We all have “things”…”labels” we attach to ourselves over our lifetime. We give them to ourselves or others give them to us. We take these with us wherever we go, like a sack. Not good,…but not unusual. Our labels may be these: helpful, funny, sarcastic, neurotic, sweet, gay, straight, bitter, smart fat, thin, hostile, workaholic, rainmaker, inconsiderate, or connected. Any of these sound familiar? Or perhaps, we may be popular, a loner, talented, tone deaf, sympathetic, insensitive, self-involved, rich, poor, religious, agnostic, evangelical, republican, democrat, ecologically minded, animal lover, athletic, spastic, good with numbers, bad at math, or fun at parties. I was often called “fun at parties”. What does that really mean anyway? Have you ever been called a good conversationalist, easy to talk to, self-involved, awkward, beautiful, average, ugly, technically challenged, or good with gadgets? The list can be almost infinite. Are you imaginative, creative, dull, strange, bizarre, old, young, people lover, people hater, effective or useless? Do other people use some of these labels to describe you? We’ve heard people refer to other people as “she’s a saint”, “he’s a freak”, “she’s in her own world”, “he can’t help himself (he can’t help himself do what?), “she really knows how to get things done”, “give him an inch, and he’ll take a yard”, “she lights up a room”, or “he’s such a bright light”. Any of these ring a bell?
What happens when perception gets turned on it’s head? What happens when all your life you think of yourself as funny, but you meet someone who says that you’re not that funny? Does this mean that you’re not funny anymore, or just that one person doesn’t think you’re funny? Makes you think. For that person you are not funny, you might still have others rolling in the aisle. Are they wrong? Are you? Perception is reality.
What happens when you believe yourself to be someone who cares about someone else, but they don’t feel as though you care about them? Does this mean that you don’t really care, or just that they don’t feel you caring? Doesn’t really matter, in the end perception is reality.
What happens if you believe yourself to have a good relationship with your children, that you’ve been a good parent, that your kids have turned out to be reasonably good citizens, but they let you know many years later that you weren’t really all that good? Maybe you could have been home more, you could have been more attentive to their needs, you could have listened more…whatever it may be? It’s not possible to roll the film back on those past years. How do you defend your good parenting? You can’t. Perception is reality.
How can you fight perception? It is after all a person’s opinion. It is not right or wrong…it just is. It is upsetting that someone else may not see what you’re seeing. Perceptions are so intermixed with emotions, history, and memories that it would be difficult to convince someone that they’re perception is wrong, or for them to be convinced that yours is right.
In the end, I guess, you live, and others perceive. One person’s reality is not always another’s. It’s hard to accept this at times.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Oh what a year
This was the year that I lived to see another year. This was the year that I discovered Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Therapy Ice Cream…truly therapy. This was the year that my relationship with my sister changed forever. It was the year that I discovered long lost friends from ten, fifteen, twenty, even thirty years ago…this was amazing. It was the year that I realized that good friends could sometimes feel just like family, and that sometimes family can feel less like good friends. This was the year that for the first time in eight years the candidate I voted for… won…Hallelujah! It was the year that the economy tanked and the housing market collapsed; hopefully no place to go but up…hopefully. This was the year that I sold my tandem kayak on Craigslist in one day. I love Craigslist. It was the year I tried Pepe’s Clam Pizza, Super Duper Weenies, and Ipswich Clams. Perhaps not the choice of champions, but it sure was good. It was the year that my inspirational yoga teacher/friend had an aneurysm. Initially her outcome was quite grim. Now after three months she is able to walk, to talk, and to read…she is still inspirational. She doesn’t remember ever teaching a yoga class, this may just be a matter of time. It was the year that I felt scared, angry, sad, hopeful, helpless, lucky, unlucky, positive, negative…sometimes all at the same time. It was the year that I tried acupuncture and liked it enough to keep trying it. This was the year that we adopted a beautiful, sweet new puppy. It was the year that I was unable to work, that my only job was to regain my health, and this felt like the hardest job I ever had…and these are just the things that I remember.
It was quite a year and I’m glad to see it pass. It’s funny about a New Year, you go to sleep and wake up and it’s a New Year, and some how it feels like a page has turned, there is a fresh beginning…out with the old and in with the new. It’s just another day, but what a difference a day can make.
