope. Never give up. 

I thought retirement was the best gig ever until about ten weeks ago, when I started work as a beach parking lot attendant. I got paid to: talk to interesting vacationers from all over the states and most of the continents; occasionally make change; read all the books; walk a lot; tan a little; admire ocean, lake, harbor views; wave to tourists and fishermen/women; take photos of all the ages – from young families just starting out to elderly siblings who’d moved away and were revisiting their childhoods; give directions; recommend restaurants; conjure parking spots out of thin air on the busiest, most idyllic beach days for families that survived hours in traffic so they could bask in the heaven that I got to enjoy every day; pass out band aids and assurances; chat with police, artists, writers, the local homeless gents, scuba divers, ice cream truck vendors, teachers, life guards, Audubon volunteers, water quality inspectors, environmental workers measuring dune erosion,  singers, songwriters, horticulturalists, students, athletes.  Every day brought new experiences. I learned a lot and hopefully gave back as much as I got, but I’m not so sure about that because I got so much. 

There were a few tough days, but tough is relative. We had a couple of scorchers where the temps and humidity hit record highs, and even the clouds ran for cover. Had a few days that were exactly the opposite – total washouts, but were able to retreat under umbrellas or into vehicles. 

Really inconsequential stuff compared to what I saw in my previous life. For example, no one threw punches, threats, or swears my way – a gutting, soul-destroying reality considered by some admin to be the norm now for many of my friends who still teach. 

Did have one instance where someone tried to gaslight the reason out of me, which for a few minutes brought back those crazy, head-spinning days when kids could say anything and certain admins would respond with: “What did you (meaning the teacher) do to cause this?” Good times. 

But this recent event occurred on a sunny July day and I wasn’t in a cramped, dusty school building with poor ventilation, mouse traps everywhere. I was walking in beauty – surrounded by velvety dunes and plush grasses, and overlooking an azure harbor glittered with sailboats, kayaks, ferries. Cawing seagulls swooped the brilliant sky, while on the beach horseshoe crabs skittered, toddlers splashed, adults napped under umbrellas of every hue imaginable, couples traversed the shore in search of the perfect scallop or oyster shell, teens played lazy games of catch.  I was surrounded by the best views you could ever ask for, and even more importantly, had supportive bosses who in a heartbeat will rescind beach patron’s rights if they disrespect staff. Given these conditions, one tends to focus more on the positives.  

Because so much went right this summer, I want to remember all of it. Here’s a quick list that I hope for me will trigger some warm memories when winter comes. 

1.  Number of times had to call 911. A tough memory but a good one too. The person ended up getting the care they needed, and I was grateful to be there to make the right call and know I can do it again if needed. 

 

2. Beach chairs stored in my trunk. The expensive one with the wooden arms and built in pillow was too low to the ground for all the rising up and sitting back down, but kept it as a back-up.  The higher, ten-buck spectator from the discount retailer more than got the job done. 

 

3.  Huge bottles of water and Gatorade consumed on the hottest day ever with no shade in sight. 

 

4. Books I got to finish. 

 

5. Crazed seagulls who chased me Hitchcock-style around a parking lot one overcast, quiet afternoon when, out of my mind bored, made the rookie error of throwing some bread crusts to one of them. Never ever feed seagulls unless you want to stress out a la Tippi Hedren. 

 

6. Times per minute I swore under my breath July 5 while picking up empty cans, charred bonfire wood, plastic bottles, sandwich wrappers, scores of cigarette butts, because some patriotic beachgoers just don’t get it. 

 

7.  As in miles. Longest deliberate walking distance while on duty: chair to lot entrance, beach to rest rooms, lifeguard chair to picnic tables, tree to rock, other tree to other rock, hill to dale, over, under, sideways, repeat, repeat, repeat. 

 

8. Times per hour that I answered, “I have the best job ever,” when patrons asked how my day was going.  

 

9. Number of times I should have reapplied sun screen each shift. Should have. 

 

10. New freckles on face per square inch. See number nine. My mother always said freckles are a sign of beauty. If that's true -- and why would my mother lie -- I am now the most beautiful I've ever been. 

 

The sun is high in the sky. I've spent all morning writing and remembering. It's time to get moving. While the weather is still warm, there's an unmistakeable fall chill moving in. All good things must come to an end. Circle of life and all that. 

I don’t know how to finish up this bit of writing.  I suspect it’s because I don’t want any of this – the sun, sand, beachiness, to stop. It’s been a great summer. Right now, that’s the best I’ve got. 

I made a little bit of cash these last few weeks, but that's not why I took this job. Retirement is great. But if you're not mindful, it's easy for your world to shrink. It's easy to mire yourself in routine. I wanted to meet new people and experience new things.  Done and doner. There's truth to the maxim that the best things in life aren't things. Hoping next year I get to do this all over again, if the fates allow. Onward. 

I have a new car and she has a name

I’ve been thinking lately about a children’s story I used to read to the kiddos back in the teaching days, Cynthia Rylant’s The Old Woman Who Named Things. 

