Desperation

I did not write much while I was in the hospital because I was so excruciatingly weak that I just could not do it. I never thought that would happen, but it did. I was almost afraid to write because then it would make what was happening real – documented forever.

Now that I'm removed from the setting and feeling much more at peace in my body and my mind I can reflect and express with more freedom from the "other side."

There were a couple of nights in the hospital that I thought it was the end. I've never, ever during this entire year-long battle thought that I wasn't going to make it. If I did think about dying it was for a fleeting moment and I was always able to push it away quickly and violently. However, after several days of unending fevers and unsatisfied sleep, my mind got the best of me. My biggest fear going into the stem cell transplant process was that I would acquire an infection that my body would not be able to fight. There are two people that I know of that did not make it through to the other side and it was because of an infection – not the cancer, not the chemo, but something that overtook them while their immune system was down and they could not recover.

When my fevers started getting up to 103, I feared that this was also my fate. The buzz of hospital bells and IV alarms, as well as the every-four-hours vital checks, kept me awake in the hospital, but so did this fear. I was afraid that if I fell asleep that I would not wake up and that no one would find me until the next round with the vitals machine. A couple of times when I would doze off I'd wake up with a jolt, screaming on the inside, gasping for breath and trying to understand where I was.

As the feverish days and nights continued I found myself praying. I did not know who I was praying to. I begged he/she/it to save me. I promised that if they did I would do so much good in the world. That if I was spared, if I was chosen to make it through this that I would be forever grateful and that I would dedicate my life to making the lives of others better. I'd find myself crying as I begged for my life as I spoke – in whispers – to this ominous being telling them that I was not done, that I was not ready to go. My tears were different tears than I'd ever felt before. They spilled and trickled out in such a natural and sincere way. They weren't violent or stinging. They were cleansing, involuntary tears.

I had fought so hard and made it through so much that the idea of something as simple as a cold virus killing me was just not acceptable. I could tell in the eyes of all the doctors that they were very concerned as much as they played it cool and kept ordering a strong arsenal of antibiotics ... nothing was working.

It's funny the things that you do and the things that go through your mind at a time of such vulnerable desperation. I thought about my funeral, about who would be there, about who would speak and what they would say. I thought about Craig and Sammy and cried as I thought of them alone in our house. I thought about my life and what I've done with it up to this point and I tried to come to terms with the fact that I had lived a fantastic life and done so many things and had the privilege to truly love and to truly feel loved by my family, my friends, complete strangers. I felt comforted that if whatever the source of these fevers was was going to take me that at least I had no regrets and that at least I felt I had lived my life as fully as I could. But at the same time, I knew that I had so much more fight left in me and that I had so much more that I wanted to do. But I became very, very scared and started to lose hope.

I wrote an e-mail to my close friends and in my head it was in a way a goodbye e-mail though I didn't say that in so many words. In my head I wanted them to know what I was feeling and I wanted them to know how much I cared about them. Then I thought about the hundreds of people that I had behind me, that I knew were also praying for me to all of their different gods and I kept thinking 'I can't let them down.'

Of all music, I chose to play Vivaldi on my iPod to try to relax myself. It brought back memories of Sunday mornings at my grandparents, waking up to classical music playing and the smell of Red Rose tea and buttery toast. It took me into a deep, distant place that I'd never been before. I was so, so scared. I kept thinking of the "fight or flight" lessons in psychology and thought that if I conceded to the fear, that if I relaxed into it and accepted that I was going to die, that I would be sending my body the message that I was ready, that I was done fighting, that it was okay to give up.

So each morning I would push away the fears and the tears of the night before and get out of bed, shower, do yoga stretches, work out with my exercise bands, watch funny movies and laugh like a normal 27-year-old. I was strong for my parents, for my husband and I never told them how I truly thought that I was going to die. I thought that if I said it out loud that it would happen and I didn't want to take that chance. I had to make sure that my mind stayed strong so that my body would follow suit. Then by the grace of all the Gods it did.

The doctors told me that my white blood cell counts had recovered and that this was likely what I needed. I distinctly remember Dr. Cooper saying that there is no better medicine than my own immune system. Like the little engine that could, my bone marrow started pumping out a white blood cell army that narrowed in on whatever it was knocking me down and took it out with a wallop of healing power. The power to fight the infection was inside me all along. When they held that thermometer under my tongue for the umpteenth time and my temperature registered at a cool 98.6 degrees I knew in that moment that I was going to live. I was chosen to be saved.

