jennethink

THE THING I THINK I CANNOT DO

You gain strength, courage and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You are able to say to yourself, 'I have lived through this horror. I can take the next thing that comes along.' You must do the thing you think you cannot do.
-- Eleanor Roosevelt.

Years ago I was walking briskly down the big, wide aisle by the check out lanes at Wal-mart.  I was headed to the pharmacy department because I’d heard there was a sale on some kind of something that I used. A woman was in front of me pushing a cart – she must have also heard about a sale because her cart was chock full of useless crap.  It was crowded at this Wal-Mart … as most Wal-Marts are and I kept trying to move around her and others but since idiot class had just let out I kept getting thwarted.  Finally, the majority of the crowd headed off to grab their copy of The Best of Hee Haw, and I saw an opening to pass.  Just as I was coming up on this woman’s right shoulder, she dropped to the floor.

Just like that.  Boom.  She’s on the floor.  I look at her face – she’s locked up.  She’s stiff.  Her eyes are wide open.    Her cart slowly rolls to a stop.  A yellow puddle forms around her and under her dark jeans.  The chords in her neck are standing out.  She’s making absolutely no noise.  Not a sound.

I instinctively know she’s in the middle of a seizure.  Without thinking I dropped my purse and to my knees.  I’m worried she’ll begin convulsing and slam her head on the white, polished concrete.  I immediately tell someone to call 911 and a manager.  I tell someone to give me their jacket.  I put it under her head.  I check her neck and wrists for a med-alert bracelet.  This all takes just moments. But it seems like I am moving through gravy. 

I’m the only one beside her.  Many people have stopped bargain hunting to watch but they all just form a lame circle around us.  Eventually the woman on the floor blinks.  Once.  Twice.  Then rapidly.  And it is clear she’s beginning to come around.  It hits me how scared she must be.  How out of it.  I put a smile on my face and begin saying “hey there, hi .. hi .. you’re fine I think …hi” and I nod a lot in between words.  Just about this time, medical help arrives.  She begins to try to stand.  She sees she’s lost control of her bladder.  I can feel the shame and embarrassment roll off of her.  And I act out of instinct again. 

I get up and say to the crowd.  Let’s move on, huh?

And I myself turn to walk away and let the pros take over.  As I walk away, I realize I don’t have my purse.  I turn around to get it and there is a little old woman standing there holding it for me.  She’d picked it up when I dropped it.  I walked toward her and she held it out.  She smiled.  I smiled and thanked her.  She handed me my purse and said,  "I just want to tell you, honey, that you did a great job there!  You were so calm!" 

And right then, I burst into tears.  I was fine.  I swear.  Up until that very moment I was fine.  I was grace under fire.  I was calm and cool.  I was all that and a bag of pork rinds.  But now … now that the crisis had passed.  I was an ever-lovin mess.

She gathered me up in her little 5 foot nothing frame and began patting me on the back cooing, "There there now … it was scary, wasn’t it?...yes it was…it was scary…there there."

I’m not even making this up.    I stood there for a good two minutes and cried.  It WAS scary.  And I didn’t realize just how scared I was until the crisis had ended.  I was so scared.

My next scan is November 19.

P TO THE U

My house stinks.

Not aesthetically, olfactory-ally.  I came home Monday morning, walked in, and got popped in the nose by something that can only be described as an odor.  At first I was so taken with the beams being out (PROGRESS!!!) that I didn’t really stop to dwell on the stink.  Then I hoped the garbage disposal was clogged.  Then I hoped the trash had not been taken out.  Finally, I called The Hub and said,

This house stanks!

And he said,

Yeah.  I know.


Growing up on a farm, I can identify odors pretty well.  There are a lot of smells around a farm and you need to be able to pick them out.  I know that may sound crazy but it is true.  Anyone who grew up on a farm knows the difference between the smell of horse hockey and the smell of bull shit.  Anyone who has fed and watered animals knows the smell of hay as compared to the smell of straw.  We know how old something is based on the smell.  Things can smell musty or dusty – those are different, by the way.  They can smell old or rotten – also different. Wood can smell green.  Wires can smell hot.  And we all know “it” can smell like rain. 

My nose is well refined.  I've always been sensitive to smells.  During chemo, I took this to a new level. Chemo made me very susceptible to odors. Things that were once only noticeable were painful.  Smells that wouldn’t have bothered me under normal circumstances chased me from the room.  Scents that I once found pleasant may me cry and bury my face in my turtleneck.