It was quite a year and I’m glad to see it pass. It’s funny about a New Year, you go to sleep and wake up and it’s a New Year, and some how it feels like a page has turned, there is a fresh beginning…out with the old and in with the new. It’s just another day, but what a difference a day can make.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
I haven’t been blogging; too busy celebrating.
October 29th was one-year from the day I had surgery last year. Rachel and I went out for ice cream sodas to celebrate, and I couldn’t help thinking what this year has been like for her. Most of last year Jamie was immersed in her first year of college; she did come home often to visit and was helpful when she did…but she was not here on a day in and out basis. Jon was here, but still tried to keep to his usual work schedule which is in at 11:30A and home at 8:30P, Sundays through Thursdays. Rachel was here most of the day when she wasn’t at school. She was here to see me in all my not so great ways. She brought me ice packs, and tea, and sat with me when I could barely get out of bed. Rachel is 12.
When I started to feel better, it was Rachel who started to schlep around town with me, and it was she who was there when I had my radiation consultation at Mass General Hospital, and she was there when I got the good news that I was a candidate for Proton Therapy. She knew what an important meeting this was, and both of us did a small jig in the middle of the street right outside the hospital.
This day on this year was a celebration for both of us…a celebration about where I had been, and how far I had come in one year.
Then there was the Election to celebrate. I was relatively confident that Obama would win, but by no means did I feel it was a sure thing. This election had been like no other I can recall…partly because it was like no other election anyone could recall, and the other part was because I spent so much of my time recuperating in front of the TV watching it unfold all year long. I felt completely immersed in the day in and day out of the election, its ups, its downs; and so accordingly my ups and downs. I have never wanted a candidate to win so badly…despite all that I have been through this year, I think that if Obama were to have lost, it would have brought me to an unbelievable depth of despair. But he won, and so we celebrated. In my mind, I’m still celebrating.
And then…
On November 16th, Jon and I celebrated our 23rd wedding anniversary. We went out to dinner, just the two of us…it had been probably over a year since we had done that, and it felt quite special. I couldn’t help thinking what this year has been like for Jon. Jon wasn’t able to be home with me as much as he wanted to; he had to work. When he was home, he had to deal with all my physical and emotional patient details; he more than anyone else rode the emotional storm with me. One day I felt useless, another day I felt hopeless, another day I would feel better, the next day I would feel worse, sick, sad, ugly. This 23rd Anniversary seemed more than a celebration of our being married 23 years, but more a celebration of all that we have been through and are still married.
And to Jamie, who may read this blog, and say “what about me, don’t you wonder what this last year has meant to me?” To this I say, “of course I do, but I haven’t had dinner or an ice cream soda with you yet…but I look forward to either or both and blogging about it afterward”. Jamie is 19.
When I started to feel better, it was Rachel who started to schlep around town with me, and it was she who was there when I had my radiation consultation at Mass General Hospital, and she was there when I got the good news that I was a candidate for Proton Therapy. She knew what an important meeting this was, and both of us did a small jig in the middle of the street right outside the hospital.
This day on this year was a celebration for both of us…a celebration about where I had been, and how far I had come in one year.
Then there was the Election to celebrate. I was relatively confident that Obama would win, but by no means did I feel it was a sure thing. This election had been like no other I can recall…partly because it was like no other election anyone could recall, and the other part was because I spent so much of my time recuperating in front of the TV watching it unfold all year long. I felt completely immersed in the day in and day out of the election, its ups, its downs; and so accordingly my ups and downs. I have never wanted a candidate to win so badly…despite all that I have been through this year, I think that if Obama were to have lost, it would have brought me to an unbelievable depth of despair. But he won, and so we celebrated. In my mind, I’m still celebrating.
And then…
On November 16th, Jon and I celebrated our 23rd wedding anniversary. We went out to dinner, just the two of us…it had been probably over a year since we had done that, and it felt quite special. I couldn’t help thinking what this year has been like for Jon. Jon wasn’t able to be home with me as much as he wanted to; he had to work. When he was home, he had to deal with all my physical and emotional patient details; he more than anyone else rode the emotional storm with me. One day I felt useless, another day I felt hopeless, another day I would feel better, the next day I would feel worse, sick, sad, ugly. This 23rd Anniversary seemed more than a celebration of our being married 23 years, but more a celebration of all that we have been through and are still married.
