Back in the Hospital (I could not think of a catchy title)

I started feeling crummy last week, with a pain in my side and no appetite.  I slowly got worse until finally the pain was so bad it was making me sick.  When Nicole, my home health aide, arrived on Thursday, she took one look at me and said “I am taking you to the ER.”

When we got there she peeled up and parked all crooked, as though I were a trauma victim bleeding to death.  We hadn’t brought my wheelchair because we figured there would be one at the ER.  But there wasn’t.  So my sweet Nicole, who takes such good care of me, had a Terms-of-Endearment-Shirley-Maclaine melt down, yelling “What kind of hospital doesn’t have wheelchairs?!?!”

Well they dug one up, registered me, realized I was a minor VIP (past director in the system and daughter and son-in-law both still working for the hospital) and the testing began.  They diagnosed exactly what I knew it was.

An inflamed gall bladder.  Cholecystitis.  Mundane, middle aged, ordinary.  Embarrassingly banal.  Minor surgery, admitted in the morning, home by evening.

Unless you have MS, lymphedema and a partially paralyzed diaphragm.  Then it is a medical emergency, a crisis that requires consults with a cast of thousands:  anesthesiologists, surgeons, pulmonologists and, I swear, passers-by on the street.  The consensus: the surgery to remove the gall bladder is simply too risky.  I was facing days in the ICU, prolonged intubation and a possible tracheotomy (an opening cut into my throat into which a tube would be inserted).  Not to mention a slow and horrifying death.

So now the plan is to do a less invasive procedure that will hopefully quiet down the gall bladder, prevent it from getting gangrenous and buy some time to figure out some more options.

In the meantime, a mass has been found on my liver.  Because all the other stuff was not enough.  So I had an MRI for that yesterday.  I had to leave the hospital because they had to use a special machine.  When the EMT’s arrived to transport me, the first guy took one look at me and, at the top of his voice, announced “No way is she going fit on our stretcher”.  I could feel my face get hot, I was so mortified.  The nurse and aide gasped.  Even his partner looked uncomfortable.  Trying to maintain some shred of dignity I told them I never had a problem “fitting” on a gurney before. How about I just try it?  He ignored me, went into the hall to call his dispatch and loudly asked how long it would take to get a bariatric stretcher.  Four hours.  I would not make my appointment.  But I knew I didn’t need it, that I would be ok on a regular gurney.  Finally he reluctantly agreed to let me try, all the while muttering dire warnings about hideous discomfort to my fat, fat, fat body.  And guess what?  I fit, as I knew I would, with room to spare, and was completely comfortable.

This guy is now my candidate for The Asshole Hall of Fame.

On the plus side, when I got to the MRI center, the tech was my old friend Nicky, who has been doing my MRI’s since I first got sick in 2005.  He is the most incredibly kind man.  After one MRI a few years ago, when I was in tears from so much pain, he actually got down on his knees, put on my socks and sneakers and tied them for me.    I had forgotten he told me he moonlighted at this place.  His sweet demeanor and constant concern for my comfort was a real gift.

Then when I got back to the hospital, the staff had a surprise for me.  They had been so upset over how the EMT had treated me, they moved me to a private room and presented it with a big “TA DA!!” like a Christmas present.  They are the best.  So, so kind.  It makes a huge difference.

My friends on Facebook have also overwhelmed me with their love and caring.  Message after message of support, encouragement, prayers and reassurance are like lifelines.  I am so lucky.

So now I am just hanging out, day four in the hospital, waiting for the results of the MRI to diagnose what is going on with my liver.  Tomorrow I should have the minor procedure.  My pain level is pretty high, so I am existing from shot to shot.  One doctor was just in and asked how I was doing.  I said my pain level was up there and the medicine just wasn’t helping as much anymore.  He didn’t respond, but asked a few more questions and then said, ok, glad you are doing well see you tomorrow.  Um, what about my pain? I ask.  Oh…well, make sure you ask for your medicine when it is due.  Smile.  Bye.

Sigh.

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Love Hurts

I would like to ban Mother's Day.  Perhaps Christmas and Thanksgiving as well.  For so many of us, it is simply one more opportunity to have your heart ripped out of your chest.  It could be a passive aggressive or actively abusive partner, a thankless, deliberately hurtful child or a resentful, narcissistic parent.  Or, for those of us who have truly hit the jackpot, it could be all three.  Not to mention missing my beloved grandmother, who was like a mother to me.  The day ends up being just another exercise in pain, regret and self doubt.

