I was a rich yuppie, an Emmy nominee, a brisk walker, and a yogini, plus a prolific songwriter and speechwriter. My sunny Santa Barbara home had five sets of French doors and three fireplaces, and I never saw a doctor except for annual checkups and flu shots. Then in 2015 I was diagnosed with a rare disease called chronic regional pain syndrome (CRPS [also known as complex regional pain syndrome]). I could no longer walk, drive a car, bathe, cook, or even go to the bathroom unassisted.
CRPS attacks the hands and feet and spreads like a tsunami throughout the body. There is no cure. I was the CEO of two successful businesses, but as the illness progressed, the pain in my foot was so intense I could no longer do the creative work needed to make my clients happy. My mid-six-figure income plummeted to a few hundred dollars a month from Social Security.
I don’t have a family, and writing by myself at home is not a way to make friends, so I was totally alone. I took cabs to see every “ist” in town — orthopedist, podiatrist, physical therapist, and past-life regressionist. I called psychologists who were full, but referred me to therapists who were not taking new patients, who referred me to clinics with year-long waiting lists. Finally, there was an opening at a family-service agency. But the psychologist there, who had failed in musical comedy, told me to stop living in denial, get a wheelchair, and accept the fact that I would never walk again and that I’d be living with debilitating pain.