The titular character, whimsically bespectacled and charmingly decked out in cowboy boots, regularly bestows human names upon her inanimate possessions, like her chair, bed, car. Then one day a waggy-tailed stray pup cutes his way into her life. She cares for him, plays with him, but refuses to name him. 

You see, though quite spry, she’s a very OLD old lady, and as such has outlived all her friends and loved ones. Naming something made of wood, fabric, metal is one thing. It’s not like your favorite chair is going to keel over and leave you any time soon. But naming a living, breathing doggy? Yikes. That means being strong enough to survive if he passes before you do. 

As the story continues, their life together is all unicorns and rainbows until one day the no-named little guy goes missing. Old lady searches up and down, out of her mind with worry. When she finally finds him, it dawns on her that she adores this sweet little pup and so, even though she knows she could one day lose him, she fully lets him enter her heart, and she names him. It’s a heartwarming tale with a life lesson that will soften even the most jaded adult. Read it even if you don't care about what she names him. 

A few weeks ago, my trusty steed, a geriatric, high miles Honda CR-V that got me to and fro for fourteen years, finally gave up the fight. Brakes, calipers, various hoses, axles, almost in one fell swoop cried uncle. Given that the cost of repairs amounted to three times the vehicle’s worth, seemed like a good time to let my friend fade quietly into that good night, so I traded her in. She’s off to become someone else’s spare parts. Though she survived a lot longer than she should have, it was tough saying good-bye. 

Though I never named her -- yes, I considered my car a she, we had some times together. In addition to all the lengthy trips from Iowa to Massachusetts and back these last couple of years, we hit DC a half dozen times, drove every New England state, and visited lots of others too. 

Because I tend to hold on to my vehicles for a long time, I knew when I bought her that she would be the car that would literally drive me to retirement. But before that, she transported me for close to 1,800 days to and from school at breakneck speeds. The girl had giddy-up. Chauffeured me to dozens of races. Was a marathon medal, Gatorade, Gu, mylar blanket, empty water bottle, running shoes repository, and eventually got her backside plastered in hard-won race stickers. Always held at least two snow and ice brushes year-round -- because in New England, even in spring and early fall, the weather can change in a heartbeat, along with sand, kitty litter, extra change, a coat or two. 

As with all the other cars I’ve bought over the years, my dad accompanied me to the dealer for this one. He was convinced that without him along for the purchasing ride, I’d be cheated. Once I’d settle on a car, he’d haggle with the salesman. I never left with a lower bill, but my father would always get me freebies. Floor mats were his specialty. I always had free floor mats, courtesy of my dad. 

Back in 2012, the last time I went car shopping, my dad and I visited three dealers in total. Took a lot of test drives together and shared a lot of thoughts on how peculiar some sales folks could be. On all subjects, including cars and the people who sold them, my dad was a terrific sounding board. I bought a great, reliable car and of course loved my floor mats. 

As my parents got older and their health issues gradually took over all our lives, my Honda became one of the only constants. We made lots of trips to emergency rooms, hospitals, nursing homes. We followed ambulances and in at least one instance my Honda acted like an ambulance. 

There were weeks at a time when life looked like this: leave work, drive to one hospital to visit one of them, then drive to another hospital to visit the other, then go to their house to retrieve something each of them needed, then drive back to each hospital. 

Though lots of things were falling apart, I never once had to worry about my transportation. Through rainstorms, blizzards, and killer New England heat and humidity, some of the happiest and some of the most devastating times of my life, my Honda never let me down. 

When I drive distances, I always refill the gas tank when it hits the halfway mark. During normal, everyday driving times, I always keep the tank at least a quarter filled. But during those dark days, lots of things fell by the wayside. 

One day, after work, checking on my dad at home, and visiting my mother twice, I exited the hospital parking garage -  no fee because the attendant was a former student and wouldn’t take my money. 

I remember the front windshield was foggy. It was a wet fall day, and as always, the defroster was a little on the slow side. While idling and waiting for traffic to pass and the glass to clear, I glanced at the dash and nearly had a heart attack when I saw one mile’s worth of gas left. One. 

Cue a massive panic attack. The nearest gas station was at least a mile away maybe more and everyone knows you can’t count on anything when a readout is that low.  I put the car in drive, eased out onto the road, and coasted, one eye glued to the dash, all the way to the gas station, which thankfully was downhill. With the readout still saying one mile of gas left, I was able to pull up and refill without a problem. That’s a trusty vehicle. 

When it came time to say good-bye to my Honda, I couldn’t help thinking back to all these times. And for some reason the Rylant old lady story, which I haven't read or thought about in at least a decade started running through my brain. Maybe because I’m closer to old lady status these days than young ingenue?  A little regret started worming into my brain too.  My Honda had gotten me through hell and back and then some. She had pronouns – she and her, but I’d never given her a name. I felt bad about that. I know that’s silly. 