I never heard from two of my four children on Mother's Day.  But I Skyped for almost an hour with my daughter in Texas while we laughed and she repeatedly told me she loved me.  And my other daughter posted this on Facebook:

Happy Mothers Day to all the amazing women I know especially my mom who always surrounded me with strong wonderful women and made me the mother I am today. And to my mother and sister and in laws who treat my baby girl like their own!

I guess I am not all bad.

Happy Mother's Day to all mothers out there and to all who are like mothers to other people.  Thank you for all you have done and continue to do.

Music to be sad by (lol):


   










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The Wisdom of Two

I have a relentless, embarrassing, corny sense of humor (I know the mythology is we women are frequently destined to become our mothers, but I have actually turned into my father).  Because of that, whenever I talk to my granddaughter about broccoli, which she loves, I sing "Brocc-a-leee" like Dana Carvey.

Apparently she can discern the difference between funny and annoying at the age of two.  Because when I do this she looks at me solemnly, points her finger at me and says firmly " 'Top it!"

This is also the child who insists her parents were traveling to Cancun on vacation in a rocket ship.  Who knew she knew what a rocket ship was?!

P.S. I still think Dana Carvey's Broccoli is funny.  "There's a lady that I know.  If I didn't know her, she'd be the lady I didn't know."  Priceless.









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Love You Forever

April 17, 1977 was a lovely, warm, early spring day in New York City.  On that day, in St. Vincent’sHospital in Greenwich Village, at the age of 22, I became a mother for the first time.

I had been very excited about having this little person.  It was uncommon in those days to find out the gender ahead of time, so we did not know if we would be welcoming Anna or Ryan.  Even as recently as 1977, in a supposedly modern hospital, we had to jump through hoops for my husband to be with me through labor and in the delivery room.  Not only did we have to attend classes, we had to get special signed permission from our obstetrician.  (I also had to get special dispensation to not have my arms strapped to the side of the delivery table in leather straps, something I was horrified to see on the L & D tour with the Lamaze class).  My doctor’s name was Hardart and he was indeed the son of the Horn and Hardart automat fortune.  A legendary devout Roman Catholic, he was the go-to GYN for nuns.  There were always at least two in the waiting room.  He also refused to dispense birth control.  I took care of that myself, so that was not an issue for me, I went to him because he had a good reputation in our family.

The baby was due April 1 but made no appearance.  The ensuing 17 days were incredibly long.  My grandmother, mother and aunt called me every single day, as if I would not have let them know if I had had the baby.  My aunt, a nurse, worked at St. Vincent’s at the time.  If she did not get me at home, she would call the L & D floor looking for me.  By the time I actually did get there the reaction was “Mrs. Cooper!!  We’ve been waiting for you!”

Ever the obedient pupil, I followed to the letter the instructions to eat lightly as my due date approached, so I would “avoid going into labor with a full stomach.”  It was promised whatever I ate would reappear if I over did it.  So for three weeks I ate nothing but broth, crackers and jello.  By April 16 I looked at Dennis and said “F this, I am starving!!”  We went to our local Italian place where I had ravioli, garlic bread and stuffed clams.  I went into labor at one in the morning.  (And for future reference I noted it all stayed put, thank you very much.)

Giddy with excitement and relief, we raced to the hospital at practically the first contraction.  Way, way too early.  Labor and delivery units operated under strict and Draconian protocols.  Once you got to the hospital, you were confined to bed and not allowed to walk or do anything to keep your labor manageable, except the Lamaze breathing.  Patterned breathing can be effective, but it does have its limits if you have no other tools to use.  We got there around three a.m., having no clue it would be 13 more very long hours of labor.

Around noon I did opt for one shot of Demerol, the only medication I ever took in any of my four labors.  It did nothing but put me to sleep in between contractions.  I would wake up in extraordinary pain and then conk out again.  At one point I gazed over, half asleep, to see Dennis sitting in the bedside chair, engrossed in the Daily News (the Son of Sam killer had struck again during the night). I could have cheerfully choked him at that moment.  It still makes me laugh to vividly remember thinking I would give anything to be sitting in that chair reading the paper.