And to Jamie, who may read this blog, and say “what about me, don’t you wonder what this last year has meant to me?” To this I say, “of course I do, but I haven’t had dinner or an ice cream soda with you yet…but I look forward to either or both and blogging about it afterward”. Jamie is 19.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Expectations aren’t always what you would expect
“Our expectations were too high”. “It was better than we expected.” “It’s not everything I expected it to be”. “It went beyond my expectations”. Then there is Expectation’s brother “counting on”. “I counted on you being there”. “Don’t count on me”, or the opposite “count me in”.
During this summer when I was driving back and forth to Boston for radiation, I had much time to discuss things, much things to discuss, and somehow the conversations always seemed to touch upon expectations.
Why are our expectations so high? It may start young. When we are little and our parents drop us off at a play date; they promise to pick us up at a certain time…and they do. We come to expect that if someone says that they will be there for us, they will be. Many of our parents come from the depression era, where getting a college education seemed to be the key to success (many of them didn’t have this advantage). If you could get a college education, and you weren’t plagued with a mental or physical disability…you would automatically get a good job, and make a good living…and you would be better off than your parents and likewise, your children receiving the same benefit of an education, would be better off than you. We’ve grown up watching TV where bad guys are caught and prosecuted; where liars are realized. On TV we also saw how people worked hard, made money and bought really, really big houses, and lots of things. Our government allowed us to expect that we could borrow from the future while living decadently in the present…and that it would work out.
What do we expect? We expect that we will grow old. We expect that our kids will outlive us. We expect that we will have a roof over our head. We expect that our spouses should/will understand us…know us…but they don’t always. We expect that our government will take care of us…but they don’t. We expect that if we eat at an excellent restaurant that we will have an excellent meal, and service; but we know enough to know that this may not always happen. We expect that our family and friends will be there for us in a time of crisis…that doesn’t always happen. We expect that when we read a good movie review, that the movie will actually be good. We expect that when the traffic light is green, it’s safe to go. We expect that if we get a college education, we will get a good job…or we used to expect this. We expect that our business partners will not rip us off. We expect that if we work hard, we will make a good living. We expect that our doctor’s know what they are talking about, and if they don’t they will refer us to someone who does…but they don’t necessarily do this. We expect that when the label says “99% fat free”, or “doesn’t contain nuts”, that it has only 1% fat, and no nuts. We expect lots and lots of things.
I find/found along with all the people I discussed expectations with…that not having them be met can be heartbreaking, angering, confusing, and disappointing. I’m guessing that many more with whom I’ve not yet had the occasion to discuss expectations…feel the same way.
My conclusion. Expectations aren’t always what you expect them to be, and that perhaps the best defense is a good offense. Expect less and you will always be pleasantly surprised, grateful, even thrilled at times.
P.S.
Thinking about expectations, makes me also think about what is real? Who is real? Who is being real with you? How are we supposed to be able to figure that out? Everything lately seems to be all upside down. Knowing what is real has become such a challenge.
I find myself wishing that like the bunny in Velveteen Rabbit, that the more loved you are, the more real you would become; that the older, less attractive, more threadbare you became from being loved, the more real you would become. This seems like a simple, very detectable measurement by which to judge things. What do you think?
During this summer when I was driving back and forth to Boston for radiation, I had much time to discuss things, much things to discuss, and somehow the conversations always seemed to touch upon expectations.
Why are our expectations so high? It may start young. When we are little and our parents drop us off at a play date; they promise to pick us up at a certain time…and they do. We come to expect that if someone says that they will be there for us, they will be. Many of our parents come from the depression era, where getting a college education seemed to be the key to success (many of them didn’t have this advantage). If you could get a college education, and you weren’t plagued with a mental or physical disability…you would automatically get a good job, and make a good living…and you would be better off than your parents and likewise, your children receiving the same benefit of an education, would be better off than you. We’ve grown up watching TV where bad guys are caught and prosecuted; where liars are realized. On TV we also saw how people worked hard, made money and bought really, really big houses, and lots of things. Our government allowed us to expect that we could borrow from the future while living decadently in the present…and that it would work out.
