Just Say Yes--and Happy New Year

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

A funny thing happened to me on the way to Christmas.

Not exactly—funny. But certainly unusual, unpredicted and, in my experience so far, unprecedented.



I got really, really sick. It’s all fine now, so you can read the rest without worrying one bit.

But it started with kind of a weirdly-bad headache. Should I take Advil, I thought? But it didn’t seem like that would help. So I decided to ignore it. My fingers felt tingly, but I decided that was my beginning arthritis, sigh, and ignored it. I was so tired! But that’s a constant sate of being, so I , um, ignored it.

Now you have to know that my schedule—and this is the point--like yours, is pret-ty crazy. I love my life, and I’m grateful every day. I have a dear husband. I have a wonderful full-time job as a TV reporter, which is basically 24-7. I’m working on my fifth mystery-suspense novel, and am now on page 267. (Some days, I’m thrilled about it, some days, it stinks. But that’s another blog.) I’m scheduled for speeches, seminars, conventions, appearances, signings, blurbings, contest-judgings, MWA board activities, and if I keep on with this list, it’ll just take up too much room. But imagine red-eye flights, early morning speeches, late night writing.

All of your lives are like this, right? In whatever configuration of responsibilities, activities, events, and work-related and personal-related and fun-related and book-related stuff we’re all juggling at every moment.

The arrival of the holidays ramped it up to even more crazy…I was getting ready to send holiday cards, getting ready to do my holiday shopping, had parties to go to, places to go, people to see, stuff to do. Pages to write every day. Three articles due. Blogs to keep up. New Years plans.

And then, Tuesday night before the week before Christmas, I got really sick. So sick I had to go to the doctor, who sent me to get IV fluids for six hours. I couldn’t lift my head. I had to sleep.

“Can you sit up and tell me about it?” the doctor asked.

“I’d prefer not to,” I remember saying. “I need to stay lying down.”

They asked me all kinds of questions, and almost decided I had noro-virus, a pretty awful thing that’s like what all those people get on cruise ships that keeps you in the bathroom for a week. But I didn’t have those symptoms, so they were baffled.

And then the doctor finally said: you don’t have a rash, do you?

And I said, well, not really..but I have three weird little dots on my lower back.

Her eyes widened. “Are you under a lot of stress? Have you been working really hard?”

If I hadn’t felt so awful, it would have been funny.

I had shingles. And it was horrible.

I slugged down medicine, lived on nothing but ginger ale for about a week. Had a horrible headache. Slept, slept, slept, slept, slept. Finally, finally, my brain stared working again, and now, about two and a half weeks later, I’m, knock on wood fine.

But here’s the point. Nothing got done. NOTHING. Nothing I had planned to do, nothing I had told myself was absolutely necessary to do, none of it got done.

“Sick,” I’d email, trying to type while lying down. “More later.”

No one got Christmas cards, emails didn’t get answered for a week, Christmas presents were last-minute gift cards.

And no one cared. It was ALL FINE.

Yes, I made my article deadlines, made them fine, instead of worrying about them for two weeks and then writing them, I just wrote them. Luckly, by some amazing luck, I had no appearances scheduled so I didn't have to cancel and ruin anyone else's plans. . 

Being so sick took away my choices. And when I was lucky enough to reenter the world, it was all fine.

So now I’m thinking—hmmm. What if I spend too much time trying to be perfect? Trying to do everything?


And what if, suddenly, the universe sent me a message saying: “Guess what, girl. You’re done for a while.”

The incredible Wally Lamb once told me he keeps an index card by his telephone. On the index card, he’s printed one word. NO. He’s the most charming, most generous, most giving, most loving—but even he, sometimes, has to remember to protect himself.

So here we all are, girlfriends. Celebrating our lives and loves and successes and challenges and facing a new year. I’m not saying “just say no.” I’m saying—just say yes. Say yes to a little peace, and a little time for yourself, a little less total-perfection-at-all-times, and a little more smelling the roses. Counting blessings that we’re healthy.

Happy New Year. It’ll all be fine.

(And just for fun--Three copies of DRIVE TIME are up for grapbs! I'll choose winners from the comments...and Happy New Year!)