Once the baby was close to birth, there was a mad flurry of (pointless) activity as I was whisked to the delivery room.  I won’t even comment on the medieval absurdity of this treatment.  But for me, the bottom line at that moment was, I was about to have my baby.

He was actually held up by his feet in the stereotyped way you see in the movies. His little body was sort of flat, all soft angles, and his skin was a translucent pale greenish color.  Then, as I watched, all the angles puffed out and he pinked up from head to toe as he took his first breath and let out a cry.

He was simply lovely.

One of my favorite pictures of us, his first day of kindergarten.

And he stayed lovely.  He rarely cried and had a sweet, solemn demeanor that took in everything.  You could practically see the wheels turning as he observed things.  He had an adorable chuckle when something tickled his fancy.  It was such fun to watch him develop and grow into a little person.

Trust me, he was not perfect.  But he grew into a boy and then a man I was so proud of in so many ways.  We had some very rough times after his dad died.  But as adults, we seemed to have found a common ground.  He was completely independent and self-sufficient, but as I became more financially comfortable, I was thrilled to able to help him a little more.   He traveled a lot and always sent a postcard or brought back a thoughtful token, like wool from New Zealand where he and his wife went on their honeymoon.  And little resin tea bag rest with a kiwi on it.  When I first got sick he said to me that if I got worse, I would never have to worry about where I would live, I would always have a place with him and his wife.

We went to museum exhibitions together and talked about movies and books and politics.  He asked me to hold the Bible for him as he was sworn in as an attorney.  He and his wife, who I love dearly, bought a charming home and we had a fun family Easter brunch there the first year they were in the house.  They welcomed me to their lake house, where her family has vacationed for a century.  I was thrilled for them as they began their life together.

In May of 2010 he had some time off for the first time in probably a decade.  He had worked his way through college and law school and then went straight to work, with no break.  He invited me up to the house to have lunch with him.  He made a fantastic salad.  I gave him his birthday presents and belated wedding presents, two little oil paintings that reminded me of their place in the Adirondacks.  We had such a nice afternoon.

He has never voluntarily spoken to me since that day.

I do not know what happened.  I do not know what I did to upset him or hurt him.  I have agonized over that day, and others, trying to remember what we talked about, what I might have done, but I cannot think of anything.  I have teased him, tried to cajole him, and finally wept and begged him to tell me what I had done and how could I fix it.  But he has only said it is about him and this is something he needed to do.

I have cried more, prayed more, tortured myself more over this than any bad thing that has happened to me in my entire life.  When he had his own little boy last year I thought, now he will know, now he will understand, and he will come back.  But he didn’t.

When he was born, my family descended on St. Vincent’s like a joyful cloud.  My grandparents, my parents, my aunts.  Time has taken a painful toll.  My beloved grandparents are gone now, as are Dennis and my mother.  Even the hospital doesn’t exist anymore, it went bankrupt and closed in 2010 after serving New York City  for 161 years.  The aunt I was so close to, my mother’s youngest sister, the one who called me every day those last three weeks, no longer speaks to me, as we vehemently disagreed over the care my mother received in her last months.  My own nuclear family is fractured by sadness and reproach.  And I don’t even know how it happened. 

Another of my mother’s sisters used to send my grandmother flowers on her own birthday, to say thank you for having given birth to her.  I want to send Ryan virtual flowers, a virtual botanic garden, to thank him for making me a mother.  Despite everything, being a mother is the best thing I have ever been, it is the job I have been happiest at, ever. 

As multiple sclerosis progresses, I recognize how numbered my days are.  I do not have decades left.  I will hope against hope that whatever occurred that caused him such distress can be reconciled  and resolved.  We are missing so much.  As hard as it is for me, it is equally hard to think of him suffering.  He will always be my precious boy, no matter what.





In My Life, the song he picked for us to dance to at his wedding.

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A Member of the Club

My mother has told me that I adored the original Mickey Mouse Club, which came on around supper time in the New York City area in the late 1950’s.  I was a real Disney kid, weaned on all the fairy tales, and I can tell you they did not serve me well.  Even though I perpetuated the game with my own daughters, anthropomorphizing animals and advising someday a prince would come.  Why should my therapist have all the fun?

I watched so much television as a child it is a wonder I ever learned how to read.  Before the Mickey Mouse Club was other children’s programming, such as cartoons, and horror shows like Queen for a Day, which my mother would make me turn off if she found me watching it.   But I would be glued to the set for the Mouseketeers.  I especially liked the serials, such as Spin and Marty and The Hardy Boys. 