A lady used to come to our house and clean it for us.  We paid her to do this.  It was a nice arrangement.  We gave her money, she removed our dust and swirled a brush around the toilet.  I'm all about that.  All about paying people to do the things I’m not really into.  Like mowing the lawn.  I pay someone to do that too. 

However, during chemo, we stopped paying the nice lady to come clean our house.  This was because no matter what cleaner she used  – including "unscented" the smell made me sick.  Garlic was out.  Onions cooking was an absolute no-no. Coffee sent me running to the bathroom. In fact, both my mother and my sister took to brewing coffee on the deck.  When even that was too strong they took to drinking it on the deck too.  Eventually they went without it. 

Since those months my schnozzle has calmed down a bit. Smells don’t make me nauseous anymore … but that doesn’t mean I can’t smell them.  And, thanks to those years on the farm, that doesn’t mean I can’t identify them.

Dollars to donuts there is a dead something under my house.

I know the smell.  I recognize it.  There is something.  And it is dead.

So.  Here are the choices:

Find it
Or
Wait it out.

Which is like choosing between having your fingernails pulled or going to a Longaberger basket party.  Both are too awful to think about. For many, many reasons, none of which I will go into here, we’ve decided to wait it out. 

I'm just praying it's something small – like a mouse - and not something large - like a donkey - under there.

TAMPA BAY BREAST CANCER 3-DAY

The Tampa Bay 3-Day was this past weekend.  It was awesome.  Every week I say that.  Every week I’m right.  Awesome, awesome, awesome.  This group raised more than 5.4 million dollars.  And not only that, they walked 60 miles in 5.4 million percent humidity this weekend. 

They have their own special memories, this group. Friday night, we had to relocate them because of threats of severe weather.  They simply could not be safe and camp outside.  So we took them to a safe location to sleep.  These are the plans we always have in place, just in case.  Safety is our number one concern.  We’re going to make sure the walkers and crew are safe.  So if local authorities see that weather has turned threatening, well, we relocate to a safe site.  Guess where the safe site was?

A parking garage.

No, really. 

Apparently Florida has some strange law that you can’t overnight in a school so the best option was a parking garage.  It WAS the top floor of the parking garage – the penthouse! And it DID have a nice view of the bay … but it was a parking garage nonetheless.  And do you know what those walkers who had walked 22.5 miles that day in the blazing heat said about that?

Only good things.

Can you fathom it?  They didn’t complain.  They didn’t grumble.  Oh, I’m sure here and there they were cranky about it, who wouldn’t be?  But overall, they just chuckled. 

What memories!  They said
It wasn’t that bad!  They said
And of course, the mantra of the 3-day: It ain’t chemo!

The next morning we bussed them back to camp and they cheerfully changed in the port-a-potties and ate their hot breakfasts and took off to walk another 19 miles … smiling all the way.

How can you NOT love these people???

Being a part of the 3-Day is nearly indescribable.  It’s great.  It’s fabulous.  But it isn’t easy.  Opening ceremonies was especially tough for me this past weekend. The setting was beautiful at Sand Key Park and if it weren’t for the sand burrs that created a ring of terror and pain around the hem of my work-out pants, I’d have no complaints.  Actually I’m not even complaining about the sand burrs because they gave me some really good stories and was I or was I not told to not wear long pants?

Sand burrs aside, the ceremonies were lovely.  But difficult. Each week I worry just a little that it will get mechanical for me.  That I will come off as disingenuous.  That I’ll look out on the crowd and they will be going, “Oh blah blah blah! Get on with it already!”

And then every week something happens.  I’m the same, yes.  The ceremonies are mostly the same, yes.  But the participants change.  And when they change, reality shows up.  Reality comes right in, uninvited most of the time, and smacks me upside the head.  Every week I meet someone, talk to someone, look in the eyes of someone who is on the edge of a cliff of grief that is so deep and so vast and they are teetering.  And I can’t stop them, I can’t help them, I can’t pull them back because I know … and they know … the only cure for grief is grieving. 

And so we go over the edge together.

