And the award for Craziest Weekend of My Life goes to...

I had the greatest plans for this weekend.

I was going to paint. I was going to clean. I was going to celebrate Memorial Day weekend at a rooftop pool in downtown Los Angeles with friends.

And then Saturday night it hit me.

It wasn't awful, but the pain was bad enough that I had to question it. Heart disease has always played a role in my life. Fortunately for me, it's never played an outrageously big role...but it's always just sort of been there. So usually I don't even blink when I have a palpitation or I notice my breathing becomes a little labored. It's just always been kind of normal.

But Saturday night was different. I don't even really know why, something just didn't feel right.

However this is me we're talking about. I'm the girl that avoids the doctor for every excuse under the sun. "Oh, he'll probably just listen to my heart, run an EKG and send me on my merry way. Why waste my time and money?" or "I know it's going to be slammed in the waiting room; it's going to take too long to get back there anyway. Might as well just stay home."

And yes, I'm fully aware of how ridiculous I am and I'm thankful that something made me pick up my phone and dial the Anthem Blue Cross 24/7 Nurse line. My parents introduced this to me in college as a way to get a professional's opinion without actually going to the doctor right away.

After explaining my pain to the nurse (and downplaying it about 50%) and describing my heart disease (because no one ever knows what it is when I initially tell them), she said it was her professional opinion for me to hang up the phone and call 911.

As much as I wanted to say, "Slow your roll, Nurse Jackie." I refrained, and I listened to what she had to say. She said I was prone to premature heart attacks because of what my heart was doing and that it almost sounded like I was having early onset symptoms.

Insert automatic panic.

However, I still wasn't alarmed enough to call 911. I ended my call with her and casually texted my closest friends with, "Hey, can I call you really quick?" and, "Oh hey! What are you up to right now, out of curiosity?"

I have the world's greatest friends and two of them walked out of a movie theater and one (who was working) demanded updates and said he'd call when he left work.

SO I walked to the ER.
I still don't think I was grasping the idea that this could be serious? I think in my head I really just thought I was having an intense palpitation or something and all was fine. Thankfully, Cedars-Sinai is just two blocks from my house--so it really wasn't that far of a walk at all.

Immediately after hearing my symptoms, they whisked me back to run an EKG. Then I was hurried into the ER and ordered to sit on a gurney. From 10pm until 2:30am, it's really all a blur. IVs, tests, CT scans, multiple doctors and multiple nurses--and then I was informed I was being admitted.

And then I had to call my parents.
Calling your parents at 4 o'clock in the morning their time to tell them you're being admitted into a hospital because your heart is showing depressions on your EKG (which means signs of damage), is not an easy task. My parents handled this so well. I expected lots of tears and panic (which may have happened after I ended the call, I'll never know) but my mom and dad were so calm. They told me they could be on a plane in two hours and be in LA within eight, but I told them to wait until we knew more.

After being admitted to the hospital, I realized I needed to be there. My pulmonary artery is almost double the size of the average Joe's. Basically meaning that it works extra hard and pumps even harder than it should, and because it's so stretched there's a decent chance that once it hits a certain diameter, there could be rupture.

Growing up my cardiologist always said my magic number was 46mm. Forty-six was the number we wanted to never reach; and when it got to that point (well, he always said if it got to that point), we'd have to operate.

My CT showed my pulmonary artery's diameter was now 44mm. It had stretched 4mm in the past two years.

So yes, I spent my Memorial Day weekend in the ICU Tower at Cedars-Sinai with, quite possibly, the best nursing staff I've ever encountered and three of the best friends I've ever had, who took turns sitting by my bed side as much as possible, so I didn't have to be alone all of the time.

Next step is meeting with the cardiovascular team and the cardiothoracic surgeons at Cedars and seeing what my options are. It's looking like they may be able to do a non-invasive procedure that wouldn't require them busting open my chest and breaking my sternum (which is amazing, because when I was diagnosed they said the only option was open heart surgery) and they can do it soon. And my cardiologist is 99% sure he can get it in one shot.

I'm a bit nervous, yes. This is my heart we're talking about.
But I'm ready. I'm ready to not be afraid of every skipped beat. I'm ready to not feel this sharp pain I feel every time my heart is over-working the pulmonary artery. I'm ready to be able to breathe normally and not have to worry so much.