I am so forever grateful that I was spared and am so humbled and proud of my body and of my mind and my heart for getting me through. Now I have a great urgency to do so much with my life, but at this moment I am so very, very tired and am working on reintroducing myself to the world in baby steps ... baby steps.

Chemo Day 12

For the last treatment there had to be a bit of excitement. My port didn't work again. I had to have blood drawn from my arm. They ran out of the normal needle gauge size. One of my four drugs was pulled from my regimen. We set off the patient alert alarm throughout the center and we forgot a bottle opener. But all in all, the final chemo session was as fun as a chemo session can be - if that makes any sense.

Both my mom and Craig were there with me for this momentous occasion. God willing, the last time I will ever have to sit in the chemo recliner. In fact, I don't know that I'll ever look at faux leather recliners the same ever again. I think they'll always remind me of long hours spent with my feet up waiting for the drugs to drip.

I think all three of us were a little bit loopy with excitement - so ready to celebrate that this routine was over, but also careful that not everyone in the cancer center was celebrating, knowing that for some, that day may have been just the beginning of their journey and I could only hope that it'd be as successful as mine. But we managed to celebrate on the sly, sort of.

I brought in Funfetti cupcakes for my life-saving team and made them all pose for pictures with me, much to their chagrin, I think. It's probably not a request that comes often, but I never want to forget the faces of the people that saved my life and made this hell a hell of a lot easier to bear.

We had an emotional meeting with Dr. Dailey. I got myself a little paclemped trying to thank him for all that he has done to keep me sane and healthy. We talked about next steps and follow-ups and scans - though that's all a little surreal. Because I have had a

persistent cough throughout much of these past few months and had just come off the bad cold I had been fighting, Dr. Dailey thought it best to omit the Bleomycin from my last chemo treatment. So instead, I got a three-liquor cocktail: AVD for my send-off. This is because of the concerns of pulmonary toxicity that can arise from the harsh drug. Its effects could leave me with long-term lung damage. He said he was 5% concerned that the bleo could have negative long-term effects and 0% concerned that omitting it would have any negative outcome on the effectiveness of my treatment course. I was sold. Plus, that shaved a half-hour off of the process!

Luckily, the three of us secured a private room as I think we would have been a bit too rowdy for the common areas. My wonderful nurse Diane came in to "poke my port" one last time.

"Ready. Pinch," she said. The usual routine. It hurt a bit but the needle was in.

"We're out of the small needles so I had to give you a 19-gauger," she said.

"Glad you told me that afterward," I replied. Very smart woman she is.

Big needle or not, my port was not coughing up any blood again. Drawing blood is a necessity of the process and my port just wasn't putting out. That meant a stick in the arm - sigh. For all I went through with fighting to get the port it was a bit frustrating that I'd still have to get stuck, but I was just grateful that it was working well enough to take in the drugs. I can't wait to get that sucker out of my body.

So my buddy Denise came in to do the dirty work. She gave me a stress ball to squeeze and left me with a Sharpie-drawn smiley face on my gauze strip which made me laugh like a doofy little kid. As I've said throughout this, it's the little things like that that really make all the difference. For the rest of the time as the chemo started flowing my smile was as wide as the one on my arm.

Craig, my mom and I talked and joked and reminisced a bit about the crazy ride it's been. Then suddenly this strange beeping noise starts eminating through the center. No one is sure what it is. Then Craig realizes he'd been leaning on the "Pull For Help" button. Apparently no one has ever pulled it because no one knew what the sound was for a good few minutes. Then all came rushing in and had a good laugh over it - Diane saying that was the most fun she had had all day.

We pulled over a table and played Scrabble SLAM - a new favorite game. Especially good for the chemo brained as it only deals with four-letter words - nothing too fancy. We threw out cards and yelled out words as Jack Johnson played in the background and the time passed. I sucked on my ice cubes during the push drugs and snacked on healthy treats to keep my nausea down.