Danny lived with and loved his wife, Claudia, for 9523 days.  5 weeks ago a reality called breast cancer interrupted and took her life.   Claudia’s daughter participated in the ceremonies Friday morning.  Danny watched from the sides.  As I spoke I could hear Claudia’s daughter crying.  As I tried to motivate I could see Danny sobbing.  He told me later how much she wanted to be there.  He told me how desperately he missed her.  He told me how broken his heart is.  And all I could do is all I can ever do.  Listen.  Embrace.  Cry.

That’s one story.
There were 2249 others.

This week we go to Dallas/Ft. Worth.  And just when I think it might get routine, reality will show up again.  And it will all become too real.

They will walk this weekend, just as Tampa Bay walked this past weekend and Atlanta before them and Michigan, Twin Cities,  Seattle, Cleveland, Chicago and Boston before them.  If they have to, they will sleep in a garage or a warehouse.  If it rains, they’ll get wet.  If the sun shines, they’ll be pink.  They’ll get blisters the size of my computer mouse and they’ll sprain ankles and sleep in tents and shower in trucks.  They’ll clock off mile after mile. And they’ll do all of this for one reason …

So someday, you don’t have to.

Heroes.

FREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTIONS ABOUT THE BREAST CANCER 3 DAY

What is the Breast Cancer 3-Day?

The Breast Cancer 3-Day is a 3 day, 60 mile walk that takes place in 12 cities across the U.S.  Participants sign up to walk and commit to raising at least $2,200 in donations.  On event, participants walk an average of 20 miles a day for three days, camp out and bond together in their commitment to do whatever it takes to end this disease.  They raise millions of dollars and increase awareness while doing it and it is truly the furthest distance you can go in the fight against breast cancer.

If you had a TV camera on me or a mic in my face, I'd say pretty near exactly that.  If we were having a beer together I'd say, 'Holy crap it's like the coolest event EVER!"  Then I'd make big arm movements when I was telling you about it.  And I'd nearly knock the pitcher over when I said, "You cannot believe how committed these people are!  They are amazing!  They raise buckets of money and they walk their freaking toes off…and they smile about it…and also let's order some wings!"

If you want the nitty gritty on the 3-Day go here for a FAQ.

Why do people do it?

People do it because there is goodness and light in this messed up world.

They do it because they refuse to sit by and watch while breast cancer systematically picks off their loved ones. 

They do it because they have to.

They do it because Courtney, who walked in Atlanta this year, was diagnosed at age 28 with breast cancer after meeting and marrying the love of her life and had to have her eggs harvested and frozen before she went through treatment so that on the off chance she lived, they'd be able to try to have the family they've dreamed of. 

They do it because Mary Ann, who walked in Michigan, lost her mom at the tender age of 13 when girls need their mothers the most and don't want to have to ask their dad to take them to buy tampons and shouldn't have to ask the neighbor to curl their hair for the prom.

They do it because Jeff, who walked in Seattle, finally met his soul mate after 43 years and knew it nearly immediately and grabbed her up and married her only to have her diagnosed, treated, and ripped from his arms and life a short 4 years later. 

They do it because no sister should have to say goodbye to her best friend.  Because no child should be without a parent. Because no parent should have to bury their child. 

They do it because they are determined to live in a world without breast cancer.

Who benefits from the 3-Day?

The money goes to Susan G. Komen for the Cure and The National Philanthropic Trust Breast Cancer Fund.  You can read more about those details here and here if you like.

But more than that, I think everyone who touches the 3-Day benefits from it.

It changes people. 

How are you involved, Jenné?

I'm the National Spokesperson (or "National Spokesman" as I was referred to in the Atlanta Journal Constitution - clearly I need to wear bigger earrings on event.  Or a push-up bra.).  What that means is I get to travel to all 12 events this year.  I kick off each event at the opening ceremonies.  I walk and talk with the participants.  I emcee the nightly camp show (which is crazy fantastic and also the most fun you can have sober … with blisters) and I close out the event at the closing ceremonies. 

It's an amazing job.  I am touched each weekend.  It never gets old.  It's exhausting. It's draining. It's emotionally, mentally and physically challenging.  And it is so worth it.

Why do you care so much about this?

Seriously?  Are you not paying attention?

What can I do?