My new car arrived yesterday but when I went to pick it up at the appointed time,  I learned there’d be a little wait. Because I’d already turned in my rental and was already at the dealership -- located along a busy route with nothing nearby, when I learned that the car wasn’t ready, I was pretty much trapped. 

At first, I was okay. I could handle the half hour or so they’d said I’d need to wait. I scrolled through my phone, then walked a few laps around the dealership so I could keep my August move everyday streak intact, then played on my phone again. The half hour turned into one, two hours, then three. 

Sweaty, thirsty, and totally over everything, I asked to speak to the manager. I was not happy, but I was impressed by the guy’s courage. Given the tone of my voice, I didn’t even want to be around me. He kindly listened to my complaints, then apologized, and began offering me free things, which I declined, as his way of showing what he called “goodwill.” 

“I just want to be heard and I want my car,” I said. I was a bit more polite at this point. 

My car was ready twenty minutes later and as soon as I sat in the front seat, I got misty-eyed, because as an apology for the long wait time the manager had his mechanics install free floor mats. Suddenly memories of my dad who always haggled for free floor mats came flooding back. 

My new car is my favorite car color – red. Not stormy orange-red. Not cabernet. She is unapologetically, defiantly, aggressively, true race car red. Because she is going to be my constant companion the next decade or so if I’m lucky enough to hit my mid-70s, she will probably be my last vehicular fling before I go to something of a more sobering nature, more befitting a shrinking, elderly lady: smaller, lower to the ground, more economical, perhaps beige. 

My car has a name: Ruby. Makes sense, given her color. Her full name is Ruby RedSocks. Note the spelling. Redsocks is an homage to some things I hold dear. 

No matter where I live, I will always hold Massachusetts close to my heart. So Redsocks is a play on the name of that iconic Boston team that everyone thinks of when they think of my home state. There’s that. 

But the rest is my dad. The floor mats sunk it. 

As a school principal and on the golf course my dad was known region-wide for his signature look: bold color combinations – think lime green suitcoat, yellow pants, blue shirt, purple tie, red socks. Always with the red socks. Had nothing to do with the baseball team. Had everything to do with his love for red socks. 

I have a new car. And she has awesome floor mats and a great name. Over the next many weeks, months, years, Ruby and I will be chewing up some serious mileage. I’ve got places to go, sights to see, goals to reach. First, it’s time to get that 100x26.2 sticker and stick it on Ruby’s hind quarters. Next up after that, I'm thinking maybe a plus sign. But first I’ve got to earn it. 

Forward, always. 

 

 

 

Do or donut. There is no fry.

Today I’m thinking about short-term comfort versus long-term rewards. 

Right now, I’m that drowning swimmer grabbing at air, desperate to keep my head above water. 

I’m that Indiana Jones-ish adventurer mired in quicksand, clawing at tufts of grass, tree branches, anything, anything! just get me back on solid ground. 

I'm exaggerating just a little. 

In reality, I just had second breakfast and am considering a third. I’m lounging on my couch, spacing out one minute, guiltily searching out motivational quotes to get me moving the next, and craving donuts like you wouldn’t believe, the sugary fried ones with that sweet/oily aftertaste that makes me think of hardening arteries. 

If I had one of those delectable treats right now, I’d eat the crusty outside first, careful nibbles all the way around. Then once I’d gotten the thing all undone, I’d plop the entirety of the chewy, floury insides directly into my now over-salivating maw. Yum.  I can almost taste the fatty goodness. 

On August 1, I made a promise that I’d move with intention every day for the entire month Last week in a fit of what I thought at the time was inspiration but was in truth just me being stupid, I wrote a post about that goal. And now, because I committed in writing, I must continue with the intentional movement stuff until August 31 or I look like the worst person ever, a jerk who doesn’t follow through. Yeah. I know nobody will care whether I reach my goal but me. But hey, self-respect matters. 

But I don’t feel like moving today. I want to stay in my pajamas. Read books. Pat cats. Stare at dusty furniture and say, “I should do something about that.” Then space out instead. 

And yet, I hate people who talk a big talk and have nothing to show for it. I know those people. I’ve been that person. I’ve heard the excuses. I’ve used the excuses. 

It’s easier to laze on the couch. It’s easier to choose the donut. 

But here’s the thing. I hate easy. 

To write all this took some effort. First, I had to sit on the couch for, like, forever, and think about things that had nothing to do with writing until finally I thought about writing. Then, I had to think about not writing then again about writing then about eating then about sleeping then about feeding the cats then about fricking intentional movement which is stupid then about whining then about writing which can be like whining but in public and forever if I posted it which could prove to be motivating or embarrassing but at least I’d get something done today but do I really care about getting anything done today because why does every day have to be a thing why does every day need to be productive and what does all of this mean, and then I got overwhelmed with the stupidity of all the stupid thoughts and finally, being completely irritated with the fact that I was full of ennui and hating that word because it is preposterous and bloated with self-importance and why am I even wasting time on any of this, I forced myself off the couch and into a chair. 