I had just a few ounces left in the Decarbazine bag but could not hold my bladder any longer. I was so afraid that the "end-of-bag alarm" would ding while I was in the bathroom and I wouldn't get to celebrate with everyone. It was a race to the finish, but I made it back to my chemo room to hear those final beautiful, mechanical notes.

At that, it was time to pop the sparkling apple cider that we had brought. But

who knew it would be a pop top? Craig tried desperately to pry it open to no avail. Then once again, Diane to the rescue with a bottle opener from the back room --- for the tough days.

We cheerzed as Diane removed the needle from my port one last time and I was flooded with a rush of freedom. Thank God Almighty, Free at last!

I got all unhooked, said my goodbyes, and left without tears headed for a delicious post-chemo Bertuccis lunch. I don't think it all will hit me until a few months from now when the dust settles and the smoke clears and I can really look back and realize what happened to me and to every

one around me.

Until then, I'm just focused on getting better. That means more Neupogen shots. More scans. More bloodwork. A port removal surgery. I'll be working on piecing myself back together one step at a time.

Chemo Day 11

I always blog about my treatment day experiences several days after and realize that much is probably lost in the interim. So, because for some reason I have not been able to sleep after this treatment, I will write. Forgive if this makes no sense whatsoever and is riddled with bad grammar and punctuation. I blame the drugs.

Today was number 11. One away from number 12, the final infusion in my chemo regimen. That means I can now say: "Just one more to go!" That sounds much better than the days when six months and 12 treatments were set up as obstacles ahead of me. I've hurdled over nearly all of them and honestly, it's hard to believe.

This morning I worked from home for a couple hours. In fact, worked right up until the last possible second before I had to get in the shower and pack my chemo bags. Avoiding the inevitable, I suppose.

No funny chemo t-shirt today. It was too cold out this morning so a henley and a toggle tie wool sweater were in order. It turned out to be a wise choice, though when the sun came out it was much warmer. It was a wise choice because there was a lot of action in my port site today and the button downs made it that much more accessible.

Weight was stable. White Blood Cell count and granulycytes were very low as usual, but not as scarily low as before the last treatment. Blood pressure was good but heart rate was up. This was noted both by Denise (my fav lab tech) and Dr. Dailey but to no huge concern. My nurse chalked it up to anxiety. I hate to admit it, but yes, I did have a lot of anxiety today. In fact, I may have experienced what some may call a minor anxiety attack ... . It again goes back to the counterintuitive nature of chemotherapy. I might as well walk up to one of those beefy men who pull 18-wheelers via straps held with their teeth in those Strongest Man competitions and ask him to punch me in the face, then kick me around about while I'm wriggling on the floor - a couple of swift ones to the gut and the lower back. Of course I have anxiety about arriving there. Every time I know better what the effect will be on my body but yet I'm the one walking my body in. I almost lost my breakfast in my mom's car and then in the red bin full of discarded fluid bags and bloody gauze. My chest pumping "bring it on," "eat lighting and crap thunder" attitudes I used to plow into the Cancer Center with. Now it's more like "let's get this shit over with."

Our meeting with Dr. Dailey was again very positive. He checked my lymph nodes, noting that my neck is still lumpy and asymetrical but nothing to be concerned about. Many of the lymph nodes may be scarred from being stressed so wide when filled with the cancer and this may never heal fully. He also said that I may need to see a neurologist if time does not heal the dead leg I experience in my left shin/outer leg area. That's okay, I can deal with a lumpy neck and a leg that works, despite its numbness. He seemed very impressed with how my body is still responding so well to the ABVD. I had been expecting these last few to be the hardest yet, but they've really proven to be quite manageable - or maybe my expectations of what it means to "feel good" have just been lowered. Next steps: final chemo treatment Oct. 21 (big day, very big day) then another PET/CT Scan. In my last PET/Scan, though he declared me in remission, there is one area near my sternum that showed some "hot spotting," but Dr. Dailey is doubtful that it is cancer presence. We both hope that the spot is gone altogether in this next scan.