What do we expect? We expect that we will grow old. We expect that our kids will outlive us. We expect that we will have a roof over our head. We expect that our spouses should/will understand us…know us…but they don’t always. We expect that our government will take care of us…but they don’t. We expect that if we eat at an excellent restaurant that we will have an excellent meal, and service; but we know enough to know that this may not always happen. We expect that our family and friends will be there for us in a time of crisis…that doesn’t always happen. We expect that when we read a good movie review, that the movie will actually be good. We expect that when the traffic light is green, it’s safe to go. We expect that if we get a college education, we will get a good job…or we used to expect this. We expect that our business partners will not rip us off. We expect that if we work hard, we will make a good living. We expect that our doctor’s know what they are talking about, and if they don’t they will refer us to someone who does…but they don’t necessarily do this. We expect that when the label says “99% fat free”, or “doesn’t contain nuts”, that it has only 1% fat, and no nuts. We expect lots and lots of things.
I find/found along with all the people I discussed expectations with…that not having them be met can be heartbreaking, angering, confusing, and disappointing. I’m guessing that many more with whom I’ve not yet had the occasion to discuss expectations…feel the same way.
My conclusion. Expectations aren’t always what you expect them to be, and that perhaps the best defense is a good offense. Expect less and you will always be pleasantly surprised, grateful, even thrilled at times.
P.S.
Thinking about expectations, makes me also think about what is real? Who is real? Who is being real with you? How are we supposed to be able to figure that out? Everything lately seems to be all upside down. Knowing what is real has become such a challenge.
I find myself wishing that like the bunny in Velveteen Rabbit, that the more loved you are, the more real you would become; that the older, less attractive, more threadbare you became from being loved, the more real you would become. This seems like a simple, very detectable measurement by which to judge things. What do you think?
Monday, October 20, 2008
The power of fear
Perhaps because this is Breast Cancer Awareness Month, there have been many stories on TV, in magazines, and online about cancer, of fear, of surviving …these all hit home; and they also make me aware not only of Breast Cancer, or Cancer in general, but fear…and how much of it we all have.
We have fear of our dying, fear of the ones we love dying, fear of growing old, fear of ageism, fear of separation, fear of commitment, fear of inadequacy, fear of never reaching our potential, fear of poverty, fear of losing what we have, fear of never having anything, fear of small spaces, fear of too much space, fear of heights, fear of not being seen for all we may be, fear of being seen for all that we may not actually be, fear of being alone, fear of crowds, fear of terrorism, fear of being attacked while at home, fear of being attacked when we are out of our home, fear of global warming, fear of overpopulation, fear of winter, fear of water, fear of bugs, fear of dogs, fear of germs, fear of a lack of control…so many fears.
Then there are the survivor stories; people who have been through some of the worst circumstances that a person can imagine. But they have gone through it…mostly because they had to, because lets face it, what is the alternative? You fight to live another day. There is a common thread I’ve noticed to many of these stories; these survivors often say that after having been through what may be the worst times of their lives, they are afraid of nothing anymore. They have looked fear in the face, and conquered it, and for that they are grateful and forever unchanged. I believe this to be mostly true. For me personally, there are many challenges that no longer rock me, but I don’t think all these survivors speak completely honestly. There is one huge fear that overwhelms me…that may always overwhelm me, and I’m sure that I’m not the only one; the fear of not being able to always choose the fears I wish to overcome. If I choose to jump out of a plane, or to speak in front of 10,000 people; (when at one time I would be too afraid to do either of these things), this is my choice. If I get sick again, I don’t choose this; I believe the biggest fear that I have is that I cannot choose all of what I don’t want to happen.
So ultimately, what’s behind any good fear? The lack of control…this is the hardest one to beat.
We have fear of our dying, fear of the ones we love dying, fear of growing old, fear of ageism, fear of separation, fear of commitment, fear of inadequacy, fear of never reaching our potential, fear of poverty, fear of losing what we have, fear of never having anything, fear of small spaces, fear of too much space, fear of heights, fear of not being seen for all we may be, fear of being seen for all that we may not actually be, fear of being alone, fear of crowds, fear of terrorism, fear of being attacked while at home, fear of being attacked when we are out of our home, fear of global warming, fear of overpopulation, fear of winter, fear of water, fear of bugs, fear of dogs, fear of germs, fear of a lack of control…so many fears.
