Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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My Broken Heart

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Echocardiogram Machine

I had a heart attack during the night after giving a presentation at a writer’s retreat in Mexico. I didn’t want to go to a hospital in a foreign country, so I contacted the airlines and requested a wheelchair for the journey to Idaho. On the positive side, a wheelchair makes it a breeze to get through U.S. Customs and to be first onto the airplane.  Struggling for breath, I maneuvered my carry-on suitcase to the nearest chair and fell into it, panting for air. One thought repeated through my mind: Get home.

My favorite wheelchair pusher was in the Los Angeles airport. My guardian angel appeared disguised as a gregarious, Black woman named Diamond. She assisted me into the chair and eased my distress with funny stories as she negotiated the crowds. I finally could breathe without gasping and asked her if she had been a race car driver.

“Oh honey, no,” she said with a laugh. “I’ve been doing this for 30 years. You wouldn’t believe the people I have guided through these corridors. Lots of famous people. Are you famous?”

I smiled. “More like infamous,” I replied. I explained how I was returning from Todos Santos, Mexico after presenting a workshop at a writer’s retreat.

“I want to write a book!” she exclaimed as she careened around a corner to the gate. “I have tons of stories!”

I encouraged her to find free online writing courses, write every night, and compile her memories into short stories. As she pushed my chair down the ramp to the plane, she promised to send me a copy of her future book. I thanked Diamond and hoped I’d be alive to read it.

Taking My Breath Away
My breathing problems began months earlier. I ignored the loss of breath and low energy, believing the problems would go away. They didn’t. Finally, on May 25 I had an EKG, and my doctor identified a “left bundle branch block,” meaning there was a blockage on the left side of my heart. The condition indicated heart disease. That diagnosis wasn’t on my agenda.

She referred me to a cardiologist and warned it could take months to get an appointment. I got on the phone with the determination of a woman who didn’t want to die during the summer. The stars were aligned, the doctor at St. Luke’s Idaho Cardiology Associates had a cancellation, and I secured an appointment to see him on June 3. The cardiologist reviewed the EKG and ordered comprehensive blood work, a complete transthoracic echocardiogram, and a Nuclear Lexiscan stress test. The Nuclear Lexiscan test injects radioactive dye into the blood, and a camera detects damage to the heart and blocked arteries. The four-hour procedures were scheduled for June 29, only five weeks after the initial EKG. The cardiologist gave me permission to attend the writer’s retreat in Mexico but with a stern warning to avoid stress. I laughed.

On June 29, I was ushered into a room with Teresa, the medical technician who would perform the echocardiogram. I watched the monitor as she applied a gel to my chest and moved a tool called a transducer. I immediately admired and appreciated my heart. There it was, pumping as best it could. The average heart beats more than 100,000 times in one day, about 35 million times in a year. My heart was the most consistent part of my entire life. I regretted not taking better care of my heart health.

After an hour, Teresa called for an IV to be inserted in my arm so she could take more tests. Then she called for the cardiologist. I suspected something was wrong.

“Keep beating,” I silently begged my heart. “I need ten more years.”

The cardiologist appeared after reviewing the echocardiogram. “We’re cancelled the three-hour Nuclear Lexiscan test,” he said. “Your heart is too weak.”

I had failed the heart test.

Barbara Hershey and Bette Midler in Beaches

I’d Rather Play Bette Midler’s Role in Beaches
He explained that my heart only was working at 70 percent because of a damaged left ventricle. I had cardiomyopathy; a disease similar to what killed Barbara Hershey’s character in the movie Beaches. I’d rather have played Bette Midler’s role.

He prescribed several medications and scheduled a return visit for July 22. Depending on the prognosis, I could be cleared for the Nuclear Lexiscan test. After that, a pacemaker could be installed to regulate the flow of blood. The next scenario would be open heart surgery. I was way too young for all those medical procedures, but I knew heart disease was the #1 killer of women. I wanted to live.

What causes heart damage?
Smoking – I have never smoked, not even during the 70s in college when everyone was smoking pot. I wanted to retain all my brain cells.

Alcohol – I lamented my proclivity to prefer wine over workouts. Four days ago, I changed to sparkling water in a wine glass.

Diet – More veggies for me.

Exercise – I had exercised by carrying emotional baggage. That will end, and now I have a set schedule to exercise every day.

Age and Heredity – Thanks, Dad and Mom! However, I’ve enjoyed 69 splendid years.