While I was making that move, I grabbed a glass of water and a second cup of coffee. No donut though. I don’t buy donuts except for maybe once a year, and that’s at a special place in Maine that brings back fond memories, none of which are connected to the actual eating of donuts. 

And because the memories involved me and my family and being a little kid, some music came to mind because my parents were both avid pianists.

I started humming this particular song. Picture me, chubby-cheeked, braids, front toothless, snug up against my dad -- corduroys, velour pullover, buzzcut,  on the piano bench in the good room -- early 1960s French Provincial gold meets second floor tenement, blithely singing along at top form -- likely off-key -  while he plays one of my favorite kid songs, Frank Sinatra's High Hopes: 

Everyone knows an ant can't

move a rubber tree plant

but he's got high hopes. 

He's got high hopes. 

He's got hot apple pie

in the sky hopes. 

So, yay me. I’m upright and now I’m thinking good thoughts. 

Oops there goes another rubber tree plant. 

Forward is a pace. 

Geez. I’d kill for a donut though. 

 

Comebacks: Fall seven, rise eight. Repeat.

This is what a comeback looks like.

Lately, that phrase has been hammering my brain. It comes unbidden, while I’m drifting off to sleep, reading, walking, spacing out, brushing the cats, running that 4 a.m. miracle mile. Those seven words just show up out of the blue, and when they do my heart leaps, breath skips, and sometimes for a few minutes or a few hours, everything changes. 

Not sure if the phrase came first and then the mindset, or if a shift in mindset triggered the phrase. Not sure where all this is taking me. But something is different. 

There’s been a change of heart. (Tom Petty) 

It’s time to let go of some old things and embrace something new. 

Take your best shot. Let me see what you got. (Springsteen) 

The other day at the gym, I did speedwork. I haven’t done speedwork in months, and the little that I had done back then was, in my opinion at the time, embarrassingly pathetic. 

Words matter. Calling a hard day when you still had the guts to show up and try “embarrassingly pathetic” is a great way to destroy your ego, hopes, dreams, which is likely why I’ve avoided anything connected to running lately. 

My self-talk was killing me, and I only recently figured that out. I don’t know how or why I figured that out. But I’m glad I did because now I’m starting to understand what I need to do. 

Last week, when I forced myself to get on the dreadmill, I changed the narrative.  “Five minutes. If you hate it after five minutes, you can quit. But give yourself five minutes.”

I lasted five minutes times nine. 

After that first five minutes, it didn’t occur to me to quit. 

I could have kept going, and in my younger days probably would have. I stopped after 45 minutes because my hips and knees started aching, likely because the tendons, ligaments, muscles, bones were feeling a little shocked. I hadn’t worked out like this in ages. 

Bad thoughts slammed me as I limped off the machine: “How out of shape are YOU? Shame. Shame. Shame.” 

But then came this: Fall seven, rise eight. 

Then this, a tiny voice that got louder and louder: “Hey! Look at you, still out there! Way to go!”

And then: “This is what a comeback looks like.”

Maybe it’s that, with the CPAP, my sleep has improved and hence my body and brain. (link to needing CPAP/ whining about CPAP post:  https://alwaysatthestartingline.blogspot.com/2026/07/i-hate-my-cpap-and-so-can-you.html)

I dunno. 

What’s important is that I’m attuned to a new wave, one focused on seeking out the good stuff I need and finding it everywhere.

There’s beauty all around me. (derivation of Navajo prayer) 

On August 1 I set a goal: move with intention every day for the month. 

Here’s how that’s gone so far: 

August 1: 3-mile walk, weights

2: 4 miles

3: 4 miles, weights

4: run 45 min, bike 30 min

5: 6 miles on elliptical, weights

6: 3 miles ell, bike 45 min

7: 6 miles ell, weights

8: 1 mile walk (steamy and humid, scorching sun, no shade anywhere, worn out, each step felt like I was pushing a truck, cue tiny violin)

9: 1 mile walk (still seventh circle of hell heat)

10: 3.5-mile walk (steamy but finally starting to acclimate) 

Ten years ago, this would be nothing. 

Ten years ago, life was totally different. 

I’ve never been this age before and never lived this kind of life before. This is new territory. 

Don’t look back. A new day’s breaking. (Boston) 

Here’s something about last week’s stats that makes me smile: On six of those days, those walks looked like tenth of a mile increments, done minutes at a time over hours. I work a part-time job outdoors (best job ever) and must stay within a certain area. 

I could have chosen to sit in the shade on a beach chair the entire time, sipping on ice water, listening to some tunes, scrolling through social media.  Instead, I took every opportunity I could find to get up and move. I’m bummed I didn’t do more on days 8 and 9, but given the temps and the intensity of the previous week’s workouts, each day represented the best I could give. 

Rise again, little fighter. (White Lion) 

I wrote this today and am putting it out into the world because right now I need to hold myself accountable and this is one way to do so. I have 21 more days of intentional movement. When I started on August 1, I thought that would look like walking at least three miles and/ or hitting the gym every day. I think I need to be more flexible and reframe my goals. 