But Annette?  I was not a fan.

Even at that age, four to about six, I was unimpressed by her 'talent’.  To be honest, I really thought she was a wimp.

I never was into the beach blanket movies, I hated the giggly, girly-girl, manipulative behavior they promoted.  I never wanted to be that sort of girl.  If I couldn’t get a boy with my brains I didn’t want him.

Needless to say, I didn’t get many.

But that was ok.  I didn’t want to be Annette.  By the sixties I was heavily into the counterculture.  (wait a minute, I need to give anyone who knew me then time to laugh).  Let me amend that.  I was heavily into a suburban, white, Irish Catholic, unbelievably naïve, adolescent girl’s version of the counterculture.  I hung out in New York City.  But not too late.  I went to demonstrations.  But only with a friend.  I watched depressing movies (Panic in Needle Park was a fav), but I still read Sixteen magazine.  I dressed in jeans and cotton peasant blouses.  Unless my aunt was treating me to a dress from an exclusive boutique.

My friends and I did actually hang out with drug addicts.  Our CYO project was dancing with them at the local mental hospital, like some kind of deranged USO Canteen.  I still can’t believe my parents let me do that.  Although it did put me off serious drugs forever.  When I learned that heroin addiction could cause you to lose your teeth, it was like taking the WCTU Pledge. 

So, I had no interest in Annette, except as a vague nostalgic memory.  She was a boring goody two shoes. 

When she revealed her diagnosis of MS, I had other things on my mind then as well, she still barely registered on my radar.  That year, 1993, was the year my husband died.  I hadn’t worked in 15 years, I had four children to support and no life insurance.  Annette was the least of my worries.

Even when I found out I had MS as well, I did not feel any kinship.  I was in the club alright, but the one no one wanted to belong to.    MS is funny.  Many people assume that just because you have the same illness, you automatically have a bond.  People with and without MS assume this.  I still felt I had as much in common with Annette as the man in the moon.

But, ironically, her death has linked us.  She died of the infamous "Complications of MS".  MS does not kill you by itself, it allows one of it's many henchmen to do the dirty work.  It could be a systemic bladder infection, paralytic illeus, pneumonia, infected bed sores or any of a slew of other miserable, painful, things that induce gratuitous suffering.   

Annette was only 70, twelve years older than I am.  Her grandchildren will not know her, she will not see them grow up, graduate from college, start families, all things my kids benefited from, as my grandparents lived till their nineties.  With MS, we do not have that gift.  We have pain, weakness, disability, limits.  I know that may sound like I have a bad attitude, but that is the reality.  I do enjoy my life and I am grateful for what I still am able to do.  But I hate being the Sick Grandma, the one who can’t run around and play.  Sheppy, 6, hugs me gently and pats me like I am breakable.  Maddy, 2, is always sticking bits of tape on me to fix my boo-boos.  I don’t know my other precious, year old grandson at all, my son declines to include me in their lives.  While it is like having my heart wrenched out, I miss them so much, maybe it is better that way.

Now that Annette has died, I finally feel a connection with her and I am so, so sorry for all she lost and all she will miss, for all who loved and will miss her.  I am counting on God’s promise that we will all be healed with Him and I like to keep an image of her shaking her cheerful, perky little head and saying, “Oh, no honey, it’s fine!!  All better now!”   Oh, Annette, I so hope so.  That’s the club I want to join.  See ‘ya real soon.

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Wouldn't It Be Loverly?

Boo hoo hoo.  Here comes a major whine.  I indulge myself partly because it can be a relief to express the hard stuff, just to get it out there.  But mostly I hope that anyone reading about what I am going through will know they are not alone if they are experiencing similar challenges.  Somehow knowing that can make a difference.

I am woefully behind in posting here.  I am not feeling well and I am just so tired of even thinking about being sick, never mind writing about it.

As the effects of the steroids I got in the hospital wore off, the lymphedema in my legs returned in spades.  The pain is unbelievable, which is a pretty strong statement from someone who had two babies at home.  If I stay completely immobile, it is tolerable, but it is impossible to not move at all!    To simply make a cup of tea is a struggle that most of the time is not even worth it.  It is so much effort to just get into the kitchen that as often as not I don’t even bother with fixing a meal.  You would think between the sheer exertion and the reduction in eating I would be thin as a rail.  But noooooooo.  Not me.  I am the only human being in history who can eat less and gain more.  Additional injustice. 

