Health by Heidi

  I have officially started the process of changing my last name back to Graham.  It was the name I was born with.  It was the name I had for 29 years of my life.  It feels right to go back to my roots.   I started by calling the county courthouse.  A nice woman answered the phone.   "Hi," I said.  "I'm calling to get information on how to change my name." "Yes," she replied.  "You just need to have your divorce decree." I paused.  "My husband died."  "Oh!" she exclaimed.  "Oh, I'm so sorry.  Well, um, well, I think you need to file for a name change with the court." "Ok, what does that mean?" "You can download the paperwork from our website.  Once you fill out the paperwork, bring it to the courthouse.  Then you have to file a notice in the local newspaper for 30 days, announcing to the public that you are changing your name.  If you have any unpaid debts, any debt collectors can come forward ...

  Last year, I registered for a 14-day, 1,000 mile bike tour in Colorado.  The tour had close to 70,000 feet of climbing, all at high altitude.  Starting in March of last year, I trained hard.  I rode my bike five or six days a week, had a structured training plan, and followed it closely.  Every day, I would ride, then work, or work, then ride.  Weekends were consumed by long rides with lots of climbing.  That was the routine.  That was the rhythm.  That was the normal.  By the time July and the bike tour rolled around, I was in the best cycling shape of my life.  The tour was more than I ever thought it would be, and I felt great for all 14 days.  My training paid off.  Five days later, Scott died. In January of this year, I signed up for another bike tour, also in July, also big miles, also lots of climbing.  I was excited for it.  I was ready to start training for it.  But.  Things happened.  L...

  I yawned, stretched, rolled over onto my side. Don't look at the clock,  I thought.  With my eyes closed, I could tell it was still dark outside. I grimaced as I felt a bead of sweat drip down my chest.  I put my hand on my belly, also covered in a slick slime of sweat.   Yuck.   Apparently, this is what happens to a 47-year-old woman.   I sighed again. Don't look at the clock. I opened my eyes.  1:04 a.m.  I peeled back to soaking wet sheet.  The window was open, and the air hit me like a plunge into an ice-cold mountain lake.  I shivered, sweat still covering my skin.  I got up, walked to the bathroom, dried myself off, went back to the bedroom.  I crawled in bed, squirming around in an attempt to find a piece of sheet that wasn't fully saturated.  No such luck.  I gave up and lay still in the cold wet.   I closed my eyes, willing sleep to find me again.  Instead, the starting gu...