That’s cool too. Part of goal setting is checking in and adjusting. 

Fall seven, rise eight. 

Fail better. 

There are going to be good days. There are going to be bad. There are days I’ll want to give up and days I won’t want to stop. 

I’ll only go ‘til the sun explodes. (Sublime) 

I am titanium. (Sia and for real – I’m a Titanium level Marathon Maniac)

Been a long time, but I'm back in town. (Lady Gaga)

This is what a comeback looks like. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I hate my CPAP and so can you!

 The indignities of aging. . . where to begin? 

“Old age is no place for sissies.”  (Bette Davis, award-winning actress)

“Inside every old person is a young person wondering what happened.” (Sir Terry Pratchett, author, humorist, satirist)

“We all are going to die.” (Joni Ernst, Iowa senator, cerebral orator bar none) 

I expected – even welcomed to some extent – the wrinkles and gray hair. All part of the process, I figure. And I’ve lost an inch – an entire inch!!! – from my already shorter than average frame, but these things happen.  Every day is a gift, right?  

The latest:  Now I use a CPAP and, you’ve been warned, felt like sharing. 

 

Since bonking at the Tokyo Marathon last year, I’ve seen tons of doctors. None could find any reason for my symptoms of dizziness, fatigue, general malaise. Some blamed the blood pressure meds I was on at the time. Others shrugged and said maybe I was dehydrated. But a few months ago, the pulmonologist I was sent to by the cardiologist who found nothing wrong with my heart, thank goodness, added another piece to the puzzle: severe sleep apnea. 

No idea how long I’ve had it. Seems like I’ve been tired forever. Yes, sleep has been hard to come by in recent years. Working full-time while caring for ill parents then coping with their deaths took a huge toll on me, physically and mentally.  

And then there was the overlapping exhaustion from running all those marathons. Yes, that pursuit of endurance excellence helped me cope. In many ways, I was and am super strong. But also, that physical stress, along with the stress of all that travel, added to all the other stress?  In retrospect, the last decade or so was a non-stop roller coaster ride featuring every emotion on the spectrum, and what little downtime wasn’t really downtime. It was mostly staring into space from sheer exhaustion time. 

And lately, add to that the ever- present mushroom cloud overhead. Like many other Americans I haven’t slept well since the presidential election. How I know the present political insanity is weighing on me: A few months back, saw a post that the loser had kicked the bucket.  Those immediate feelings of lightness, goodwill, and joy? Indescribable. Equally as hard to put into words -- that awful weightiness that descended when I learned that the news was false and the creep was still of this earth. 

Given all this, when the pulmonologist ordered the sleep study referral back in January, I did exactly what I thought was right. I ignored the referral because though I have no medical degree, I had a running tally in my head that gave me all sorts of valid reasons why I was tired so why should I listen to a doctor?  Idiot. 

Finally in May, exhausted beyond exhausted, constantly falling asleep while trying to read, write, exist, it hit me that doing a sleep study might be worth my while. 

Here’s what the sleep study involved: next to nothing. I called the sleep study office. They sent me a package. I didn’t need to go anywhere overnight. Didn’t need to travel out of state or visit strange offices. Didn’t need to arrange for someone to feed the cats or check on the house. 

All I had to do before I went to bed that night the package arrived was open it, and  follow some basic instructions involving a cannula and a pulse oximeter, that contraption doctors stick on your finger to measure oxygen. It sort of looks like a clothespin.  I remember waking up the next morning, eight hours of sleep later – or so I thought, feeling unusually refreshed because I’d just had the best sleep ever, and thinking of the cannula and company, “Well that was a huge waste of time.” 

But dutifully, I sent the package back through the mail. A week later, I got the results and my mind was blown. 

Based on what I thought at the time was a decent night’s sleep, I have severe sleep apnea. Turns out, that night I slept a total of five hours and 44 minutes, during which I stopped breathing an average 45 times per hour and my oxygen at one point dropped to just 80 percent. And for me, that was a GOOD night’s rest. Guess that goes to show just how far gone I was. 

Here’s what happens when you stop breathing 45 times in an hour: oxygen levels plummet, adrenaline spikes, blood pressure goes nuts. Restorative REM and deep sleep? Forget about it. There’s no such thing when you are waking up once every minute or so. Multiply that by days, weeks, months, years. Your risk of dizzy symptoms, arrythmia, stroke, heart attack, diabetes, depression, anxiety, go through the roof. 

Every symptom I’ve experienced the last few years, what I put down to normal aging, coping with loss, overtraining, adapting to new meds, all of it, can likely be traced to severe sleep apnea.  How crazy is that? 

I truly thought the doctor was nuts, ordering that exam for healthy-as-a-marathoner me. Boy was I wrong. 

Within days of getting my results, I was in the pulmonologist’s office. Within a week after that, I was getting fitted for a CPAP, which was super easy. 

