I was 23 when I died. It was brief but impactful.

Even in college, I knew something was wrong, but chose not to share. I was on my own with no parental figures to speak of, no insurance and no idea what to do: I didn’t see the point in voicing my concerns. However, it wasn’t long before one of my professors noticed my trouble breathing and occasional black outs when my heart would speed up, then dramatically pause.

Although my instructor and employer Professor Holmes offered to pay for a doctor’s visit, I declined as I had a feeling things were going to get expensive fast. Boy did they. I promised him that as soon as I graduated, found a job and received a shiny health insurance card, I would make my way to the doctor.

I started with a visit to a general practitioner in Memphis, Tenn. After conducting an initial examination, he told me that there wasn’t anything wrong with my heart. He went on to say that my problem was that I was a woman, therefore BELIEVED I had a heart condition. After an awkward back-and-forth, he finally relented saying that he would send me to a specialist for testing, if I would just “shut up.” Score!

Later that week, I received a call at work. The woman on the line asked me to report to the doctor’s office immediately. I explained that because the apartment complex I worked for was short staffed that week, I was currently running a large maintenance department and wouldn’t be able to get away. I insisted they tell me on the phone. To my surprise, the doctor came on the line and said I had some problematic heart defects and an aneurysm and was, in fact, dying. I listened for a few seconds and then, even though the doctor was still talking, slowly lowered the phone until the handset was resting back in its cradle. I then laid my head on the desk and began to cry at the reality of it all.

…

I soon drove to Mississippi to meet with one of the country’s top cardiologists. Although initial testing indicated I had no more than three years to live in my current condition, the doctor said he wanted to conduct one more test before scheduling my open-heart surgery — a heart catheterization. I agreed and we set the date for later that week.

My loving and eccentric grandmother drove me to the hospital that very early morning. Her driving 35 mph on city expressways made me thankful just to get to the hospital in one piece amid the raucous honking and enthusiastic hand gestures.

Lying on the chilly metal bed in the overly bright room filled with sterile and confusing equipment was terrifying. As the procedure began, I felt the tubing snake and stretch its way through my veins from my crotch up to my heart; the pain was excruciating. My back arched in an unnatural form as I shrieked in pain, something reminiscent of a graphic exorcism movie. After the test was complete, I was left to rest.

Suddenly, I was hot, like burst-into-flames or melt-like-a-wax-voodoo doll hot. Machines began beeping, bells started ringing and alarms started sounding as I went into shock. Next I went blind, then I became deaf. Finally, I died.

I woke up to a crowd of bustling professionals around me. After the room cleared, I was told it was time to schedule my open-heart surgery. I was hesitant. Until that point, I had naively believed that doctors could cure anything with a pill or simple procedure. However, I now had a different point of reference than the books and movies I devoured with their canned happy endings. The holidays were fast approaching and I didn’t want to miss them due to being dead and all, so I pressed for a date into the New Year.

Thanksgiving and Christmas were wonderfully imperfect and festive. When January 3rd came around, I threw myself into enjoying the best possible potential last meal. Don’t judge me, but with my young and unrefined palate, I took the task seriously. I had shrimp cocktail, a chili cheese coney, onion rings, Cocoa Puffs, cherry limeade, scrambled eggs with chili and so much more. I ate, watched some favorite shows, wrote a will and visited with friends.

The next morning I reported for surgery. I’d love to say it went smoothly, however I woke up paralyzed during the procedure. Dying and waking probably sounds awful, but truthfully, the experience gave me a great gift at a very young age: the freedom to live life unapologetically on my terms. I’d like to think I would have gotten to this place on my own eventually, but what a wonderful crash course.

Dying will change an attitude; it changed my perspective on everything. I learned is that it’s OK to be me: eccentric, shy, nerdy and too idealistic for real life. I learned it’s absolutely acceptable to take a chance on love and to speak my mind, whether it be to a friend, co-worker or the U.S. Attorney General. Sure, my personality and attitude aren’t always embraced by others — it can definitely prove challenging. But this is my life and, as far as I know, it’s the only one I have. No day is guaranteed and I want to drink in every moment with verve and gusto. No matter if you’ve momentarily met your maker or have lived a healthy life without so much as a sneeze, embrace your true self, celebrate your strengths, share your foibles and enjoy everything that make you, well, you. Your authentic self is amazing and enough — take my word for it.

Miki Markovich is a seeker of beauty and truth, traveler of interesting roads, saver of furry souls, typer of words, iPhone lover and mac head. You can find her on Twitter at @mikimarkovich and @fiveminutezen. If you’re looking to go from pissed to blissed in five minutes flat, find balance or improve the quality of your life through self care, check out her website at fiveminutezen.com.

