Curve Ball(s)
We have lived a charmed life.
Forty years ago, we fell deeply, madly, passionately in love. We built a life together, raising our two beautiful daughters, Claudia and Emily. Along the way, we owned homes, started—and sometimes closed—businesses, helped launch a movement in personalized nutrition, and shared our lives with eight wonderful dogs.
We weathered our share of storms: business struggles, the turbulence of the teenage years, the loss of parents and dear friends, illness. And through it all, we always managed to find our way back to each other.
We thought we were doing well.
And then life—mercurial, unpredictable, relentless in its ability to change everything—threw us a curve ball.
Actually, two.
The first came in early November of 2023.
Peter hadn’t been feeling quite right. Nothing dramatic—just a bit of shortness of breath—but enough that we thought it would be a good idea for him to see a cardiologist. We made an appointment with Dr. Arshad Yekta, someone I already knew through my own annual checkups.
In the exam room, Peter described his symptoms. The doctor listened carefully, took notes, then said he wanted to do a physical exam—starting with his lungs.
I was sitting across from them when I saw it: a subtle but unmistakable shift in Dr. Yekta’s expression as he listened through his stethoscope.
He paused, removed it, and said gently, “I’d like to send you for an X-ray. I’m hearing some crackling in your lungs, and I’d like to get a better look. Your cardiovascular numbers, by the way, all look good.”
We decided to go straight to the X-ray department at Norwalk Hospital—get it done, check the box, avoid another trip.
That evening, around 7:00, my phone rang.
The caller ID read: Dr. Yekta.
I looked at Peter and answered, putting the call on speaker.
In his calm, steady voice, he told us he had reviewed the X-ray. The findings were suggestive of pulmonary fibrosis. He asked if Peter had any family history. Peter shared that his father had been diagnosed—but much later in life.
Dr. Yekta explained that he was referring Peter to a pulmonologist, Dr. Hira Bakhtier, whom he highly respected. Her office would be in touch.
When the call ended, we sat there—quiet, stunned—trying to absorb what we had just heard.
That was the beginning of a journey that would feel both impossibly long and shockingly fast: the discovery, the testing, and the rapid progression of pulmonary fibrosis.
This was Curve Ball #1.
We made a decision early on: while Peter underwent testing, we would hold off on sharing the news with our daughters and extended family until we understood more. We wanted, as much as possible, to preserve the holiday season—to give everyone a few more weeks of lightness before introducing something so heavy.
Privately, we were already spiraling a bit, Googling everything we could about pulmonary fibrosis. We didn’t want to pull them into that uncertainty too soon.
Christmas Eve arrived.
It was magical.
Claudia and Emily were both home. Emily brought her boyfriend—now husband—Mike, and his mother, Ann, whom we were meeting for the first time. The house was warm, decorated, glowing with that familiar holiday comfort. Dinner was beautiful. We gathered around the fireplace, surrounded by each other and our two dogs, Wyatt and Pip, sharing gratitude for the evening and the life we had built.
We opened a few presents and left the rest under the tree for morning.
It felt full. Complete. Whole.
The next morning, everything changed.
The girls stepped out briefly to feed Emily’s cat. Peter went down to his office. I started breakfast.
As I plugged in the waffle iron, I saw a thin curl of smoke rise from the outlet.
“Uh oh,” I thought. “I think I may have blown a fuse.”
I unplugged it—but the smoke didn’t stop. It thickened. Quickly. Then faster still. Within moments, the alarms began blaring.
I called down to Peter to come upstairs.
Smoke started pouring into the kitchen and family room. We got the alarm company on the phone, but it was already clear: this was no small issue.
We had to get out.
We helped Ann, who had a bad hip, move as quickly as possible. My mind raced—this would be terrible for Peter’s lungs. The smoke was everywhere now, thick and overwhelming.
In the span of two hours, our home was gone.
Everything.
And we lost our sweet Pip.
This was Curve Ball #2.
Health and home—the two things we had always counted on—were suddenly no longer guaranteed.
And yet, somehow, we endured.
Peter faced his diagnosis: a genetic form of idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis. There were months of progression, uncertainty, and ultimately, a single lung transplant—a new breath, a second chance.
We rebuilt our home—this time in a different town. A new space, filled again with life.
Emily married Mike. Claudia found a meaningful partner. A new dog joined our family.
And through it all, we stayed strong. Together.
Life doesn’t ask for permission before it changes everything.
But what it reveals—if we allow it—is the quiet, enduring strength we carry within us, and the unbreakable threads that hold us to the people we love.