At that appointment, which lasted 45 minutes, I learned how to care for my machine, which is roughly the size and weight of one of those AM-FM digital clock radios every college kid had back in the 80s. I was measured for and given a mask, a bit of plastic about three inches long, that attaches to my nostrils and straps onto the back of my head, where a tube runs from the strap to the machine. I was given an app so I could track my usage and measure my progress. 

I would love to tell you that the CPAP was a dream and so easy to get used to. That was not the case. It’s no accident that up to 30 percent of users abandon their CPAP within the first few weeks. It’s not natural to sleep with a bit of plastic attached to your face. The first night, I was up every hour or so, tugging on the tube, adjusting the mask.  Even woke up panicking a few times because I thought I was suffocating. 

Exhausted the next morning, I was so discouraged, convinced that this was all a very stupid idea and that nothing was ever going to change and I was doomed to a life of fatigue. 

Then I checked the app. Turns out I slept 8 hours, a whopping amount. My breathing stopped an average 12 times an hour, not fantastic but a huge improvement over the 45 times/ hour of my initial test. 

But why was I so worn out?  Shouldn’t I have felt refreshed, finally? I remembered that the nurse told me that I might not start feeling better for weeks. I needed to be patient. One step at a time, I remember thinking. Marathoning is good training when it comes to remembering the big picture. 

I’m one of the 70 percent of CPAP users who kept at it, spurred on by two things. First, my insurance would make me pay for the machine if I didn’t use it 21 out of 30 days for a minimum of four hours a day. Second, I was desperate for something to change. I truly was not myself at all, almost literally sleepwalking through life. 

Weeks, the nurse had said. I’d need to wait weeks to see results, she insisted. The nurse was wrong. By the afternoon of day two, I was feeling better than I’d felt in ages. Proof: I hit the gym and stayed a phenomenal ninety minutes on the cardio equipment, then managed 45 minutes of weights.  I swear I even got a tiny endorphin high. 

Things continued to improve. By week two, I was averaging under ten events per hour. Week three that amount was hovering close to five, which is considered within the normal range. Now seven weeks in, if I have more than four events per hour it’s unusual. This week, I averaged 3.4 events a night. The app gives you a numeric score that considers hourly usage, events, mask removal times. I started in the low 90s, and this week averaged 100 percent, which is an excellent description of how I feel; I have more energy now than I’ve had in ages;  think more clearly; blood pressure is improved. I’m craving healthier foods, and I look forward to going to bed. 

That’s an unexpected gift – looking forward to sleep. Because I struggled with falling asleep these last few years, I got in the habit of spending hours most evenings dozing upright in front of the television. A form of self-medication, I guess. 

The CPAP isn’t something I care to use in the kitchen or living room. It needs to be plugged in and must rest on a flat surface. For me to use it comfortably, I need to be in bed. So, I’m going to bed earlier, forgoing all the junk TV I once watched and fell asleep in front of. 

And the CPAP IS comfortable now. I’m used to it. It took about two weeks or so, but my body adapted. 

I could sing my CPAP’s praises all day, but that doesn’t change the fact that I really, truly hate the thing. Yes, I’m glad I can finally sleep at night and that I have much more energy during the day. But the CPAP is a stark reminder that, despite my best efforts to stave off the signs of aging, I’m getting older. 

While the doctor can’t say specifically why I need to use this machine, it likely comes down to the harsh fact that I’ve got six decades of living under my belt. I’ve got strong legs and a heart that won’t quit anytime soon, fingers crossed.  But the muscles that support my breathing don’t have the tone they once did, and that’s hard to accept. 

 Right now, I’m exploring ways to change that, because I’m not quite ready to go gentle into that CPAP-supported night. But I know the truth, that this CPAP stuff is most likely permanent. 

And then there’s the fact that you can’t always outrun genetics. Thankfully, at present I don’t have the cardiac issues one parent had, or the lung issues of the other. But despite my exercise regimes, and (mostly) healthy habits, I have nonetheless been duly blessed with the same two hernias as my mother, who never marathoned a day in her life, and have been equally graced with my father’s and grandmother’s acid reflux issues. There IS a family history when it comes to sleep apnea too. 

 Ultimately, this machine, while giving me new life, is a reminder of my own mortality. That’s sobering but also a gift in a way, I guess. 

That greatest of great philosophers, Ferris Bueller, got it right when he said, “Life moves pretty fast.” I’m glad I’m not sleepwalking through it anymore. But geez, if time could slow down just a little, that would be great. 

Oh well.  Onward and upward. Damn the torpedoes. Full speed ahead. 

Forward, ho.  

Epstein West Palm Beach Survivor Hearing #6: Roza - "Releasing my name while redacting the names of the powerful is a choice."

 

May 12, 2026, at West Palm Beach City Hall, a group of Epstein sexual assault survivors gave testimony regarding their abuse and the government's response. I listened to this hearing, which lasted about three hours, while I was out on a long walk. 

The next morning, I was searching news sites for more information on the hearing and was surprised at how little was out there. This earth-shattering stuff about billionaire sexual assaults, massive government failure, and the stories of the women who survived all of this and are speaking truth to power took some serious time to find. 

