A Thanksgiving Column: Finding My Voice… Again

Thanksgiving always comes with its traditions—family recipes, questionable casseroles, and that one relative who insists on carving the turkey like they’re auditioning for a cooking show.
But for me, Thanksgiving now carries a different meaning entirely.

Last year, while most folks were passing plates, I was being airlifted for a second time—my body demanding urgent care I couldn’t ignore. I spent Thanksgiving in a hospital bed receiving a blood transfusion and praying the bleeding would stop long enough for doctors to stabilize me. I couldn’t eat solid food without pain that felt like fire in my throat. Talking was nearly impossible. Writing became my only reliable voice.

And if you live in my neighborhood, bless you—you’ve probably seen more ambulances in my driveway than I can count. I know Davidson County EMTs by name. They’ve loaded me onto stretchers, steadied me when everything was spinning, reassured me when I was terrified, and cracked jokes when I needed to remember I was still human. They are angels on earth, and I don’t use that term lightly.

Fast-forward to this year: I’m upright. I’m home. I’m here for Thanksgiving instead of being whisked away in a helicopter with a heart monitor yelling at me. That alone is worth a celebration.

But this year also came with months—MONTHS—of delays and denials from my health insurance company for a procedure designed to prevent the very crisis that nearly ended me last Thanksgiving.

And today? Today I raised my actual voice at them.

Not my proudest moment. I apologized to the representative on the phone so many times I probably sounded like I was the one being recorded for customer service training. But I knew that call was on tape, and if a supervisor listened later, I wanted them to hear a woman at the very edge—still trying to be polite while explaining how dangerous these delays are for someone who’s already been airlifted, transfused, and after that, just trying to live a normal life.

I didn’t curse. I didn’t threaten. But I did paint them a picture—clear, vivid, and unmistakably desperate. A writer’s brush, dipped in exhaustion, frustration, and hard-earned truth.

Here’s the part where Thanksgiving comes roaring back into the story.

Because when you’ve been airlifted, spent holidays in hospitals, received blood from a stranger to stay alive, and lost count of how many times you’ve ridden in the back of an ambulance—you learn gratitude on a different level.

I am grateful for EMTs who show up like cavalry.
Grateful for friends and family who coached and nursed me through every moment, refusing to let me face it alone.
Grateful for neighbors who watch the lights flash and send up prayers.
Grateful for doctors who fought hard to keep me here.
Grateful for the person whose donated blood helped stabilize me.
Grateful for the chance to complain about insurance because complaining means I lived.
And grateful for a voice—fragile, scarred, and a little stubborn—that still rises when I need it.

But gratitude doesn’t erase the truth:
We need insurance reform in this country.

Nobody who has been med-evaced, transfused, or constantly monitored should be stuck fighting a paperwork war with an insurance company.
Nobody should have to beg for a medically necessary procedure.
Nobody should have to perform an emotional monologue for a supervisor who has never once seen the inside of an ambulance at 3 a.m.

We can do better.
We must do better.
Lives depend on it—mine did.

So this Thanksgiving, give thanks for health, for breath, for EMTs who walk among us like angels with pagers, and for the friends and family who refuse to let you go through hell alone. And if you’re able, please give blood. Someone’s life may depend on the pint you’ll never miss.

And yes… although I don’t like Turkey, this year, I am looking forward to eating lots of it.