Then there are the survivor stories; people who have been through some of the worst circumstances that a person can imagine. But they have gone through it…mostly because they had to, because lets face it, what is the alternative? You fight to live another day. There is a common thread I’ve noticed to many of these stories; these survivors often say that after having been through what may be the worst times of their lives, they are afraid of nothing anymore. They have looked fear in the face, and conquered it, and for that they are grateful and forever unchanged. I believe this to be mostly true. For me personally, there are many challenges that no longer rock me, but I don’t think all these survivors speak completely honestly. There is one huge fear that overwhelms me…that may always overwhelm me, and I’m sure that I’m not the only one; the fear of not being able to always choose the fears I wish to overcome. If I choose to jump out of a plane, or to speak in front of 10,000 people; (when at one time I would be too afraid to do either of these things), this is my choice. If I get sick again, I don’t choose this; I believe the biggest fear that I have is that I cannot choose all of what I don’t want to happen.
So ultimately, what’s behind any good fear? The lack of control…this is the hardest one to beat.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Two months after radiation-I’m so tired of being me
When you’re sick in bed, what might you be doing? What might I be doing? Watching TV. What’s on? Not much. What’s worth watching? Not much. It’s too depressing to watch Jerry Springer, Steve Wilkos, or Maury Povich. There’s Oprah, Ellen, Tyra, and for a short while…Wendy, this is occasionally good...but mostly there are movies (some good, some not so good, many bad), and the NEWS. The NEWS now is especially tormenting. You want to watch, you need to watch, you shouldn’t watch, you have to watch. What difference does it make if you watch? So is it NEWS or a bad movie? Oh, all the decisions for a sick person.
The world seems to be imploding…and so am I. A week after I consulted with Dr. ENT and received his clean bill of health, I felt really awful. So off I went to Dr. Ear. Dr. Ear sits at the bottom of the Ear, Nose and Throat pyramid. While my Dr. ENT deals with life saving surgeries, Dr. Ear deals with abscesses and wax…gross. So he does his Dr. Ear thing and proclaims that I have an ear infection, and…a sinus infection…something Dr. ENT emphatically denied I had…in fact he said that any irritation I had was most likely due to radiation, and that I would have it forever. When I tell Dr. Ear what Dr. ENT said, he says this “well, I don’t know what to tell you, this is what we do here, and you have a huge infection”. I like how he says that that is what he does…proudly he pronounces that this dripping, waxy, oozing territory is his…Dr. ENT would not get close to this stuff…too beneath him. So beneath him I guess, that he was even unable to see it.
This was a happy day for me; finally I had someone who concurred with what I was feeling about myself…that I was infected and needed modern day medicine…something more than hope and saline spray. I went to the pharmacy, filled my prescription, took it, and started down a sad and sick path that I had not visited since last October right after I had surgery. Not even during radiation did I feel this bad. I began to hear a whooshing noise in my hearless ear, I ached all over, I was dizzy, my ear pounded with pain, I was nauseous, sick, and did I mention extremely sad?
I called Dr. Ear and he told me to stop taking the medicine, that I was probably having an allergic reaction. He prescribed medicine #2…I started to take that…I felt worse…as though that was even possible. As elated as I was initially with Dr. Ear, my enthusiasm had waned completely; it made me start to question his bold statement “this is what I do”. For me, he wasn’t doing such a good job. Besides the fact that I was now feeling sicker, I was confused about what was wrong with me. Was this an allergic reaction, was it radiation, was it tumor? And the whooshing was just driving me nuts. I have such a stew of doctors at the moment…neurologist, radiation oncologist, PCP, neurosurgeon, ENT, head and neck surgeon…I just wasn’t sure to whom to tell my story. I called my PCP…always a calm guy in the storm. He listened and decided to prescribe a regular broad base antibiotic…nothing to 21st century, and said to give it a few days and see how I feel. He also added that if the whooshing continued that I should call my neurologist.
I took the broad base antibiotic, the whooshing started to recede, I do feel better, still have an earache…but I’m relieved to have dropped some of the other symptoms. No more whooshing.
What can I say; it was a setback I could have done without. As I approach the one-year mark from my surgery last year, I feel so tired of this, so tired of being this me.