The post That time I died first appeared on Lesbian.com.

I woke up crying this morning. I was dreaming that my grandmother, the only family member I’ve ever really known, was dying. When she passed in my dream, I awoke only to remember that she was really gone.

My relationship with Grandma-ma was a constant dichotomy: deep and shallow, straightforward and masked, flowing and complex. From the time I first gained awareness until the day she died, my world revolved around this woman with hair the color of a steady flame, a steely spine and an unmatched determination.

My grandmother wasn’t fond of children, but she loved me fiercely. To this day, I attribute any of my diva-like tastes to this redheaded force of nature, be it my love of expensive chocolate, my appreciation for all things that sparkle or my desire to have things just so. For instance, when I was about seven, she took me on a working vacation with her to Padre Island. When we escaped the muggy heat of the parking lot, entering the air conditioned oasis, the woman behind the counter asked if we wanted a pool or ocean view. My grandmother deferred to me as I explained that I wanted both. And that’s exactly what I got.

More than a decade later, after leaving for a college located in the Mid West, I received a call a month or so into my first semester. Grandma-ma told me she had moved to Memphis, promptly giving me her new address and phone number. Confused as to when this was decided, much less when it had actually transpired, she informed me that she wanted to be as close to my college as possible without getting too cold. Apparently Memphis was as far north as she could handle. I have to admit, there’s more than a bit of beauty to that.

Having moved around so often and having disowned most of her own family, she didn’t have a lot of consistent people in her life. Because of this, I always tried to fill the void. When I was in high school and college, I had my friends mail her cards and call her for special occasions. Later, as a high school teacher, I bribed students with extra credit to make her birthday cards in all shapes and sizes. I planned vacations, provided gifts and even drove 6,000 miles round trip to take her out for dinner at her favorite restaurant for her birthday.

Moving into her seventies, found her moving in with me. I loved having her in the house even as she drove me absolutely crazy waking me up to change light bulbs, telling me I was doing even the simplest tasks incorrectly and moving her furniture into every single room of my house. However, after just a year or two, she decided that Missouri was entirely too snowy of a state to live and that she could make better money back in a “real city” down south anyway.

When she return to Tennessee, things soon became chaotic. Nothing in my life had prepared me for the staggering pain of a journey through the jungle of dementia. I should have recognized the warning signs years before, but much like me, Grandma-ma had always been more than a tad on the eccentric side. Fiercely independent and self-sufficient, she always insisted she was fine. After my move to the West Coast, we continued to talk every week, but saw each other only a few times a year. It took a call from a manager at her 55-plus community to finally bring the message home. My grandmother could no longer live on her own.

After finding an apartment for her in an assisted living building with a friendly staff, my partner, her nephew, a few friends and I headed south to get her packed up and ready to roll to the Pacific Northwest. The road trip back was quite the challenge as dementia descended, she occasionally wandered away and became more difficult, threatening to stab the nephew and telling me I didn’t “give a shit” about her – harsh words from a woman I had never heard curse.

Although I thought I had been trying to convince her that everything was okay, I realize now I was actually trying to convince myself that anyone could get lost while walking a dog or forget to turn off a burner. At her new physician’s office, the word Alzheimer’s hung bleakly in the air. I struggled to remain conscious as blackness clouded my vision and bile ascended to my throat. I looked to my grandmother, my family, my rock and only saw fear clouding those crystal blue eyes – something I had never seen before.

Although I tried to fill in the blank spaces and take care of her basic needs, it soon became obvious we both needed help to stay mentally and physically sound. Caregivers were soon scheduled to assist with her medication and help clean up, so she and I could focus on some of the more fun aspects of our relationship, such as dinners out or catching up on shared shows. Simple interactions became more difficult as she often yelled and servers and no longer understood what a theater was or how it worked. Even worse, one of her caregivers convinced her I was a “monster” since I was gay. Although I’m sure Grandma-ma knew before, when confronted with the news, she was easily convinced by this manipulative teen to revoke my power of attorney and disown me. I told her I refused to go and whether she disowned me or not, I was family and would be right where I belonged — by her side. It took a while, but eventually, she came around and we started fresh, with all of our cards on the table.

After more frequent trips to the hospital, I was told it was time to move her into memory care. After a lot of research, bluffing and a few shenanigans, I was able to get her admitted to the best one in the area. Every night I brought her dinner as she refused to eat the plain food they served. Each evening I’d sit by her side protecting her from one of the larger, more colorful residents who, when not having her hands taped inside oven mitts, hovered over the smaller residents with a fork and spoon ready to dip into their plates.

