Navigating Health Challenges: A Journey with the Passenger Prince

The Passenger Prince and the Scissors

My Passenger Prince woke up this morning with a spring in his step and went straight for the scissors — gladly, and with purpose. Such great enthusiasm for scissors hasn’t been seen in our family since he cut the umbilical cord for each of our kids.

The Prince had been tethered to an EEG machine for the last three days on our never-ending quest to figure out what happened to his brain — and why he had a seizure at fifty-nine.

On Friday, we went to get the EEG machine. The technician placed the electrodes all over his head and wrapped it like a mummy. Luckily, it was Halloween, so at least for a day his appearance didn’t draw any strange looks.

The Prince was confined to the house under strict instructions: no showers, no sweating. One day was meant to be an easy “just-watch-TV” kind of day; the next was supposed to “engage his brain.” So, I found some math quizzes online and left them for him. He also started a puzzle that will never be completed and tackled a few brain teasers to keep those neurons firing.

My Passenger Prince is usually on the move, so keeping him confined was no small feat.

Three nights of a camera observing him sleep added to the “fun” — for both of us. He had a hard time sleeping with all the cables, and I had a hard time sleeping with the camera’s night-light mode glowing in the room. I like to sleep in complete darkness.

We are both tired — him from the uncomfortable sleep, and me from the lack of it. We do have a guest room with a perfectly good bed, but it’s not our comfy bed, and so we endured.

And now, we wait again. Ten days until we get the results, and then another neurology appointment to see what’s next. Maybe this time, we’ll get some answers.

Until then, we’ll keep going — and “enjoy” our daily drives, grateful for small comforts and hopeful for clarity ahead.

So we joined a committee…

We joined a committee today — a very interesting one: a committee of Turkey Vultures.

On my way to the Passenger Prince’s work, there’s a huge group of Turkey Vultures that like to sun their wings on the surrounding trees. I kept calling them a flock, but apparently, the proper term is a committee when they’re perched in trees.

I first noticed them when I started driving the Passenger Prince to work and asked if he had ever seen them. Apparently, he never had. It’s a big group of birds with an impressive wingspan — for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out how he’d never noticed them before.

What I’ve learned from being his chauffeur is that we really do notice different things. Once, we were both looking at a new car that passed by and wondered if it might be electric. I looked for the power hookup area while he looked for the exhaust pipe. We laughed when we compared notes — we were both right, just using different methods.

Ever since then, the Passenger Prince and I have been very involved in this committee. We check which trees or buildings they’re perched on, how large the group is that morning, and how they seem to be doing.

It’s a conversation that, if you’d asked me years ago, I would have laughed at the idea of having. But just like our almost forty years together, our marriage and our conversations evolve — and apparently, we even join committees.

Shooshed by the Passenger Prince

The Passenger Prince shooshed me today — shooshed me! — as I was driving him to work.

Me. The one who wakes up early just to be his driver.

The Passenger Prince has been medically banned from driving ever since I sent him to Costco to buy dog food, and instead, he had a seizure somewhere between the BBQ chicken and the sushi display. We often joke that he suffered from sticker shock.

Ever since that day, he’s had to give up his independence and rely on me as his personal chauffeur. The early days were rough. I was told how to drive. My music choices were critiqued. I received many complaints.

But somehow, over the past several months, the Passenger Prince has grown accustomed to his new life of luxury. He does Duolingo, takes calls, and scrolls his phone while I navigate traffic and speed bumps.

And today — in my own car — I was shooshed.

Since this shocking shooshing incident, I’m now considering a demotion for the Passenger Prince: relocating him to the backseat, where there are no seat warmers, no audio controls, and no royal privileges. The dogs, meanwhile, are up for promotion to the coveted passenger throne.

Then again… I did not marry the dogs.
So maybe his crown is safe — for now.

Life in the driver’s seat

One of my favorite radio personalities used to start his show by saying, “Today is better than most, but not as good as some.”
 Today was one of those not as good as some days.

We got the latest blood test results, and besides not getting the news we were hoping for, we didn’t get any answers about why the seizure happened in the first place. Instead, the results only led to more questions—and more anxiety. It feels like we’re not even close to understanding what’s really going on, let alone finding a solution.

The stress, anxiety, disappointment, and resulting anger definitely made themselves known. I tend to hide my anxiety better than my “passenger prince”—which probably explains my stress-induced autoimmune issues.