Thanks for all your thoughts and concerns as I go through this next phase of my life. I feel confident and know that I'm in the right place and I'm in good hands.

The doctor asked me as I was leaving. "Well, Ms. Parlor. Are you ready to be heart disease free?"

Yes. Yes, I am.

"But I hold on and I feel strong, because I know that I can."

Two years.

Two years is a long time for pretty much anything to happen.

I remember not being afraid at first. I don't think I truly processed the potential consequences of my actions and, thankfully, never needed to.

I remember the first moment I was afraid.

The girl I was living with (who I barely knew) and I were dropping off my best friend at LAX so she could fly home. It was as if they had planned the whole thing. It reminded me of when I was in kindergarten and my parents would drop me off at school. The teacher would whisk me away quickly before I could cry and distract me with crayons and coloring books.

Meredith pulled up to the curb, Sarah gave me a quick side hug and said goodbye. She walked into the airport before I could even get out of the car. No time for tears; no time for me to change my mind or ask her to stay just a few more days.

Meredith pulled away from the curb quickly, talking my ear off the entire way to dinner. I suppressed my tears and swallowed my fear because Meredith was practically a stranger; I couldn't cry in front of her.

The second time I remember feeling fearful of my decision was when I had been here for quite a few weeks. I still hadn't found a job and my money was starting to run out. I was beginning to plan how much money I needed in order to drive back to Florida; because that was looking like my only option.

And I was scared.
I was scared of going home. I was scared what people would say. But mostly? Mostly I was scared because I knew there was so much more for me in LA. I just didn't know how to find it.
(I got my job that day, by the way).

And now here I am.

I've lived in five different apartments.
I've had two jobs.
I've been promoted.
I bought a new car.
I've tried new things.
I've traveled all around Los Angeles.
I've road tripped to Las Vegas (more than once).

But above all of those things--I know who I am and I like her. The only fear I feel these days is the fear of leaving Los Angeles.

Here's to trying something new because you can; going against the grain and when everyone tells you you're crazy, you smile and nod but do it anyway. Here's to the nights spent at the Santa Monica Pier looking out towards Malibu with friends who become your family. Here's to giving yourself the chance to be happy.

Happy two years, LA.

Thanks for being one of the best decisions I've ever made.

Easter baskets that smell like home.

When the mail came around yesterday and a decent sized box was brought to my desk, I felt overwhelmed. I'm taking a new accounting class for my job and when I first saw the box, I assumed it was filled with books and materials for this class I'll be taking (which I have absolutely no time for at the moment).

But when I flipped it over to examine it more closely, I noticed the familiar handwriting that spelled out my name and the return address: it was from home.

My mom told me she was sending me something for Easter a while back (yes, World, I am twenty-three and I still get an Easter basket).

I called home and whispered to my mother that I had gotten the box and dug in to open it. Inside, I found a couple sweet things that brought a smile to my face.

I thanked her and hung up, putting the box away and went on to work on some projects that I needed to have finished by the end of the day.

Six o'clock rolled around and I grabbed my box to head to my car. I sat in traffic for almost an hour and rushed in the door, ready for dinner, a shower and the comfort of my bed. As I was shoveling a bite of dinner in my mouth, I saw the box on the foot of my bed and decided to go through it again and put away the things I had gotten and throw the blouse into my laundry basket.

As I pulled the blouse out of the box, a scent caught my attention.

I can't explain the scent--I've never been able to explain it but it's always been there. It's like a strange mix of vanilla and cleanliness? It just smells...fresh. It's the scent that hits me every time I walk into my house in Florida.

It just hit me.

Instead of putting that blouse in my laundry basket, I found myself putting it on and crawling into bed to watch a movie and eventually falling asleep in that blouse.

I love Easter baskets; especially the ones that smell like home.

The Art of Being an Individual

Growing up, I faced the challenge every kid (or person) faces: how to make my own opinions and decisions, and when it's appropriate to express them.

It was absolutely something I struggled with on a daily basis growing up, but it's something I've learned to appreciate and understand today as an adult.

It's been brought to my attention that there are some people in my life who have pointed out either to myself or mutual friends that it's their belief that I'm incapable of making my own decisions, or that the decisions I'm making are a result of trying to impress someone.