Well of course I'm going to say to get involved.  I'm going to tell you to do something, do ANYTHING to get involved.  If you are in one of the 12 cities this year, go to a cheering station and cheer on the walkers as they pass by.  If you are in one of the 14 cities where the 3-Day will be next year, then sign up.  If you have more than a dollar, then donate it.  If you need a way to donate then click here and go to my mom’s personal donation page because she’s walking the event in San Diego and still short of her goal.  That's right.  My MOM is walking 60 miles in San Diego in November!  When she heard about it, she wanted to be involved.  But no special treatment for her!  She’s got to raise the money like the rest of them.  Just because I’m the spokesperson doesn’t mean she can coast.  And because of this, I finally feel the sweet revenge I’ve been seeking for years for when I was 12 and she wouldn’t take that box of candy bars to work and sell them for me when I was in Jr. High. 

If you still need a reason to get involved, think of it this way - Do you know eight women?  Eight women who mean something to you?  maybe 8 women in your family…maybe eight friends…well, statistically one of them will be diagnosed with breast cancer.  Wouldn't it be great if by the time that happens, we have a cure?

Especially if that one is you.

PROGRESS?

We’ve been doing a lot of work on the house.  You’ll remember that last year, while I was going through chemo, I thought it would be a good idea to remove some walls.  So I gathered up the tools, changed my clothes, put on a mask, grabbed a sledgehammer and KA-PLOOWY began pounding away at the wall between the kitchen and the dining room.  Once I had knocked a hole about the size of a marshmallow in it I announced I was tired and asked The Hub to take over.  He then proceeded to work away at the rest of it.  My sister helped.  I came out of the bedroom occasionally to ask them to keep it down already I was trying to watch Dr. Phil. 

Our walls are lath and plaster.  Which if you don’t know what that means then thank your lucky stars you’re smart enough to either 1) live in a house built after drywall was invented or 2) not live with someone dumb enough to want to remove walls.  Basically it’s about as easy to remove lath and plaster as it is to remove those gunky pricing stickers from glassware.  While being attacked by a tiger.

What I’m saying is the lath and plaster doesn’t go quietly. 

A friend of mine who has taken out a wall or two mentioned once that removing lath and plaster was “a bit messy”, Last time I ran into him I kicked him in the shins.  To say removing lath and plaster walls is a bit messy is like saying your first sexual experience will be a bit awkward.  Dust gets everywhere.  Plaster is ground into the floors.  You are continually questioning yourself and wondering if it will all be worth it.  And I’m talking, of course, about the sexual experience here … the walls are even worse. 

At the end of chemo in January, we finally completed the project and removed the two walls entirely replacing them with a steel beam.  It was a big job.  We did it however and were thrilled with the results.  The Hub began a 3 month process of cleaning up.  Every surface in the house was covered with a fine layer of white.  Like someone has turned up the brightness filter.  It’s sort of what I imagined everything would look like after a nuclear holocaust – except more hopeless. But The Hub did not give up hope. Systematically he wiped down every surface, vaccummed every nook.  Cleaned every cranny.  He mopped and remopped and mopped again all over the hardwoods to get them clean and shiny.  And along about the time he was starting on the finishing work on the beams, we got a case of the “while we’re at its.” 

This is our current Home Sweet Home

Beauty, eh?

STILL THE SAME AFTER ALL THESE YEARS

When I was about 9 or so I was given a subscription for Highlights by a grandparent or Aunt or Uncle or someone.  I loved Highlights.  Loved everything about it.  Well, I wasn’t crazy about the TimberToes but everything else I liked.  I liked the seek and find, I like Goofus and Gallant, I liked the jokes and stories and submitted drawings in the back of each magazine.  I liked it so much that waiting for it each month was torture.

DID MY HIGHLIGHTS COME TODAY???? I would screech when I banged in the front door from school.  Most often the answer was, NO! since I asked the question E V E R Y D A Y and Highlights only came once a month or so.  It was so hard.  So hard waiting.  So hard knowing that I had no control over whether or not it would show up at all or when it would show up.  The anticipation was nearly the death of that 3rd grader. 

At some point I outgrew Highlights (although I’ll admit I still flip through it in the allergists office when The Kid is getting her shots).  I thought too I outgrew that impatient, out of control anticipation. 

I was wrong. 

The Breast Cancer 3 Day series is made up of 12 events in 12 different cities.  This year’s schedule can be found here.  Next year’s schedule of 14 events, can be found here.  When I was starting this gig, the 12th event seemed veeeeery far away.  Each weekend seemed like just a drop in the bucket of events.  There seemed to be a vast expanse of never ended events out ahead of me. 