While the focus is on him, his treatment, and his recovery, I keep reminding myself that I need to take care of myself too.
My tears were well hidden behind my sunglasses and the need to keep my eyes on the road. He didn’t see—or maybe didn’t notice—my mood.

Life in the driver’s seat isn’t fun. There’s no GPS to route us to a fun destination. But just like the car I drive, maintenance is required—to keep both the vehicle and me running.

My life in the driver seat

Our lives changed this year — some for the better, some for the worse. We got a rescue dog. Our middle daughter got married. We gained a son-in-law and a new grand-dog. There were joyful events, stressful ones, and then… there was the moment now forever known as The Great Costco Seizure.

It happened back in August. My significant other — now referred to as the Passenger Prince — had a seizure. Somewhere between the BBQ chicken and the sushi display. I had sent him in to get dog food. He had other plans.

After a seizure, you’re not allowed to drive until a doctor clears you. That takes time — tests galore, appointments galore. And when you’re a two-working-adult household, it also means rearranging schedules, adapting routines, and me stepping into my new role as Warrior Princess — chauffeur, scheduler, and snack-bringer — while he became the ever-regal Passenger Prince.

Some days with the Prince are better than most. We have great conversations… and some less-than-great ones. Lucky for him, he now has me hostage every morning when I take him to work. I get to hear all about investments, the Fidelity and Vanguard accounts, and market fluctuations — again. These are topics we’ve already covered many times, but now, trapped in the car, I get the deluxe version. Normally, I can turn off my hearing aids. But when I’m driving, unfortunately, I need my hands.

Some days are less charming. Yesterday, we went to the dentist together for a couples’ teeth-cleaning date. This morning, I was the driver to the blood test appointment. I was told exactly where to park — which I ignored — and waited in the car while juggling work calls.

He came out with a plain bandage. Apparently, there are no dinosaur-themed bandages for adults.

At this point, I’m seriously considering getting us matching track suits. Warrior Princess and Passenger Prince. Maybe then — just maybe — my life will be complete.

Is Pilates a Form of Torture? Maybe. But It’s My Stress Relief! 

I love Pilates and most of the instructors at my studio. But some days, a class feels like a game of Twister — a game that, if I were 20 years (or even ten) younger, might have felt easy.

These days, though, each class is a little harder. My body hurts. And yet I keep going, again and again, and accept the pain.

This morning’s Twister routine? One hand on the box, one hand on the reformer bar, one leg on the shoulder block, and the other leg in the air. It hurts just to describe it. Somehow, I managed to tackle all these instructions. Honestly, I was just grateful the instructor didn’t ask us to sing a song — that would’ve been the end of me.

After all that, she came over and corrected my posture for the next exercise. Apparently, my leg is capable of a 90-degree angle. She told me she did it out of “love.” Probably a love of pain.

And yet, I go three to four times a week and wonder: how bad would it be if I didn’t take Pilates?

Why do I do this to myself? Because it’s good for my body — even if I hate it sometimes — and it’s very good for my soul.

Two months ago, my husband had a seizure. Since then, my regular stress life has turned into full-blown stress — with no relief in sight. Stress relief, for me, means not thinking for a little while. But when you’re stressed, your mind races, and you can’t stop thinking.

Enter: Pilates.

I get so caught up in the Twister-like shenanigans during class that thinking becomes impossible. The only thing on my mind is: Is my balance working? Are all my body parts where they’re supposed to be?

I don’t care that I’m not wearing a cute matching Pilates outfit. All that matters in that class is stress relief.

I am stronger now — at least physically. Mentally, my brain is still trying to figure out all those crazy Pilates moves… without falling.

Conversations from the Driver’s Seat

My life as a driver continues—although I got a break yesterday, as my husband had a friend take him to work. That gave me the rare opportunity to sleep in. Well, to “sleep in” until 7:20 a.m., when Shuki, the family dog, decided I’d slept enough.

I needed a driving break—not because driving itself was the problem, but because someone at work decided to stick an early meeting on my calendar. A meeting I couldn’t take from the car because, of course, they needed to see my face.

Not all meetings are productive. This one definitely wasn’t. Not due to lack of preparation or context, but because of the participants.

When we’re faced with change—professional or personal—we’re not always open to it. There’s fear involved: fear of leaving our comfort zones and confronting challenges that force us to adapt. I couldn’t quite understand the strong reaction in that meeting. I saw the big picture. I had already been part of the transition being discussed. So I was surprised by the resistance.