While I thoroughly respect these thoughts and judgments on who I am as a person (because everyone's entitled to their own opinion), I'm here to defend myself.

While yes, I do tend to avoid confrontation and I don't enjoy "stirring the pot", if you will, I one hundred percent am my own person and if I need to face confrontation or express my thoughts that will most likely "stir the pot", then I will.

I'd say I'm pretty easy going and I also love trying new things. I like taking risks and I love finding new places that I enjoy--whether that be a new hiking trail, a new bar or club to go to at night, or a new restaurant I've never been to before. I'm almost ALWAYS open to new things. Unfortunately, maybe some people view that as me being a "follower" because a friend initially suggested it. Or maybe people think my willingness is a sign of being complacent in a negative light. I can assure you that if I don't want to do something or try something or go somewhere--I'm not going to do it, try it or go. (Ask my friends who have literally been trying to get me to eat seafood/sushi for my entire life.)

Thankfully, the people who I consider my true friends understand this. They know who I am, they respect who I am and they're kindhearted people. They don't judge me because of what I will or will not do, try, or experience; they accept me for who I am. Being new-ish to the West coast, there's a lot I haven't done. I'm thankful for the people in my life who allow me to experience these new sounds, cultures and activities.

So if you're one of the people who believe I'm not capable of making my own choices, decisions or that I try to impress the people in my life--I hope that what I've written explains a little better that your judgments are not accurate. But honestly? I really could not care any less what you think as you walk away from after reading this. (Side note: the people who probably need to read this never will, but the words needed to be said anyway).

People are always so quick to throw stones. Be careful throwing those stones when you live in a glass house.

xo.

Welcome to LA, Sarah with an "h" in apartment number 3.

I was frustrated while coming home from work tonight. I just accepted a promotion at work in a field I never saw myself working in. I should have left the office at 6, and I ended up leaving much later having me park my car at my apartment at 7.

I was hungry, I was tired and I was cold.

While waiting for the gate to open so I could park my car in the garage, I noticed a car right on my tail--hurried to park behind me. I sighed and muttered (as if they could hear me) to "get off my butt" and took my time pulling in. The car sped down and I noticed it's the bright red car that always parks next to me. It hasn't been parking there long, maybe a month or so.

The girl waved feverishly with a big smile as I shifted into park. I tried to manage a smile but groaned, this girl was way too happy to be excitedly waving to a complete stranger parking next to her.

I prepared myself for an overly joyous conversation that I figured was about to take place.

I took my time gathering my stuff and I noticed she slowly closed her door and practically waited for me to get out of my car.

Sure enough, she smiled again and said hello. I decided to put all my crap from the day behind me and smiled back.

"I'm Sarah," she put her hand out in front of me.

I partially laughed. "I'm Sarah, too, actually." She laughed and shook my hand, informing me she was Sarah with an "h" (a very common conversation I have with pretty much every Sara(h) I meet) from apartment number three.

I said I spelled my name the same way and we started the walk from the underground parking to our apartments above.

She just moved to Southern California one hundred percent by herself. She's looking for a change because she didn't like what she was doing back home in Alabama and decided it was now or never. She loves to write and has a passion for good music and positive people. She misses her family like crazy (her mailbox is overflowing with letters from home asking how she likes California and reminding her she can always retrace her steps) but she loves it. She loves it because it's different and crazy and adventurous and it makes her feel free.

Listening to her story I kept thinking, "God, she just sounds so familiar."

This girl is me, circa 2011. And listening to her story and hearing what she had to say was the reminder I completely needed today.

Had you knocked on the door of apartment 106 on Gramercy and 7th in Koreatown two summers ago, you would have found a girl with wide eyes and a smile for days. She was probably eating a cup of Ramen noodles and you would have found a stack of applications strewn across the desk. She was sleeping on the floor that belonged to some other girl and earned her stay by taking out the stranger's dog and paying a mere portion of the rent.

She would have told you she didn't know what she was looking for, but she knew she wanted change and she knew she wanted to be happy (just like this Sarah with an "h" explained to me earlier).

Putting aside the feelings of pure frustration I felt today, I can honestly say I've found that. No, I'm not in the field of work I always thought I would be--but it's new and it's change; all things new are a little bit scary at first.