Under one video, someone posted, “This is awful. Why aren’t we hearing more about this?” My exact thoughts. 

I went back and listened again to the hearings. Because I was now sitting at a table and not navigating roads, I was able to watch them too. I took notes and am doing my best to summarize and condense, one survivor at a time. 

I’m trying to avoid editorializing. It’s not my place. The point of this exercise is to share what the survivors said. This is my attempt to help get the word out. 

Each survivor speaks for eight to ten minutes. My notes should take just a minute or two to skim, if you’re so inclined. Please watch the video too and correct me if I need correcting. It’s important to get this right. 

 

Link to hearing video: 

https://www.youtube.com/live/fHntY5BVY90?si=ag85yR9MrzXJaI5V

 

This link brings you to a 7/20/2026 CNN story that goes into more detail about Roza, the horrors she faced at the hands of Epstein, and and reveals how strong she continues to be (might have to copy and paste link):

 https://www.cnn.com/2026/07/20/politics/roza-gilles-jeffrey-epstein-victim-abuse

Roza’s talk begins at 54:30 and lasts about six minutes. She stops often to wipe her nose and catch her breath. It’s obvious this hearing takes a great toll on her. 

 

In 2008 at age 18 in her home country, Uzbekistan, Roza was recruited as a model by MC2 Model Management owner Jean-Luc Brunel. 

“Coming from a financially unstable background, I was the perfect target for coercion.”

She was promised a modeling career “beyond my dreams.”

In less than six months, the modeling company secured an O-1 visa for her, despite the fact she had none of the necessary qualifications. 

(The O-1 Visa is a work visa for individuals with extraordinary ability in sciences, arts, education, business, or athletics, or exceptional achievement in television and film.)

By May 2009, she was isolated in New York City, controlled in a manner she’d never previously experienced. Soon after her arrival, the agency claimed she owed it $10,000. She had no money, and no local family or friends to turn to for help. 

The modeling company controlled every aspect of her life: where she went, how she dressed, how she looked. The agency gave her enough of an allowance to “keep me afloat,” but never enough to let her be independent. 

Less than a month after arriving in the US, the agency sent her “to the home of a registered sex offender”—Jeffrey Epstein in West Palm Beach, who was under house arrest at the time, after serving 13 months of an 18 month prostitution sentence.  

There, she was introduced to his girlfriend Ghislaine Maxwell and was told that she was a photographer who would help Roza build her portfolio.

Epstein “used the names of powerful politicians and his friendships with others in authority to demonstrate his influence." He said he was an investor in her modeling agency. 

He joked about his time in jail the previous year, describing it as “a game,” and bragged about how girls would visit him in his cell. 

He offered her a position answering phones at the Florida Science Foundation to help with her financial troubles. 

“One day, his masseuse called me into his room, where I was molested for the first time by Jeffrey Epstein.” 

Over the next three years, she was “subject to ongoing rape.”

Roza emphasized again that at the time of these rapes, Jeffrey Epstein was under house arrest “for the molestation of underage girls.”

“The fact that he could commit those acts made justice feel impossible to me” and took away Roza's  ability to seek help.  

She was not allowed to go back to New York City until after Epstein was released from house arrest, “where my nightmares continued.”

Those years of abuse turned into decades of fear that she still carries with her today. 

She eventually stepped forward with other survivors, hoping that those who allowed this to happen would be held accountable, and was assured that her identity would be protected.

Then the Epstein files were released.

“I woke up one day with my name mentioned over 500 times.”

“While the rich and powerful remain protected by redaction, my name was exposed to the world. Now reporters from across the globe contact me. I cannot live without looking over my shoulder. I can only imagine the long-term effect this mistake will have on my life.”

“I wanted to be a doctor when I was a kid.  I want to end this statement with a story.” 

She then told the story of Dr. Ignaz Semmelweis, who in the 1800s discovered the connection between maternal deaths and lack of medical hygiene, noting particularly that it was not unusual for doctors to go from the autopsy room to the delivery ward without thoroughly washing their hands. He hypothesized that cadaver particles from the corpses were transferred to mothers giving birth, leading to deadly infections.

He advocated for thorough handwashing and established strict sanitary protocols in his own practice.

Roza said the medical community rejected his findings, because they didn’t want to accept the reality that something as simple as their own inadequate hygiene practices was responsible for patient deaths. Doctors continued to operate with dirty hands, which lead to scores of preventable maternal deaths. 

Semmelweis was ostracized from the medical community, lost his job, and eventually was committed to an asylum.  

Roza likened the government’s actions in aiding and abetting Epstein to those physicians who ignored or maligned Semmelweis for advocating better sanitary practices. 

“Releasing my name while redacting the names of the powerful is a choice. It’s a choice to prioritize the comfort of institution over the safety of the survivors. The evidence is right here. Yet those in power would rather us die socially, emotionally, and physically rather than admit their own complicity.