Stress – What, me worry? It’s been a stressful year. We moved in January, I tore ligaments in my leg in February, performed a writing webinar on Zoom in March, had a brain MRI for acute headaches in April, and appeared twice in District Court in May to appeal a cruel and undeserved Protection Order against me. The judge terminated the order, but the ordeal emotionally broke my heart. The writing workshop in Mexico was in June. All those issues contributed to copious quantities of stress.


This week, I’ve had fun clearing my calendar, postponing appointments, and canceling workshops, but I intend to appear in a live comedy show for a women’s conference in October. Until then, my day will focus on staying alive and starting a (short) walking routine. My goal is to walk away from painful, stressful situations and walk toward better health. I have a broken heart. I might not be able to mend it, but I can tend it.

It’s All Greek to Me

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Studley and I got married on the Greek island of Paros. To plan for the event, I tried to copy the wedding scene from the movie “Mamma Mia!” but we didn’t want to sing to each other on a narrow, windy ledge overlooking the sea. He can’t sing, and I can’t swim.

We chose a safe but picturesque chapel beside the Mediterranean Sea. After our ancient Greek wedding, we enjoyed a week on Paros. One day we took the bus to Noussa, a dusty old fishing village on the far side of the island. The travel guide had warned of primitive conditions, so we weren’t shocked when we noticed a group of fishermen casually talking to each other as they urinated off the public dock into the water.

Ancient Greek wedding in a chapel overlooking the Mediterranean

Their catch of the day hung from wooden racks: flat silver fish with sharp teeth, round black fish with white eyes, squid with wispy tendrils of upended suction cups. Water lapped around edges of the creaking wooden docks as we maneuvered around the pier.

We walked through the narrow maze of rugged stone streets past whitewashed buildings, tiny shops, lazy cats sleeping in the sun, and window boxes laden with colorful flowers. The aromas of incense, tobacco, and wild roses perfumed the air. We stopped at a sidewalk cafe near the ocean and ordered sharp cheese, crusty bread with olive oil, and tepid beer. Hand gestures were our method of communication.

When traveling, I try to locate water closets (bathrooms) with the same zeal that I search for ancient castles and new wine bars. Noussa was becoming a bit of a challenge, and by late afternoon, I regretted drinking the second beer. We entered a small grocery store tended by a matronly, black-toothed woman.

“Toualéta?” I asked, using the appropriate word from my Greek phrase book. The woman shook her head, apparently not understanding.

“Baño?” I implored, holding both palms up. No response.

Finally, with a bit of urgency, I showed my travel packet of toilet paper and plunked down a euro coin on the wooden counter. Currency remained the universal form of communication.

“Ah,” she replied, nodding her head. She took a broken pencil and drew a simple map on the back of my notebook. She had a mischievous twinkle in her dark eyes.

“Evcharisto! Thank you!” I said and hurried to follow the map like an eager explorer with directions to the Holy Grail. I found the public water closet, a tiled room with two foot rests and a hole in the ground. I’d seen similar accommodations on a previous journey through India and knew strong thigh muscles were necessary. At least this was an improvement over the practice of the Ancient Greeks who used a toilet in public as a sign of nobility. There wasn’t a sink, so I washed my hand with the wipes I carry – almost as necessary as my passport.

Later, we hiked back to the bus stop and passed the woman’s shop. I waved to her.

“Good-bye,” she called in English. “Have a nice evening.”

We laughed at her apparent knowledge of the English language. We learned to never underestimate a foreign shopkeeper with a twinkle in her eye and an eagerness to accept a valuable euro coin. She must be a distant relative.

#amwriting, #Greece, #euro, #restroom, #travel,

Stepping and Schlepping Off the Plane

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Super Hero Ripping Clothes
Typical garment and attitude of airline travelers.

After observing humanity during a 14-hour journey from Sag Harbor, New York to Boise, Idaho, I’m convinced the standard travel attire for passengers includes ripped clothes, disheveled hair, and a grumpy attitude. They resemble comic book rogues who tear their clothes in fits of pending rage. I felt positively radiant in my coordinated knit ensemble, complete with a patient smile. As I cued in line for the privilege to sit in a child-sized space for four hours, I reminisced about a forgotten time when traveling was a luxurious pleasure.