Back in the driver’s seat today, I shared all of this with my husband. He offered a perspective I hadn’t considered: that people often resist change not because they don’t understand it, but because they’re afraid—afraid of having to learn new things, of stepping into unfamiliar roles, of failing.

Driving still isn’t something I enjoy. I much prefer my “passenger princess” role. We’re still waiting on his medical test results, which is why I’ve taken on this new morning routine. But these forced drives have brought one unexpected benefit: the chance to talk. With our opposing work schedules, we rarely get that during the week.

I still get annoyed when he tells me how to drive. But I do appreciate these small, quiet moments we share together.

From a Passenger Princess to a Warrior Princess

I used to be a passenger princess—and I loved it. My husband did all the driving while I relaxed in the passenger seat, helping with directions, reading a book, or scrolling through social media.

We love road trips, and I probably enjoyed them more because I didn’t have to drive. But then, the seizure came. One moment, my handsome chauffeur was behind the wheel, and the next, I became the driver—and he, the passenger prince.

Let’s just say… he hasn’t adjusted to his new princely status very well. In fact, he’s still learning the etiquette of being a proper passenger prince.

The transition from being the driver (and occasional backseat driver) to sitting quietly in the passenger seat has been a tough one for him. I’ve lost count of how many times he’s asked, “Did you see that car?” or “Why are you taking this route instead of the other one?” and plenty more unsolicited driving commentary.

What’s funny is that for years, I drove the kids around while he never seemed to care how I drove. But now? Suddenly, I’m under review like I’m applying for a chauffeur’s license.

I try to respond with humor—most of the time. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t occasionally want to turn him into a frog.

This new role as the warrior princess behind the wheel doesn’t come with an expiration date. My patience, however, occasionally does.

Here’s hoping he gives me five stars on Yelp.

Puzzling Through BS and RBBB: A (Dark) Humor Guide to Medical After‑Notes

Years ago, when texting was just taking off, I had to teach myself all the lingo—the endless shortcuts, acronyms, and cryptic abbreviations. These days, I find myself learning a brand‑new vocabulary: medical lingo.

I’m not planning to enter the healthcare field anytime soon—this is purely by necessity. My husband had a seizure—at a Costco, of all places—and was rushed by ambulance to the emergency room. A week and a half later, we saw a neurologist, scheduled all the necessary tests, and began collecting the “after‑notes.” After‑notes from the paramedics, from the ER, from the first doctor’s appointment… and I’m bracing myself for more after‑notes from the MRI and EEG.

These after‑notes feel like military orders—packed with shortcuts and initials. Thankfully, I did serve in the military, and I love puzzles. So here I am: deciphering, decoding, trying to understand what happened and what everything means.

Here are a few of the gems I’ve already cracked:

  • BS — not “bullshit,” not “bachelor of science”—it’s blood sugar.
  • BIBA — not a Honda model—brought in by ambulance.
  • NSR — not some sinister government agency—it’s normal sinus rhythm.
  • ED — not the embarrassing kind—it’s emergency department.
  • Hx — not a TV channel—it’s history.
  • RBBB — not about bananas—it’s right bundle branch block.

We’re taking this all very seriously, don’t get me wrong. We’re still waiting for more test results, and until we have clear answers, the dark humor is just part of how we cope. I’m looking forward to meeting the next batch of acronyms with the same dry wit.

Maybe I should launch a TikTok channel just for this: “Medical Lingo Decoded: Episode 1.”

Even Iron Breaks

My mom called me an Iron Lady this week.
I come from a long line of strong Iron Ladies — not by choice, but by necessity and circumstance.

It’s been a tough week: an ER visit, a mountain of doctor’s appointments and medical procedures, all while still working and trying desperately to manage everything else around me.

Restful sleep? Not an option. I woke up every hour to make sure my other half was okay.

The house looks like Pompeii — everything is exactly the way it was when I got the call that he was taken to the emergency room. Frozen in place: the dishes, the kitchen counter, and most of the house.

I’ve been functioning on a need-only basis, literally running on fumes.

And today, it finally hit me: I’m tired. I’m exhausted — physically and emotionally.

I told my mom, “Even iron corrodes and breaks. Sure, it’s strong, but it doesn’t have limitless power.”

I also joked, “I probably need some WD-40 at this point,” and she laughed.

But truthfully?
I don’t want to be an Iron Lady.
I want to cry. I want to scream. I want to be angry.

But I can’t.
At least, not right now.