“I am no longer Jane Doe hiding in the files. I’m a woman, a fighter, and I’m a witness. And I’m begging you, please wash your hands.” 

 

Epstein West Palm Beach Survivor Hearing #5: Epstein used her mother’s brain tumor to force compliance

 

Took a long break from reporting survivor testimony. But the recent news that the president of the United States on June 29 lost his appeal of the $5 million E. Jean Carroll verdict reminded me that when it comes to speaking truth to power, there’s no time like the present. 

We live in a country where: 

Half the country elected an adjudicated rapist who also has more than two dozen credible sexual harassment/ assault accusations lodged against him. Here’s a partial listing of his accusers, as of September 2020, if you care to check that out: https://abcnews.com/Politics/list-trumps-accusers-allegations-sexual-misconduct/story?id=51956410.

This week, billionaire businessman Steve Witkoff, a Trump-appointed US Envoy with no diplomatic experience  and no experience whatsoever in mediating between warring nations, who has massive economic ties and business interests in the Middle East, yelled at and cut the microphone of Congresswoman Madeleine Dean (D-PA) during a congressional briefing call on the Iran ceasefire deal. Per Dean, he called her questions “smart-assed” and “stupid” after she asked questions about the terms of the memorandum of understanding and asked Witkoff about his business interests in the region. A special envoy muted a Congresswoman’s microphone. 

He called her names because he didn’t like her questions. Apparently, this is how we treat women now, which makes complete sense because our role model misogynist president regularly blasts female reporters on their looks and intelligence. Piggies everywhere. 

So given these latest insults to women everywhere, it felt like a good time to revisit the West Palm hearings, and share more words from the women, young girls at the time of the abuse and  barely teens some of them, whose lives were changed forever, by our president’s dear friend, Jeffrey Epstein – with whom Trump shared many “wonderful secrets.” (Per the birthday card Trump says he didn’t send to Epstein.)

May 12, 2026, at West Palm Beach City Hall, a group of Epstein sexual assault survivors gave testimony regarding their abuse and the government's response. I listened to this hearing, which lasted about three hours, while I was out on a long walk. 

The next morning, I was searching news sites for more information on the hearing and was surprised at how little was out there. This earth-shattering stuff about billionaire sexual assaults, massive government failure, and the stories of the women who survived all of this and are speaking truth to power took some serious time to find. 

Under one video, someone posted, “This is awful. Why aren’t we hearing more about this?” My exact thoughts. 

I went back and listened again to the hearings. Because I was now sitting at a table and not navigating roads, I was able to watch them too. I took notes and am doing my best to summarize and condense, one survivor at a time. 

I’m trying to avoid editorializing. It’s not my place. The point of this exercise is to share what the survivors said. This is my attempt to help get the word out. 

Each survivor speaks for eight to ten minutes. My notes should take just a minute or two to skim, if you’re so inclined. Please watch the video too and correct me if I need correcting. It’s important to get this right. 

 

Link to hearing video: 

https://www.youtube.com/live/fHntY5BVY90?si=ag85yR9MrzXJaI5V

Dani Bensky’s talk begins at 47:10 and continues for about five minutes. 

Epstein abused her in 2004 and 2005, eight years after Maria Farmer first reported Jeffrey Epstein to the FBI. 

She was seventeen. 

She lives with PTSD because of the trauma she experienced. 

Was trafficked “only” to Jeffrey, “which unfortunately is not the case for so many others.” 

Was recruited by two other young women, one in late teens, one only 13 who was trying to escape Epstein’s abuse by bringing him new girls.

Epstein weaponized her “aspirations and dreams” by weaponizing the language of the dance community – she was a dancer -- and making false promises. 

Shortly before meeting Epstein, Bensky’s mother was diagnosed with a brain tumor. Bensky saw Epstein’s name on a donor wall and contacted him, thinking he was a medical expert and could use his pull to help her mother. 

Instead, he sexually abused her. Then he “used her mother’s brain scans against her” and told her she needed to either recruit more girls for him or do more for him.

She recruited no one, “just endured the abuse.” 

In May 2005, mom had successful tumor removal and Bensky was able to “escape Jeffrey’s web.” 

To keep her from reporting him to authorities, Epstein threatened her friend and told Bensky she would be arrested for prostitution if she went to police. 

The Epstein reports that have so far been released have shown Bensky’s name multiple times, her address, her employer at the time, where she was studying, “and other identifying information.”

In one document, her nickname was redacted, but just a few lines later, her entire legal name was not. 

“I am just one of hundreds of survivors exposed like this.”

She learned a few weeks before the hearing that her name appeared yet again in a newly-released third batch consisting of only twenty documents.

These results are available to “the whole world. . .  my child, my students, my students’ parents, my friends, my employers, my colleagues, my family. I am public.” 

This outing of survivor names does real, irrevocable damage. 

For Bensky, accountability looks like: removing perpetrators from power, seeing arrests made, and laws passed that further protect victim’s rights.  

“When systems protect the powerful rather than the victim, abuse becomes normalized. “