The shortness of breath is creeping back, so I started another course of steroids today, at home this time, thank goodness.  And hopefully because I am nipping it in the bud, it will resolve quickly.  Although heaven knows what we are going to do to about this as an ongoing issue.  Next week I go back once again to try the lymphedema treatment.  Hopefully this time will be a success.  As far as the paralyzed diaphragm and shortness of breath…the possibility that this will never get better is too scary to contemplate. 

I am feeling overwhelmed by everything.  I worked so hard to achieve what I did in my career.  However, my prior considerable income is now defunct and I have massive financial issues and responsibilities.  But so much is being neglected because I am so sick.  Having all these things hanging over my head just adds to the stress level.

Besides being absorbed by illness, I am also immersed in regrets and melancholy and beating myself up.  Since all I do, practically, is lie in bed, why have I not completed all my thank you notes to all the wonderful people in my life who have visited and been there for me?  I am so self-involved right now I had very little to do with planning my daughter’s wedding this past Saturday.  But she never complained, she managed everything herself and it was a lovely day.  My gorgeous, funny, smart children were all at the wedding.  But seeing them all together just reminded me of how infrequently I see them in everyday life.  I torture myself with self-doubt about my parenting.  I remember every flaw I have as a mother and every misstep I took as a parent.  I desperately wanted to be perfect for them and fell far short of the mark.

 

In a true coincidence, thirty seven years ago my late husband Dennis and I attended my college senior prom at the very place that Mary Kate’s wedding and reception was held. The Georgian Court College class of 1976 had it's senior prom at Christie's in Wanamassa, which had been there since at least the 1930's.  Now it is the English Manor.  We weren't engaged or even serious at that time.  Who knew that someday we would even have a daughter, never mind that our daughter would be getting married right where we were sitting!   Or that I would eventually buy my own cherished home just a few blocks away?  I was consumed with memories and a sense of incredible poignancy the whole evening.

A decade ago, as I became more and more independent and financially secure, I had envisioned myself at this point in my life maybe working overseas for a while.  My dream was to live in London for a year or two.  I never imagined I would not only not be traveling, but I would be losing everything I worked so hard for and would need another person to help me bathe and dress.

Sigh.

Despite all these complaints, I really am not terribly greedy.  This song popped into my head the other day as an example of how simple my wants really are:

Listening to it again made me so nostalgic and triggered so many more memories!  My father is the one who introduced me to Broadway musicals, he had dozens of records that I listened to all the time and My Fair Lady was one of my favorites.   He had the original recording, with the Hirschfeld illustration of George Bernard Shaw in Heaven, manipulating Professor Higgins and Eliza like marionettes.  It makes me smile because of course I thought Shaw was actually God: an old man with a beard in Heaven = God.  I knew every word to every song and sang along with gusto.  I was such a little ham.

When I was in college I was in a production of Pygmalion and I played Colonel Pickering, Professor Higgins best friend.  (What can I say, it was an all girl’s school.)  My only line was “By Jove, Eliza, the streets will be full of men shooting themselves for you.”  Instead, during one rehearsal I said, “By Jove, Eliza, the streets will be full of men shooting at you!”  That was it, we could never get through that scene without dissolving into giggles. 

For years, when I was little, every Saturday my father drove from the Bronx to Yonkers for me to have my ballet lessons with my cousins. In the car both ways we would sing all sorts of old songs.  This memory is especially precious because it really was the only time I was ever alone with my father, the only time he appeared to even acknowledge my existence.  I don’t mean that as a criticism, just as a fact.  My poor parents were not suited to have children and didn’t know quite what to do with us.  I don’t think it ever occurred to them we could be fun.

I think, for me, the worst part about dealing with all the sickness and loss is going through it with no partner, no one to share the burden, no one to commiserate with.  Friends are a true gift, but still different from a single, loving individual.  How I long for someone’s head resting on my knee, warm and tender as he can be, who’ll take good care of me.   Really, when you consider it, something we all need and deserve.

Wouldn’t it be loverly?