Years ago, when I was fancy and corporate, I often visited an exclusive dress shop in downtown Boise. The proprietor, a thin and elegant woman named Dorothy, was hanging onto age 50 with clenched but manicured fingernails. She exuded all things classy and could have posed for a 1950s cigarette ad. Her arched eyebrow raised even higher whenever I entered. She liked me but mourned my conservative fashion sense and untoned body. I was on the D-List of Preferred Clients.

Once I needed a business outfit for a conference out of state. She welcomed me with bangled arms and air kisses and proceeded to collect various outfits to hang in a dressing room.

“This one is perfect,” she gushed as she held up a white sweater with white pants. “You’ll look fabulous as you step off the plane.”

“I’ll look like an albino ox,” I replied. “And what’s the fuss about stepping off the plane? Most of the passengers are wearing flannel pajama pants and stained sweatshirts as they stumble to baggage claim. I could be roller skating in a potato sack on fire with live rats dancing on my head and no one would notice.”

Dorothy sighed. “Where has all the glamour gone?” She replaced the white ensemble and added a serious navy-blue dress with a red collar.

“At least add a splash of color,” she begged.

woman in airport.jpg

I liked the dress and purchased it for the trip. After the plane landed, I entered the terminal and paused for a brief moment to pose as Dorothy would prefer. A young mother pushing a stroller the size of a recliner crashed into my legs, snagging my pantyhose. She mumbled an apology while throwing fish crackers to her crying toddler and ambled down the corridor in a mass of harried, hurried people.

I limped down to the taxis and reflected on the time when travelers wore their best clothes. Typical attire included men in suits with ties and women in dresses and hats, some with gloves. Children and pets were rare and properly packaged. Passengers who stepped off the plane indicated they had, indeed, arrived.

I don’t work for a corporation anymore, so when traveling I opt for a more casual, practical outfit such as black leggings and a black and white tunic. At my age it really doesn’t matter because women over 50 are invisible to the huddled masses yearning to simultaneously read their cell phones and walk while ignoring the repetitive message from Big Sister, “Do Not Leave Your Luggage Unattended!”

Yesterday I️ had two hours before my connecting flight so stopped at the wine bar in the airport and ordered a Cabernet. A sophisticated older woman also sat at the bar. She wore a red cashmere suit with white pearls and her hair was full enough to hide small treasures. Her exquisite fingers curved around the wine glass as she smiled and offered a silent toast. I️ returned her gesture, thankful to no longer be invisible. After finishing her drink, she gathered her designer bags and sashayed from view as I heard distant music from Nat King Cole singing, “Unforgettable.” I imagined her name was Dorothy.

 

 

Go, Dogs Go, to a Resort Hotel!

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My children loved the book Go, Dog. Go! by P.D. Eastman with its colorful story about big dogs and little dogs, red, green, and blue dogs, dogs going up and dogs going fast. I was reminded of the popular children’s book this week as my husband and I enjoyed a rare opportunity to stay at a luxury resort that had gone to the dogs.

In the lobby, we couldn’t avoid yapping dogs on leashes, whiny dogs in fancy leather cases, shivering toy dogs that resembled skinned rats, dogs trying to smell and pick up a partner for a one-afternoon stand, and even a massive Great Dane that made me want to holler, “Go, Dog. Go – Outside!”

I saw dogs in fancy carriages of a better quality than I used for my own babies. Pampered pooches were tucked into designer bags in the elevators and toted around the grounds by their servant owners as if they were exalted possessions to be adored. Sorry, but I don’t want to smile at, pet, or coo over a pet, even if it has a sparkly bow, matching scarf, and brings its own therapist.

Doggie carriage with two royal pooches.
I grumbled to the receptionist that I didn’t pay a month’s mortgage for a room with a bed that may have been used by an indulged hairball that was treated better than most humans and didn’t even know how to tip. She smiled. I immediately assumed she slept with a menagerie of motley pets.

I don’t want to offend dog and cat lovers, but some of us belong to happy group of people who don’t have indoor pets for a variety of reasons. I’m highly allergic to cats, and I’m uncomfortable around dogs, due to my daily paper route at age 11 when several dogs chased, snarled, and tried to bite me every day as I peddled my bike as fast as I could. Also, I prefer to travel light without needing a pooper scooper.

Airports have become public zoos, catering to people carrying an assortment of creatures, birds, and dubious animals of unknown origin. Traveling is stressful enough without enduring a dog peeking under my stall in the airport restroom. I’d rather not sit in the waiting area battling with the smells and sounds of unhappy animals locked into portable cages. Yesterday in the airport, we watched a woman in the waiting area chew several bites of a hamburger, spit it into her hand, and feed the mess to her large dog. In what civilized society is this normal?