We were then escorted to one of the private rooms where my Mom and I got comfortable. My anxiety doesn't really go down until the port needle is inserted and the meds start flowing. That's when I can breathe a little easier and the nausea subsides. These feelings weren't nearly as extreme in the beginning. I think everything is just accumulated over such a protracted treatment regimen. My nurses' sighs as she was trying to draw my blood vials led my anxiety to new heights. Try as she might, my port just was not cooperating. Every treatment she draws blood for testing, in addition to the CBC finger prick that I get. My port was flushing well and accepting the pre-meds no problem, just not giving back. She explained that there might be a fiber or some clotting behind it. Despite how much she assured me that that's very normal to happen, I was pretty shaken up thinking about a clot traveling from my port site to my brain and leading to horrible things ... . But apparently those worries are unfounded and I'll trust the experts on their word.

Because the port was taking in the meds no problem that scene went smoothly. I get more woozy from the anti-nausea and steroid pre-meds. My vision blurs a bit and my processes slow. I get giggly and goofy and everything feels a bit off. Add to that my shaky hands and tight muscles as I unwound from my anxiety frenzy and the first hour was a bit rough. But my mom held my hand and relaxed me and I just kept apologizing to the nurse about what a baby I've become because again, Karin pre-cancer wasn't someone used to anxiety - nothing could throw me into a tizzy. Thank goodness for the visualizations and breathing I've learned in yoga that helped to get me back to reality.

We popped "Confessions of a Shopaholic" into my laptop – fantastic chick flick – and that really helped to pass the time from A to B to V to D to bag of saline. When the meds were done, we tried again to get some blood from my port. It spit and sputtered a bit but not enough to clear the tube and fill a vile. She had me lean forward, lean back, raise my arms, but nothing worked, so a needle in the hand it was. Luckily my nurse is fantastically steady and skilled at getting it in painlessly so I just turned away while she kneeled on the floor and I made a fist with my very sweaty hand. The blood was taken and I was free to go.

It took me a bit to stand up and get my bearings and I don't really know what I was saying when I was talking to the secretary to schedule my next appointments. Leaving there is like waking up groggy from an unexpected nap – the reaction time and processing speed are very sllllooooowwwweeed. This is why I do not get behind the wheel and instead rely on Mom to chauffeur me to CVS to pick up my take-home drugs then to lunch for whatever I may be craving. This week it was a hot chicken parm sub, but once I saw the menu it was a Caesar salad and spinach-and-gooey cheese calzone that did the trick of absorbing all the chemicals that were making me feel uneasy.

Usually I crash once I get home but it's now 8:45pm, I've been up since 6:30am and have not slept a wink. Lots on the mind I guess? I've been glued to the couch, watching Ellen then Oprah, doing lots of Facebook stalking. Then I ate more when Craig got home - some delicious homemade chicken soup my mom brought over. I feel on-and-off hot flashes, the room spins and blurs a bit and I have to proceed with caution on any attempts to get off the couch for fear of seeing stars or inducing nausea.

The body pains have already started and that just makes me sigh. Blah. I get these pains throughout my legs especially which make them feel very heavy and very tight. My hips pop and creak and my hamstrings and Achilles' tendon are so taunt I feel they could snap at any moment. These are the same hamstrings that carried me through a 15 minute run with no breaks on Sunday morning followed by a day on my feet at the fair. These are the same hips that bent easily into the pigeon pose at yoga Monday night. For the 11th time I again feel a bit beaten and broken but I know that it will pass for an 11th time.

I looked in the mirror on one of my many bathroom trips. The only time I don't have much of a choice but to look at my reflection. I look like a completely different person than the face that stared back at me this morning before leaving for chemo. My eyes are bugged out and glazed amplified by dark circles beneath them. My usual healthy color is gone and I look like one of those drug addicts you see on the made-for-tv movies.

Luckily, I have a husband and a dog that shower me with affection despite the fact that I look like a man with a very sad hair-loss problem, with a face that's a little green, the three-second memory of a fish and the attention span of a two-year-old. Right now they're each cuddled on my hip (those are my legs under the fuzzy blanket) and watching the Yankees game and I couldn't feel more assured that it's all going to be okay no matter what.

Chemo Day Nine

9/9/09 was the date of my ninth treatment. Supposedly, the number "9" carries with it a lot of good luck, something I'm certainly not turning down these days. A quick Wikipedia search shows the supposed power of this number and I will believe it, because I want to. 