Looking at the big picture? California has been everything I thought it'd be--it's different, crazy and adventurous and I know every second that I'm here I have never been more free before in my life.

So thanks, Sarah with an "h" from apartment number three. And welcome to Los Angeles, kid.

When the world said I couldn't, I went and did it anyway.

Many times in my life, I've been told I couldn't do something. Not necessarily because someone wanted to discourage me; mostly they wanted to save me the trouble of the hurt or the consequences of failure.

So, generally, when I was told I couldn't do something--I typically didn't do it. Instead, I'd make up excuses as to why I had changed my mind. I never truly fought for anything that I wanted, which was one hundred percent my fault. I never gave myself the chance to do something.

Not until I moved to California.

I've never been told I couldn't do something more times in my entire life. Friends of family, friends of myself, people I grew up going to church with--everyone had something to say about how bad of a decision moving to California would be. I definitely understand why.

I had a job I had maintained all throughout college; one in which they were willing to offer me a management position where I would most likely work for the rest of my life. I was living in Orlando, a booming but affordable city in the middle of Florida. I had friends, family--the university I had graduated from. A world of comfort and familiarity was set before me.

But I chose to blindly take a flying leap.

Besides the hope I had in my heart, I had nothing. I hoped every single day that I would land on my feet. I've definitely had my rough patches, but I'd like to say I landed pretty steadily. Maybe I wobbled a little bit here and there, but mostly I landed and I started moving.

I've gotten comfortable again. I know what to expect when I come to work. I know what's expected of me. And now the time has come for this amazing company I work for to offer me a promotion.

Even though it might not sound as scary (or maybe scary at all), it's terrifying. It's a huge leap in a direction I never saw myself taking. But just because I didn't see it before doesn't mean it's not going to be great. Or maybe it won't be great, that's always a possibility too.

For the last two weeks I've been stressing out over how this was never part of my plan. I wasn't supposed to start a career in finance (though I've never really known what career path I really want to take). I'm not nearly as qualified for this position as someone they would hire off the street would be, but they've assured me they know I will learn and grow and evolve to fit the position--and they're willing to give me time to do that.

Two years ago, I would have said no, but thank you for the opportunity.

Today I am reminded of the scared girl who was always so used to saying no, but thank you when the world advised her she couldn't. Today, I'm politely telling her to hold on; because today I know I'm capable of saying yes.

Fight for what you want; fight for who you are. It might just be worth it in the end.

(Home)sick.

Being homesick and sick should just be one in the same. Let's face it; who likes to be sick away from their mom? My awesome nutritionist has informed me the answer to this is: no one.

When I was a kid, my mom was all over me--especially when I was sick. She'd bring me toast and Sprite, checking on me every hour or so. She'd let me watch my favorite movies and bring me a cold wash cloth when I had a fever.

I never really knew how important all those things were until I was sick and had to do them all by myself.

It might not sound all that bad, but take it from the girl who has been unsuccessfully trying to cough up a lung for the last week or so--it's not fun.

It has finally been brought to my attention that I have walking pneumonia. Today was my first day back at work, though I unfortunately was unable to make it the entire day (missed it by an hour). That's okay; I'm thankful for my incredible employers for recognizing today was slow and I was obviously not well and letting me go home early.

But that's not the point.

The point is: I'm a big baby and I hate taking care of myself when I'm sick. I really don't know how my mother put up with me for seventeen years. I am no fun whatsoever.

Being home for five days and not being able to do much but lay in bed and watch whatever I could find on Netflix (considering I already made it through my Boy Meets World DVD set) brought me to ALIAS.

I remember watching this with my mom when I was a kid. I can't remember how old I was, exactly. Somehow I stumbled in on her watching it in the living room one night and asked if I could watch too. I fell in love with it and that was our show; we'd watch episodes together and sit on the edge of our seats as Sydney Bristow managed to lead a triple life--grad student, CIA agent and SD-6 agent.

I realized the show still intrigues me today as I sat down to watch an episode--but mostly it reminds me of those nights in the living room with my mom.

Maybe this walking pneumonia is making me more nostalgic than usual.
...yeah, let's blame the pneumonia.