It was obvious the end was near even before the cancer diagnoses. I began to spend nights on a cot scooted against her bed. The all-night shuffling about of the nocturnal residents became my new normal, and I even began to pick up on their language, which simply seemed like gibberish just the month before.

The cancer quickly ate away at her, leaving a shell of the strongest woman I’d ever known behind. Although the doctors told me she no longer knew I was present, I played her favorite songs, watched our favorite movie (“The Gremlins”) on repeat and sang “You are My Sunshine” hundreds of times in a row. I held her hand, thankful that she still existed, thankful for her every breath.

She hung on longer than the medical professionals thought possible. One of the nurses took me aside, asking why I thought she hung on. I told him that she was waiting for someone to arrive and that he would be here any day. I explained that Grandma-ma was my entire family and that my partner wasn’t sure if she could carry the weight of what was to come, so she had called in my ex-husband for reinforcement. Brian had given notice at his job and was driving west from Arkansas. And, within 20 minutes of his arrival, I felt the air pressure in the room change; I saw her eyes, previously rolled back in her head for days on end focus on my face. Although she had lost muscle function at least a week before, her previously unhinged jaw squared up as a studious crease in her forehead appeared. I looked into her blue eyes one last time and told her everything in my heart.

“I love you Grandma-ma. I have always loved you with everything that I am. I don’t how I’m going to make it without you, but I will. Danielle and Brian are here to help me at I’m going to be okay. You raised me to be a strong woman and I am. You need to take care of yourself now. You can go. I’ll be okay. I promise.” She gave me one more brow furor as if to ask, “Are you sure.” I hugged her and kissed her, and just like that she was gone.

Until the moment she passed, I didn’t realize she was the only person in the world who knew me from childhood on. I also didn’t realize that my entire life had truly revolved around her. I felt empty, without purpose. It took a lot soul-searching and tremendous work to truly feel alive again. I still miss her each and every day, picking up the phone to call her when I’m sad, celebrating or scared. But, I am forever grateful I was with her through this journey and that at the end of it all, together we found clarity and understanding.

Miki Markovich is a seeker of beauty and truth, traveler of interesting roads, saver of furry souls, typer of words, iPhone lover and mac head. You can find her on Twitter at @mikimarkovich and @fiveminutezen. If you’re looking to go from pissed to blissed in five minutes flat, find balance or improve the quality of your life through self care, check out her website at fiveminutezen.com.

The post A fierce love transcends death first appeared on Lesbian.com.

I stared at my high school guidance counselor wondering what the hell I was supposed to do now. Without a college education, I couldn’t imagine a career path that deviated too far from food service.

Perhaps it was my limited point of reference coming from a long line of career criminals and all. Although I had zero desire to join the family business, I wasn’t fond of picturing a life filled with spilled Cokes and a sore back.

“But I’m in Beta … and I earned a scholarship to Duke in junior high. I swear I’m smart enough,” I told him. Sure, I was failing half my classes, but I was working the midnight shift, attending non-stop band competitions and being stalked. Things were … complicated. I was confident that with a little more sleep, some decent food and a bit of stability, I could excel; however, my guidance counselor was having none of it.

He suggested I take the ASFAB and meet with some military recruiters, quickly dismissing me and sending me on my way. I relented.

Around the same time, I started meeting these short-haired men with perfect posture and big promises, I took the ACT. Not knowing the proper process, I had my scores sent to four colleges without applying to any of them. Thankfully the stars aligned as I literally bumped into a college recruiter in the central atrium. She walked me through the application process and even drove me hundreds of miles to audition for music scholarships.

OK, so I didn’t go to one of my dream colleges. But, by the time I graduated high school, my scholarship to Duke was more like a coupon anyway. Here’s the thing, I know I ended up exactly where I needed to be and with almost every penny paid for my four-year duration. Culver-Stockton College was large enough to offer everything I was looking for, but small enough that I felt safe. For the first time in my short life, I felt like I fit in just for being me.

Sometimes, people might not believe in us or buy into our dreams. And you know what? That’s OK, as long as we don’t buy into their shit as well. Rarely do people regret going after what they truly desire more than they regret staying paralyzed in the status quo.

It’s your life to live. Whatever it is you want to do, at whatever juncture you find yourself, start that journey. It might come out exactly as you dreamed it, or it might turn out even better. Consider heeding the advice of the great Mark Twain: “Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowline. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.”