The first few events weren’t easy.  There were long hours.  There were endless changes.  There were improvements that needed to be made and kinks that needed to be worked out and people that needed getting to know.  I liked those first few weeks, yes.  I loved those events, in fact.  But I have to be honest and say I didn’t really have my sea-legs yet – rather, my sea-breasts. 

I was talking to a staff member this weekend who is in charge of the lunch stop each day in each city.  We were talking about how on an event such as this, there really isn’t any type of ramp up.  You just go out there and do it on day one. You can’t really practice.  It’s sort of like your first sexual experience – sweaty and confusing.  But really fun too.  You think. Regardless of how enjoyable it is, it takes a while… to find your grove…to feel comfortable…to be all – look at me, I totally and completely know what I’m doing. 

So, those first few events were difficult.

And I looked forward to any break we had.

And there were a couple of weeks when I woke up on travel days and thought, “What in the world have I gotten myself into? And how can it be time to travel again ALREADY?”

Those days in between events?  I wanted them to last forever.

But now, each weekend I can’t wait for the next one.  And I’m already dreading the end in November.  And I just don’t know how I’m going to survive without learning a new slang for breasts each weekend and I might just start showing up at marathons so I can see a bunch of blisters and I suspect I might even miss the port-a-potties. 

That was a joke.  I already know all the slang terms for breasts.

This weekend we were in Philly.  It was another incredible event.  I was so moved by the walkers and the crew members and I was once again knocked off my feet by the dedication of a few to change the future of many.  Immediately following closing ceremonies I stopped by the command center to say goodbye, pick up a bottle of water and touch base one last time.  We shared a few stories.  We laughed at a few happenings.  We reviewed a couple of last details and then I left.  I banged out the command center door, I jumped in my car and rolled down the window.  And as I did, I shouted out the window to staff members, “IS ATLANTA HERE YET???”

I’m older than I was when I got my first subscription to Highlights.

But I’m still the same girl.

THE COMPANY YOU KEEP

Sometimes I wonder if it is a good idea for me to hang out so much with people affected by cancer.  Each weekend is an uplift - that's for sure.

But sometimes, I have to be honest, it's hard not to obsess.  Each weekend I listen to boatloads of stories. I walk alongside breast cancer survivors and supporters of survivors and hear them tell me when and how the cancer was found.  I hold husbands' hands while they tell me in tears about how fast their wives were taken.  I talk to daughters who shudder remembering their mothers' radiation experience. Every Saturday night, I introduce one or two or three people who tell their stories of diagnosis, treatment and survival.
Or not.  Sometimes the people who speak tell stories of someone else's battle and subsequent death. 

Because these stories are about breast cancer, the person sharing often admonishes the audience, "Do your SBEs!" SBE - Self Breast Exams - are an important factor in detecting breast cancer.  So many cases of breast cancer are found this way.  And around the 3-Day we unabashedly tell people to feel themselves up. 

Knead Your Knockers! 

Feel Your Front! 

Grab Your Gonzongas! 

We've got a million of them.

And we're right.  You should do those SBEs!  You should take the time to know your breasts.  Get friendly with yourself.  Know your body - it's important.  It could save your life.  Knowing my body, however, is not my problem.  Doing my self exams is not an issue for me.  The problem, for me, is that I already spend an inordinate amount of time with my hands on myself. 

15 months ago I found a lump above my collarbone.

That lump was an enlarged lymph node.

That lymph node was cancerous.

And that cancer about did me in.

Therefore, I sit around for what just might be hours a day feeling my neck and under my jaw, and along my throat and beneath my arms and in my groin for lumps.  I guess there is nothing wrong with this.  Except that most often, I do this in public.  I do it to give myself a feeling of relief.  To reassure myself that nothing is growing.  To restore my confidence in my body (that betrayed me), in chemo (that saved me), and in myself (who I hope would know if something was really wrong).

I tell myself I'd know.  If something was wrong, I would know.  I remind myself that I knew the first time around.  That it was more than that lump that drove me to nag my doctor night and day.  that I knew, deep within me, that something was terribly wrong.  And surely, if something was wrong again, I would know again.

Or would I?

