Yeah! I made it. Another birthday. Another year.
But it is getting harder to hang in there.
I am falling behind in the race to survive. I want to walk as far as my feet will carry me, sing as loud as my voice will rise and write as fast as I can before I am gone.
From the top of my skull to the tip of my toes, my body has taken a beating. But, I keep waving the warrior flag and drawing on the strength of my ancestors. I could have, should have, would have died after a rabid skunk bite as a toddler, after a neck breaking fall off a bicycle in Germany, after flipping out of a car speeding down the freeway in France, after splitting my skull in a bad fall at home in Switzerland.
Yet, for some reason, I am still here for another spin around the sun!
Ever the great pretender, I fake my way forward — tackling Lyme’s disease, environmental illness and more accidents than I can count.
I endure physical ailments with self-discipline and endless rehabilitation - physical therapy, chiropractic treatment, massage, heat, ice and talk therapy.
I fought back from broken bones, but how do you recover from a busted brain?
How do I manage a mind that misfires from damage to the frontal lobe, the mastermind that pulls the strings in the back of the brain that fulfills all human functions?
For the past five years, unable to filter sounds, lights, voices, commotion and to curtail the cacophony of background noise that is the essence of life, I hide in a dark, quiet room. I avoid the masses and loud places - stores, arenas, theaters, restaurants, events and situations that create sensory overload.

Brain activity analysis
I wanted to give up. The Functional Neurology Center gave me hope. After their high- tech diagnosis, I attended an intensive week of therapy, a Boot Camp for the brain.
I rode in my “space ship,” the GyroStim. It’s a state of the art, multi-axis rotating chair that works with balance, cognitive and sensory integration and affects proprioception. I underwent Virtual Reality training to rehabilitate balance dysfunction. I zapped pain with Accelerated Recovery and Performance (ARPWave) Neurotherapy and Cranial low level laser treatments. I repeated exercises, inhaled Molecular Hydrogen and completed therapies so bizarre, it felt like sci-fi.
I learned our brains are marvelous mysteries; specialists are understanding more about neuroplasticity every day. FNC is the way of the future.
“Neuroplasticity is the ability of the nervous system to change its activity in response to intrinsic or extrinsic stimuli by reorganizing its structure, functions, or connections after injuries, such as a stroke or traumatic brain injury (TBI)".
As I struggle to retrain my left side, jump start my cerebellum, and control my frontal lobe, I work just as hard to reset my attitude.
I am an athlete. I may be broken down, worn-out, defective, but I still “run.”
I accept that I may be in training forever in the only game that matters - life.
With age, injury and illness the body weakens, but the spirit grows strong. I get fed up living in this shit shell of a body, but by golly my soul shines on.
In my dance with death, I appreciate better than most that I am living on borrowed time - we all are.
I should be 6 feet under, instead when dawn breaks every morning, I take a deep breath and whisper, “I am strong. I am grateful. I am here.”



will increase the speed and incline on the treadmill.”
Nooooo, I’m going to be sucked up by the roller.
As an athlete, coming of age in the 70s during Title IX’s infancy, the explosion of women’s basketball today blows my mind.
So did my little sister.
On August 24, 2024, at Minnesota’s Target Center, as I sat on the upper level of the packed arena, pandemonium erupted as fans paid tribute to their past hero and applauded the exploits of their present star, both catalysts in revolutionizing the popularity of the women’s game.
Thanks to Title IX, a girl grows up never questioning her right to be all she can be.
After the game, Maya Moore Irons addressed former teammates and fans as they raised her number 23 to the rafters. Known for her illustrious MVP career, Maya stands out most, not for her accolades on the court, but for the person she is off it.
I don’t have a regular post this week, but I have been working on an issue that weighs heavy on my heart and is important for everyone.
Half a century ago, no one paid any attention when my friends and I played basketball. We got kicked off the court, but shoved our way back in the game, clearing the lane for Caitlin Clark, Angel Reese, Paige Bueckers, Juju Watkins and the contemporary stars of today.
In the sixties, in my own second grade story I wrote about the lockers playing a basketball game against the waste baskets during recess. Back then, I imagined inanimate objects in school had a greater chance of competing in the game than girls. Yet, like my sports loving peers, we shot hoops anyway creating a path so new that no one envisioned its existence.





My father and grandfather, good sportsmen, great coaches, dedicated their lives to helping others find their way and offered me stellar examples of resiliency. They remained athletes at heart, determined to stay as active as their bodies would allow until their final hours.