Miki Markovich is a seeker of beauty and truth, traveler of interesting roads, saver of furry souls, typer of words, iPhone lover and mac head. You can find her on Twitter at @mikimarkovich and @fiveminutezen. If you’re looking to go from pissed to blissed in five minutes flat, find balance or improve the quality of your life through self care, check out her website at fiveminutezen.com.

The post ‘You’re not college material’ first appeared on Lesbian.com.

My zen journey was born while seeking meaning, enlightenment, peace and joy during a time when I found it difficult to even breathe. Not too long ago, I lost my family, my house, my 14-year-old dog and my 17-year-old cat. It was the darkest time of my life. Although I began the healing process by retreating to the ocean, a place of peace for me, I began to regain my sanity through exercise.

My non-gym-rat self journeyed to the gym almost every day for well over a year. I ran on the treadmill, rowed or swam until I no longer felt like crying or screaming. Sometimes, this meant 30 minutes of sweat. Other days, it meant hours of utter exhaustion, pushing my body to a point where I could hardly shuffle back to my car. I admit, these were extreme measures to deal with circumstances I had never even imagined. Although I would never recommend this course of action, I’m confident running from and through my grief kept me alive.

Outside of extreme circumstances, such as grief, determination to fit into the perfect wedding attire or preparation for the old 20-year class reunion, exercise can fall to the wayside for some. With tons of studies out there repeatedly telling us the benefits of exercise — how it wards off disease, depression and extra weight, how it elevates moods and promotes better sleep and how it can even put a little extra oo la la into a heated romp — why do we do we put it at the bottom of our to-do list? We skip it because cross training’s not fun or because hot yoga doesn’t feel good because it’s just so damn hot.

So here’s your challenge for the week: Just move, do what feels good, what’s fun. If you love to dance, get down and shake it like a saltshaker while you’re making dinner or take it out of the kitchen and sign up for that sizzling salsa class down the road. Follow what inspires you. Hike a trail filled with flowers and sunshine to feed your soul, take a trapeze class or do somersaults out in the park with your daughter.

I don’t want to see you get caught up in pounds and inches unless that’s a very positive motivation for you. I do want to see you focus on physical bliss, joy of movement and your body’s capabilities. Instead of dwelling on a single trouble area, consider taking a moment to be grateful for your legs that move you, your arms that sway you and those magical fingers that can hold that jump rope when it’s not your turn to Double Dutch.

What I’ve been doing lately? Recently, I’ve found myself working from home less and being tethered to a desk more. I’ve since begun to fall out of my gym habit, which I had previously found enjoyable. So after months of being stagnant (I won’t tell you how many), I decided I wanted to have some fun. I downloaded the Zombies, Run! App. Not only am I running on a regular basis, but I’m also looking forward to it. These words never crossed my lips before this app. I look forward to the action unfolding, the clues coming in, my playlist matching the rhythm of my footfalls and escaping the “zombies” that are surprising fast at times, not at all like the old movies I remember.

Whether you’re seeking answers or depth or want a longer life filled with moments of breathing in the wild air, take a step and simply move. As always, I invite you to take what you need, share your wisdom and let your light shine. You can do this in the comment section, connect with me on Facebook or give a shout out on Twitter. It’s your time to shine. Now, go rock that body.

Miki Markovich is a seeker of beauty and truth, traveler of interesting roads, saver of furry souls, typer of words, iPhone lover and mac head. You can find her on Twitter at @mikimarkovich and @fiveminutezen. If you’re looking to go from pissed to blissed in five minutes flat, find balance or improve the quality of your life through self care, check out her website at fiveminutezen.com.

The post Flee zombies, find zen first appeared on Lesbian.com.

The American Public Health Association is once again holding National Public Health Week, April 7 – 13, 2014. This annual initiative is devoted to educating the public on all topics related to public health, which encompasses pretty much everything and anything.

The daily themes of the week all deal with living a healthier life by making improvements at home and within your immediate surroundings. The end goal is to create a positive, nurturing environment in order to increase the overall well-being and quality of life on a global scale.

As someone who is in the field of public health, I have been reading about the different themes, events and related news about this initiative. Coincidentally, I am celebrating a birthday soon and because of this monumental event, I have been reflecting on how to live a more fuller and healthier life, both physically and emotionally.

As women, there is a lot of pressure and, to be frank, pure noise about improving our physical well-being. Since most of this noise is superficial in nature and focuses on the external me, there is much less emphasis on how to improve our mental health well-being. No matter your age or life situation, taking the time to think introspectively and work on improving our inner selves as a means of improving our overall well-being is worth the time.