Caveat: I respect those who need indoor animals for comfort and companionship. And, I’m a firm supporter of service dogs and police canine units. These animals earn their keep and provide an important duty.

Ten Luxury Hotels that Pamper Pets

I may be a lone voice barking up the wrong tree in the wilderness because more people are taking their pets into luxury hotels. An article in Condé Nash Traveler published a frisky article titled: “ Pet-Friendly Hotels: The Ten Best Luxury Stays in the U.S.” This list will be saved for reference of where not to stay, ever.

One such hotel is the Park Hyatt Chicago, Chicago, IL. Dogs 50 pounds and under have free reign throughout the rooms, lobby, restaurant, garden, and library of the hotel. Gag me with a caviar dog biscuit. It’s only a matter of time before someone brings a therapy pony into the resort elevator.

In The St. Regis Aspen Resort, Aspen, CO, dogs receive a daily turn-down surprise and can snooze in comfort on their very own St. Regis dog beds for an additional $25 per day. I wish I got a turn-down surprise.

Not to be limited to man’s best friend, the Cypress Inn, Carmel-by-the-Sea, CA, co-owned by actress and animal-rights champion Doris Day, is pet friendly, welcoming all domesticated creatures from iguanas to pot-bellied pigs ($30 fee). Their promotional literature claims: “Hang with your four-legged bestie on the patio, in the lounge or in front of the library’s crackling fireplace, and make new friends during the daily “yappy hour” from 4-6 p.m.” Nothing makes me feel finer than to sleep in a bed that recently was used for the night of the iguana.

The next time I make a reservation for a room at a luxury resort or any hotel, I’ll ask for a non-pet room. In my opinion, that’s just as logical as asking for a non-smoking room. The thought of crawling into a bed with a mattress that could be crawling with residue and fleas from a dog or offensive odor of a pot-bellied pig makes me want to stay home in my pet-free house and watch travel documentaries.


For more of my pet-free rants, here’s the article that was featured on HuffPo Live from New York. It’s titled “My Fish Won’t Hump Your Leg.”

 

 

 

 

Tears from Italy on Sept.11, 2001

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9-11 newspapers Italy

(Featured on The Huffington Post 50, Sept. 11, 2015)

On a clear afternoon on September 11, 2001, the internet café in Florence, Italy bustled with tourists, students, and animated baristas shuffling plates of pastries and demitasse cups of steaming expresso. I paid for an hour of computer time to write and email a travel update to family and friends back in the States. Around 3:00 pm, I finished a long letter and pushed “Send.” Nothing happened. I groaned about a perceived computer error and continued to hit the “Send” button. Suddenly, all the screens in the café went dark. That’s when we knew the problem was serious. The time in New York was 9:00 am.

I rushed back to my hotel room, turned on CNN news, and watched in horror as the South Tower of the World Trade Center in New York City collapsed in a nightmare of smoke and debris. Then the second tower fell, and images flashed of the Pentagon on fire. I was almost 6,000 miles from home in Idaho, I couldn’t make a telephone call to my family, and all flights were cancelled. I gasped for breath.

Hungry for information, I hurried to the lobby and joined other Americans from our tour group. We huddled around television sets, alternately hugging, wiping tears, and praying. The hotel staff opened the bar and offered free food and drinks. Our group quickly expanded to include people from several nationalities, and near twilight a spontaneous chorus erupted with all of us signing “God Bless America” and the National Anthem. The Italians proved to be our new best friends.

We still didn’t know the extent of the attacks or if any more airplanes had been intentionally crashed. The telephone lines remained down for another day, but the Internet returned on September 12. The hotel offered free access, and we lined up for our five-minute turn on the antiquated computer. I sent a bulk email and quickly read touching emails from my children, both in their early 20s. The Atlantic Ocean became an insurmountable obstacle for an unknown time. I remembered standing for a photo between the Twin Towers and couldn’t imagine the enormous level of destruction and evilness.

twin towers elaine

I devoured every newspaper I could find and still have copies of Il Mattino, The Wall Street Journal Europe, USA Today Italia, The Herald International Tribune, and other publications from that time. Most of the Europeans we met were supportive of Americans and mad about the terrorists. As more details emerged about the evil murderers, the moods of the Americans in our group changed from sorrow, disbelief, and fear, to anger and patriotism. The breathtaking beauty and splendor of Tuscany was momentarily clouded by our emotional pain.