The world seems to be imploding…and so am I. A week after I consulted with Dr. ENT and received his clean bill of health, I felt really awful. So off I went to Dr. Ear. Dr. Ear sits at the bottom of the Ear, Nose and Throat pyramid. While my Dr. ENT deals with life saving surgeries, Dr. Ear deals with abscesses and wax…gross. So he does his Dr. Ear thing and proclaims that I have an ear infection, and…a sinus infection…something Dr. ENT emphatically denied I had…in fact he said that any irritation I had was most likely due to radiation, and that I would have it forever. When I tell Dr. Ear what Dr. ENT said, he says this “well, I don’t know what to tell you, this is what we do here, and you have a huge infection”. I like how he says that that is what he does…proudly he pronounces that this dripping, waxy, oozing territory is his…Dr. ENT would not get close to this stuff…too beneath him. So beneath him I guess, that he was even unable to see it.
This was a happy day for me; finally I had someone who concurred with what I was feeling about myself…that I was infected and needed modern day medicine…something more than hope and saline spray. I went to the pharmacy, filled my prescription, took it, and started down a sad and sick path that I had not visited since last October right after I had surgery. Not even during radiation did I feel this bad. I began to hear a whooshing noise in my hearless ear, I ached all over, I was dizzy, my ear pounded with pain, I was nauseous, sick, and did I mention extremely sad?
I called Dr. Ear and he told me to stop taking the medicine, that I was probably having an allergic reaction. He prescribed medicine #2…I started to take that…I felt worse…as though that was even possible. As elated as I was initially with Dr. Ear, my enthusiasm had waned completely; it made me start to question his bold statement “this is what I do”. For me, he wasn’t doing such a good job. Besides the fact that I was now feeling sicker, I was confused about what was wrong with me. Was this an allergic reaction, was it radiation, was it tumor? And the whooshing was just driving me nuts. I have such a stew of doctors at the moment…neurologist, radiation oncologist, PCP, neurosurgeon, ENT, head and neck surgeon…I just wasn’t sure to whom to tell my story. I called my PCP…always a calm guy in the storm. He listened and decided to prescribe a regular broad base antibiotic…nothing to 21st century, and said to give it a few days and see how I feel. He also added that if the whooshing continued that I should call my neurologist.
I took the broad base antibiotic, the whooshing started to recede, I do feel better, still have an earache…but I’m relieved to have dropped some of the other symptoms. No more whooshing.
What can I say; it was a setback I could have done without. As I approach the one-year mark from my surgery last year, I feel so tired of this, so tired of being this me.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Esmie Woodhouse
Some things, no matter how much you may try…just don’t make sense.
My yoga teacher suffered an aneurysm last Sunday, a day after our Saturday morning class. The word unbelievable doesn’t describe what this is…I can’t find a word.
The fact that this happened turns sense on its ear. Esmie is inspirational. She is 65 years old and looks and seems like she is twenty years younger. She sees the world as a connective whole; she believes that we all have an influence on each other and that we are at our best when we are centered, calm and positive. She believes in a higher power, and that that power will take care of you; she has been one of my biggest supporters during this very trying year, and she is my friend.
Her class has become more than just a yoga class for me over the eight years that I’ve been going; this year especially, it has become a barometer of sorts. I would try and get to that class if I had even just the smallest amount of energy; if I could make it to the class I would feel better afterward for having been there, and a sense of accomplishment in having gone.
Out of control is what this feels like, there isn’t very much I can do right now, so I will do what I know she had done for me during this last year; I will think of her every day. Through thought I will send her healing energy, and I will hope that not only her physical strength, but that her spiritual belief will restore her to a happy, healthy life.
Saturdays will be different for a while.
My yoga teacher suffered an aneurysm last Sunday, a day after our Saturday morning class. The word unbelievable doesn’t describe what this is…I can’t find a word.
The fact that this happened turns sense on its ear. Esmie is inspirational. She is 65 years old and looks and seems like she is twenty years younger. She sees the world as a connective whole; she believes that we all have an influence on each other and that we are at our best when we are centered, calm and positive. She believes in a higher power, and that that power will take care of you; she has been one of my biggest supporters during this very trying year, and she is my friend.
Her class has become more than just a yoga class for me over the eight years that I’ve been going; this year especially, it has become a barometer of sorts. I would try and get to that class if I had even just the smallest amount of energy; if I could make it to the class I would feel better afterward for having been there, and a sense of accomplishment in having gone.
Out of control is what this feels like, there isn’t very much I can do right now, so I will do what I know she had done for me during this last year; I will think of her every day. Through thought I will send her healing energy, and I will hope that not only her physical strength, but that her spiritual belief will restore her to a happy, healthy life.
Saturdays will be different for a while.
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