We've been getting a handle on my husband Lawrence's health since his dad suddenly passed at age 63 from heart disease in February.

What we've discovered is that Lawrence likely has the same problems with which his dad struggled, but that they're also treatable. Since Lawrence is dealing with these health issues early, he's much more likely to survive them.

Like his father, Lawrence has a bicuspid aortic heart valve. That means the largest valve of his heart only has two flaps, as opposed to three, like normal. This puts more pressure on the existing flaps, and can lead to a slow calcification of the valve, narrowing the passageway for blood to flow from his heart.

On Tuesday, we got the preliminary results of his echocardiogram — an ultrasound of the heart — which showed some slight leakage of the valve, but nothing to worry about, yet.

Right now, we just need to monitor the valve. Eventually, Lawrence will need to replace the valve, probably through surgery. The procedure is common, his doctor told me, and there isn't any way to prevent it.

Lawrence knew he and his dad both had bicuspid valves, but they weren't aware that his dad's valve had major problems. His passing has prompted Lawrence to return to the doctor for regular heart checkups — something he admits he was avoiding addressing. He didn't even tell me about his heart condition until his dad passed.

That doesn't surprise me.

I've had an emotional week.

It began with a difficult conversation with my oncologist over Zoom on Monday. I am two years in remission but my chances for cancer recurrence are higher than I had previously understood.

As of Monday, my oncologist estimated my chance of recurrence was around 30 percent. And she said, if I got breast cancer again, it would likely be terminal.

Because of this pretty-high chance, and how deadly it would be if it came back, my doctor urged me to go back on hormonal therapy, one version of which I had quit in the fall.

Deep breath.

Today, I want to talk about taking preventative health care to the home. I first mentioned this idea a couple weeks ago, as part of my overall health plan that I introduced on Trey Radel's Southwest Florida Fox Radio show.

My health plan would have three main parts: 1. Preventative health care that belongs to the government, 2. Free-market specialist care, 3. Digital passports stored to personal phones and protected by laws that empower patients.

When it came time for my annual scans last year, to ensure that I was still in remission for breast cancer, I got a glimpse into what the future of health care could look like.

I did two things in preparation for those tests that I hadn’t done before: I shopped around for the exams, and I demanded to ingest the necessary dye for them at home instead of at the clinic.

As a result, I saved my insurance company more than $5,000, and I saved myself hours of time and comfort.

If every patient took control of their care, we could have a drastically more affordable and humanizing health system, I realized.

That led to an obvious question: Then why don’t they?

I saw my surgeon over Zoom about a month ago. We don’t have much to do with each other since he removed my cancerous tumors from my left breast and lymph nodes about a year-and-a-half ago, but were meeting to discuss my most recent scans, which showed I am still in remission. (Yay).

During that conversation, I saw him see me, and how badly I had regressed since I entered a second phase of treatment, focused on preventing cancer recurrence, after entering remission. It had been an extra-long time since my surgeon had seen me because he blew me off for our first meeting since he removed my tumors, sending his physician’s assistant instead, which I later chewed him out for and is probably the reason why he showed up this time.

(And so, maybe because of my aggressive attitude, which most see as a negative side effect of treatment, I am successfully walking away after two years of hormone therapy. Just saying)!

He was stunned. I could tell first by the look on his face and then by the main word he spoke to me: quit.

“Just quit,” my surgeon told me. “You look terrible.”

I was 10 years old when I first felt objectified by another human being. My uncle was showing off his new jet ski one summer when we were vacationing down in the Carolinas. 

I was so much heavier than my cousin, who was the same age, he said to the family after returning from our trip gliding across the water. He could tell, he explained, because of how I felt with my arms wrapped around his midsection.

Looking back, I wonder if my uncle weren’t a bit too preoccupied with my body tugging on his, but that’s not how I took it at the time. I took it how it was intended: I was too big.

So, I stopped eating. As I withered away during puberty, I learned to see my physical form as something to be commented on and occasionally grabbed, but mostly, contained, controlled. 

Oddly enough, it has taken me more than two decades to unlearn that behavior, discovering the love I have for my inside and outside at a time when their very nature seems most precarious. 

You see, for the past two years, I have been undergoing extensive treatment for breast cancer. I am a year in remission now but am still physically a mess. And, my experience cycling through the health care system makes what happened with my uncle 23 years ago seem innocent. 

For I have never felt more dehumanized in my life than I have at the hospital.