When people ask me about my cancer they often ask if I was scared.  And I tell them I was.  Sort of.  I tell them I was probably more in shock than I was scared.  I tell them the first time I got really scared was when the nurse began scheduling appointments for me and never once checked with me to see if I had anything else planned for those days.  I tell them that that was the moment I realized I had a new priority - that this treatment would take precedent over everything else in my world.  I explain that that realization scared me a little.  And then we move on with the conversation.
If I was honest, however, I would have to say that I'm more scared now than I ever was then.

Every time I feel fatigued I also feel frightened.

Each completely normal lump in my neck feels like a golf ball in my throat.

A runny nose or a lingering cough sends me running to and lingering over the computer doing searches of online medical journals.

Of course I'm not alone.  It's not uncommon.  It happens all the time to cancer survivors. We worry.  We think about it.  Most often it doesn't incapacitate us - but it can.

So sometimes I wonder if it is such a good idea for me to be hanging out with Cancer People.  Then again, with statistics like this, I don't know that I have a choice.

CONFUCIUS SAY, MAN WHO KEEP FEET ON GROUND HAVE TROUBLE PUTTING ON PANTS

For many years I've noticed the fortune cookie industry is going downhill.
It used to be a fortune cookie supplied us with a wealth of information about the future and cute little titters if you subscribe to the "in bed" method of fortune cookie reading.  Lately, however, the cookies lack substance.  The fortunes say nothing about my destiny, my fate or my lot in life.  Really, they aren't fortunes at all.

I've gotten many Quip Cookies,

And even a Statement Cookie or two,

And for a while I had a string of Lecture Cookies.  The one that really chapped my be-hind: "You should be able to make money and hold onto it."

Thanks, Dad.

And what they DO say is so generic.  I don't know how to put this, but I really think it wouldn't matter WHO opened up those cookies.  The sayings sort of apply to anyone.  What good luck for the cookie makers.  Maybe they are fortunately cookies.

Maybe it's a legal thing.  A liability issue. Fortune Cookies no longer go out on a limb for you. They just don't put themselves out there like they used to.  I've thought this for a while but not said anything until today when I broke open my cookie and found...

Nothing.

No fortune

No quip

No lecture

Just an empty cookie. 

I know it is just a coincidence, a quality control error, but somehow I took it personally.  Like the cookie has nothing more to say.  The cookie has given up.  It's not wasting one more crumb on me.  That's it.  I get nothing.  Zilch.  Nada.  It was The Great Wall of Nothingness.
What's the Chinese word for goose egg? 

My cookie and my banker agree. I am fortune-less.

I DO BETTER WITH ODD NUMBERS

I’ve returned from the Michigan Breast Cancer 3 Day.  It was event number 6 of 12.  That means I’m halfway finished with the season.

About this time last year I went in for my sixth chemo treatment.  There were 12 of those too.  My sixth treatment was pretty horrendous.  Nothing in particular happened – I didn’t have an unexplained reaction to the meds, the stick into my port wasn’t especially rotten and painful, my nausea didn’t act up and from what I recall, the treatment didn’t take an especially long time.  Yet, whenever The Hub and I are talking about treatments one of us always says, “remember treatment #6?” and the other one usually says something like, “ugh.”  or says nothing at all.  Number six was downright awful.  Not because of the treatment itself but because on the way there I realized I still had six more treatments to go.

I’m not sure I can explain this but all the time leading up to treatment number six I was saying, “Treatment 6 is halfway”  - but really I was thinking “after this, it is all downhill!”  because in my head I was thinking of it like the peak point.  That after treatment 6 I would have FEWER treatments left than I just took.  Like I would get done with number six and I would only have FIVE left.  And that, of course, is not the way it works at all.  No matter how you look at it, if you’re going to have 12 treatments, after treatment six you still have six left.  So it was somewhere on the way to treatment that it hit me that I just as many treatments left as I just went through.  It dawned on me… I still have 6 left.  And that’s when I gasped and Steve said, “What?” and I began to cry. 

I didn’t stop crying for 4 hours.

Sunday night on the plane on the way home from the event I pulled out my travel schedule.  I looked at the upcoming dates. In my head I was thinking I was halfway done and I thought … “dang.  Only 5 events left.”    Then I looked harder. It looked like more than five events. Then I counted and sure enough, it isn’t FIVE … it was SIX!  (I really have to get a handle on this halfway to 12 thing)  And that’s when it hit me, … I still have six left!

How can my life be so different in just a year?

COOKIE COME LATELY

Now they tell me.