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Accentuate the Positive

A week plus and I am feeling stronger.  It seems as though something unlatched a little and I can breathe a bit better.  PT and OT are definitely helping.  And I cannot say enough good things about the therapists themselves.  There is respect and caring for each patient as an individual.  They are very skilled but still earnest and encouraging.   My primary physical therapist laughs at my jokes, so he was an instant win.  Truly, almost everyone else working here is incredibly pleasant and helpful.

Because they are only people, there is the odd one or two lacking that balance of expertise and warmth.  I was sent for pulmonary rehab to see if it would be helpful.  Four of us were wheeled into a therapy room and pretty much ignored while the therapists discussed their plans.  Finally the Leader spun around and said, as if she was addressing imbeciles, “Ok, who remembers what we learned yesterday?”  Of course, ever the wise ass, I started to answer with a grin, “Not me!” (I hadn’t been there the day before).  Before I could get out two syllables, she said loudly, without even looking at me, “Except you Mrs. Cooper.”

Well hush my mouth.

She clearly found me irritating and, correspondingly, I couldn’t wait to get out of there.   I won’t be going back.  Besides the fact she is the only flat-out surly therapist I have encountered,  it really was redundant to what I was doing in PT.

I have to deal with many tiny aggravations every day.  There are big ones, too, including facing the fact that my health is failing.  But there are highlights that stand out from the past few days, things that seem minor but actually are huge in the scheme of things as far as making a difference goes.  They are small acts of kindness that provide proof of the goodness of most people.  Referring to them as small seems like a slight, although these ordinary things are often unnoticed or unseen.  But they carry so much power.

While I was in the first hospital the aide was in the room taking my vitals at about two in the morning.  A tech ambled by in the hall and she called out to him.  He backed up and was clearly pleased to see her.  “Hey girl!”  She went into the hall and I watched the two of them talking and laughing.  He was adorable and funny.  When he left, she came back and told me what a sweet guy he was.  I told her how cute he was.  A few minutes later, he strolled by again.  “Lamar!” she called, “My lady here thinks you are cute.”  He shot to attention and put on an exaggerated flirty performance.  He danced like Conan O’Brien and made up a rap song on the spot singing my praises.  The aide and I were in stitches and it really raised my spirits, he was so young and so sweet.  She chased him away and as he left he gave me the ‘call me’ sign. Too funny.

The first night I was here in rehab, I was literally too weak to even clean and dress myself.  My nurse’s aide bathed me in bed and changed the bed at the same time, totally matter of fact and kind.  I am used to feeling mortified and bereft when I am so helpless, but she was so sweet it felt like an ordinary, everyday thing.  And let me tell you, having someone one third of your age say “Ok, honey bunny!” as she finishes getting you dressed is in no way condescending.  It made my day.

My first roommate was very infirm and uncommunicative.  I suppose people thought because she didn’t say much, she was deaf.  Which she wasn’t.  But people yelled at her all day long.  “Mary (not her real name) eat!!”  “Mary swallow!!”  “Mary pick your head up!!”  “Mary, what is the matter with you?!?!”  “Mary, do you want a Xanax?!”

One night, the night shift nurse brought in her meds.  She quietly asked Mary how she was.  Mary replied, “Not good, I’m very nervous.”  Instead of screaming at her did she want a Xanax, this nurse sweetly said, “Well, we have something I can give you to make you feel better.  Would you like that?”  Mary said yes please.  The nurse returned and helped her with water.  And then she said the most incredible thing:  “Would you like me to sit with you until you feel better?”  Her demeanor seemed to have made all the difference, because Mary calmly said “No thank you” and drifted off to sleep.

And then there are the visits from my friends!  People who lead such incredibly busy lives, taking the time to come and sit with me, bringing me fruit and tea, my two favorites!  Sometimes my PT/OT schedule conflicts with visits, but that is the primary reason I’m here, so I have to do the therapy.  But people are even coming back if they have missed me!!  Incredible.  Our new interim Rector, who I had not even met, has visited me several times.  So generous with his time and prayers.

My granddaughter is two and obviously doesn’t understand why I am not home or what this place is.  But she was SO happy to see me when she came to visit!!  She hugged me and hugged me, saying “Grammy!!! Grammy!!!” over and over.  I can’t wait to get home and be with her again.

Can't wait to be home with her again!!

These ordinary people and ordinary actions are really what make a difference in our lives.

So there is a lot of hard stuff going on, but a lot of good to balance it.  Despite the hard stuff, I am a very lucky person.

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