So in thinking about the themes of National Public Health Week and getting older, I’ve put together a list of things I currently do, things I wish I did and advice given to me about how to be a better you (or as I like to think, a better community together).

LOOK UP
This may sound simple, but as someone who lives in a metropolitan city, I constantly notice how everyone is looking down or on their phone when walking around. I understand the need to address urgent matters when appropriate, but the next time you’re out on your way to work or running errands, take in your surroundings. Whether in a car or walking on a street, take the time to be present.

INSTITUTE FUN TIME
I know everyone says this, but it really is important to take the time to do something fun. It doesn’t have to be a huge planned event, but just something you enjoy. Maybe an activity you used to enjoy, but gave up long ago. Or something you want to learn how to accomplish, like taking a class. Scheduling this is very important, in my mind, because it can be very easy to become too busy to take time for yourself. For me, I spend at least an hour on Saturdays in the morning for myself. Usually I read or paint, but as the weather gets nicer, I like to go for a short walk or spend some time outdoors.

CREATE YOUR SAFE AND COMFORTABLE SPACE
I am one that firmly believes in creating a physical space, whether that’s at home or somewhere else, that you can completely unwind and take the time to decompress. In this digital age, we all encounter a lot of stimulation. It’s important to take a break, step back and center yourself. For some, this means creating a meditation space. Personally, I have a reading nook (or nest as my partner affectionately calls it) where I have a comfy spot that is free of external stimulation. Sometimes I read, and other times I write, but this spot is just a chair with some favorite pillows and a throw. For me, it’s more of a mental space that when I sit there I know it’s time to clear my mind and relax.

Improving our overall health includes nurturing our soul as well as our physical bodies. These are a few of the things I have found work for me. My hope is that this will get you started thinking about how you can improve your own health. Take charge of your life. Make those changes you know you need to make. Happy National Public Health Week!

Jenn B. holds a Master in Public Health with a focus on women’s health as well as a Bachelor’s degree in psychology.

The post Three keys to a happier, healthier you first appeared on Lesbian.com.

Most of us dislike going to the gynecologist, and with good reason. When it comes to women’s bodies — especially lesbian and queer bodies — doctors can often seem uneducated, if not outright homophobic. But California ob-gyn Dr. Lissa Rankin has written a book that can help all of us start to redefine our relationship with the gynecologist. “What’s Up Down There?: Questions You’d Only Ask Your Gynecologist If She Was Your Best Friend” is based on the premise that there’s nothing about your body you can’t discuss with your gynecologist — just imagine she’s your best girlfriend and you’re chatting about Pap tests over piña coladas. Inspired to write the book after spending an evening sharing sexual stories with other women, Dr. Rankin realized that she “wanted women to have these intimate conversations with each other as a form of healing.” Here, she shares the essential steps to starting a relaxed, healthy relationship with your gyno, and your girly bits.

1. Ask your gyno about the exam process. Even gynecologists have had bad experiences at the gynecologist’s office.

“The introduction to the gynecologist’s office is often a very traumatic one. I remember mine. I was 17 years old. I wanted to be pre-med, so I thought, Great, I’ll get to meet a nice ob-gyn and she’ll be my mentor — but she was just god-awful. I remember her literally prying my knees apart, physically, and when I wasn’t cooperating she threw off her gloves and slammed out of the room, and I remember thinking, Oh my God, she’s going to put a giant F on my chart, like Bad Patient — she’s going to tell my father. Finally, the nurse comes in to find me sobbing, but I agree to open my legs. The gynecologist comes back in, but she’s so irritated by this point that she just grabs that speculum and jams it in me like she was fencing. It was awful. So many of us have stories that start that way, and part of it is that the medical system is broken.”

Read more at Curve

Curve, the nation’s best-selling lesbian magazine, spotlights all that is fresh, funny, exciting, controversial and cutting-edge in our community.

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Rachel Maddow is known for her perennially sunny attitude on-air, but in the latest issue of Rolling Stone, the MSNBC host talked about her darker moods, which she said can sometimes sink into depression.

The profile by Ben Wallace-Wells is partially built around Maddow’s infamous “Meet the Press” argument with GOP strategist Alex Castellanos about gender pay equity. That was about as angry as viewers have ever seen her get, and it was hardly off-the-charts anger.

Read more at Huffington Post Gay Voices

The post Rachel Maddow discusses her battles with depression in Rolling Stone first appeared on Lesbian.com.

In order to get quality health treatment, our doctors or health care providers need to know our sexual orientation and our sexual practices. But coming out to your doctor can be an intimidating process. Here are some tips for coming out to your doctor.

Read more at LesbianLife at About.com

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