A few days later, we learned we couldn’t fly home until September 22, so we continued on our journey. For a stranded tour group, Italy was the place to be. The food tasted better, the wine flowed freely, and we became best friends. None of us personally knew any of the victims, but we shared a strong American heritage. Going through the airport security in Venice became a stressful ordeal. We were thoroughly searched and patted, everything was removed and repacked in our luggage, and we stood in lines for hours. Finally we boarded the flight to New York City.

Landing at La Guardia Airport was a surreal experience. The passengers all clapped when the plane landed, but then quietly filed out of the plane. The airport was almost deserted, even though it was a Friday afternoon in New York. We boarded the airplane for Seattle and there were only a dozen passengers on the entire 747 airplane. We could see smoke and haze over the city, and we prayed until the plane had been in the air for twenty minutes.

I had several rows of seats all to myself, so I stretched out and tried to sleep. When awake, the polite flight attendants brought all the food and drinks I wanted. I made eye contact with them, and could tell which ones had been crying. We landed in Seattle, and I felt like kissing the ground. A few hours more, and I was back in Idaho.

twin tower new

I’ve returned to New York several times since then, and two years ago I took a photo of the new tower under construction. The strength and beauty of the new design is a testament to the resilient spirit of the people who love this country. I continue my love of travel, my respect for the United States of America, and my distain for the godless cowards who slaughtered so many precious lives and destroyed valuable property 14 years ago. We will never forget.

 

How to Pack Light for a Conference in New York

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new york skyline

 

All day I’ve been crooning my inner Sinatra: “Start spreading the news. I’m leaving today…New York, New York!” For a farm girl from Wendell, Idaho, going alone to the Big Apple is 85% exciting and 20% terrifying. (I’m not good with math.)

I’ll be attending BlogHer 15, the world’s largest conference for women content creators. The three-day event is sponsored by SheKnows Media and attracts thousands of national and international bloggers. This year, I will be recognized as one of the “Voices of the Year” winners because of a post I wrote about my late mother. The honor is bittersweet.voice of the year badge

I love to travel and have a few tips to make the experience less stressful.

  1. Start with quality luggage. I’ve visited 32 countries around the world with my 15-year-old Hartmann pieces. They are tough, easy to transport, hold a week’s worth of clothes, and qualify as carry-on luggage. I put my purse inside the top bag.

Hartmann luggage

  1. Take only comfortable, fashionable, washable, wrinkle-resistant fabrics that can be rolled. Prepare for the first travel day with an emphasis on ease and comfort. It will take at least 10 hours to go from my home in Idaho to the Hilton in NYC, so I’m wearing sensible black Capris with a snappy shirt and a colorful jacket.

dress blogher pants3.  Pack at least one “hot” outfit with color. For Friday’s award reception, I chose a bright, burnt-orange sundress with bedazzled scarf. I coordinated jewelry and will use some of the same pieces several times.

dress blogher

 

  1. Include a black sweater because it travels and photographs well. Wear it over a simple dress for a professional look.

dress blogher blue

  1. Don’t be afraid to try something out of your comfort zone. I’m taking a sharp black and white dress that I’ll wear over leggings. It’s a new look for me.

dress blogher leggings

  1. Remember the essentials: a Mophie battery pack will charge Ipad and Iphone, and use a resistance band to exercise in your room so you can have wine and pie with dinner. I hand out bookmarks instead of business cards, and I organize a file with separate compartments for airline schedules, hotel reservations, and the daily conference itinerary.

dress blogher batteryblogher bookmarks

 

 

  1. As a present to myself, I’m going to the Broadway production of Carole King’s musical, “Beautiful.” I’ll wear a black, sheath dress with bling and a fringed scarf. I’ll rely on Uber car service to take me to and from the theatre.

dress blogher black

  1. I only take three pairs of shoes: I wear one and pack two. I don’t take high heels because they hurt my feet, and I don’t take tennis shoes because they’re too bulky.
  2. Use only enough toiletries and medications to last for the time you’re there. Keep jewelry simple and interchange pieces.
  3. Pack an extra tote bag to bring back purchases, conference materials, and swag. Then check one bag coming home.
  4. Expect to learn new skills, meet new friends, and connect with valuable associates.

I always return energized after attending a conference either as a participant or as a speaker. The experience keeps the brain working, and at my age, that’s a definite advantage.