For better or worse, treatments are becoming old hat. It's not something that you think you will ever get used to, but after doing anything nine times I guess you get to know the drill. I can rattle off my pre-meds, the order of the drugs, alert the nurse when I see the saline bag running low so that she can switch it before having to clear out the tubes. I know what the different beep alerts mean. There's no sound in my life more rewarding right now than the high-pitched alert when the final bag of saline is dripped and I can be removed from my port-a-cath. I'll forever equate that noise with a sense of freedom. I can follow the rhythms of the IV bag rotations from hook to tube to drip. In fact, the IV machine reset itself after I unplugged it from the wall for one of many jaunts to the bathroom and rather than call for the nurse, I just took it upon myself to punch through the prompts to reset the thing. No longer is the IV pole and pump a source of intimidation, but now just a familiar part of the process.  Maybe by the 12th treatment I'll be running the show myself. 

Craig was my escort this time around as my mom was on a well-deserved vacation at the Cape. Always curious, he asks lots of questions about every step in the process, why some needles work certain ways, why some meds are given different ways --- certainly a forever student and the perfect teacher. He's also always up for a game which I love about him so we played "Set" and played around online as we passed the nearly five hours together. The cancer center was hopping so I didn't get my usual private room. That meant hearing about other patients' detest for salt or newly acquired tastes for spicy food, their bathroom habits, their grandkids and fatigue ... how they're so jealous of how I can look good without hair because I have such a young face. Ah, the joys of being the odd man out - does anyone think that it's kind of strange to be jealous of a 27-year-old with cancer? Yes, I'm just so happy that I can go through this now before I have wrinkles because that would just be the worst thing ever ... . Luckily, with Craig there I didn't feel forced into conversation and could still create the laid-back, zen atmosphere that I shoot for during treatments. No serious talk or drama allowed - no room for the negative. However, t-shirts that say "Chemo Day" with an angry monster that looks exactly like how I feel on those days is most definitely allowed. Shooting the shit about my woes just really doesn't do it for me. But, if anything, listening to how others handle things helps me keep perspective. 

We had a good, long visit with Dr. Dailey again rejoicing over the positive PET-CT Scan results. I gushed with thanks but he just said, "Thank you. You're making me look good." I do what I can I guess. He remarked at how dramatic the results really are noting that my first PET-CT Scan which led to my stage 4b diagnosis was aglow with cancer activity all throughout my body - now, not a sparkle. 

Craig and I asked a lot of questions: Where do the cancer cells go? What will the chemo be killing now? When will I feel normal again? What are the chances of relapse?

Well, the cancer cells become defunct and absorbed back into my body's tissues. It is always recommended to push through the full chemo regimen to be sure to kill any residual, microscopic cancer cells that may have survived. I should start to feel my strength coming back 2-3 months after my last chemo treatment, but it could take up to a year to really feel like my previous self. The chance of relapse is higher in the first 2-3 years after being in remission - if I can make it through these next few years without a trace of new cancer then the chances of me ever again facing this are much decreased. But yes, it is safe to say that I am now in REMISSION. 

I'm still not fully able to wrap my brain around this statement and am not quite comfortable in saying it because I still have much more to go in this journey. It's hard to grasp that I actually beat this. The wonders of medicine are amazing to me and I am so grateful to the medical community, but I'm also careful to take pride in what I did to complement that. There are times for being humble but this is not one of them. I am damn proud of all the hard work that I have put in (and will continue to put in) to beat this. I know that I survived this so well because my body was strong to start with and because I have always taken good care of myself - these past few months I just ramped it up into an even higher gear and I will never let that go. Having cancer makes you realize how fragile and powerful the human body is and makes you aware of the very real fact that you only get one of them to play around in for your 100 years or so on Earth. I'm not ashamed to say that I'm pretty impressed by the one I've got. 

This body's got just three more treatments to go. Three more whops of ABVD and all of its ramifications. I've been warned that these last few may in fact be the hardest as there'll be more healthy cells being killed off without the existence of the cancer cells, but I know I can take it now that I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. 

Chemo Day Five

Another one down. And as always, another surprise occurrence, but I survived. However, everything was just a little bit off for this treatment. 

On the way there, my mom and I saw a woman bending in the middle of busy Route 10 to peel a hot, fly-covered dead opossum off the double yellow line of the street. Gloved hand alone, no mask or bucket, she picked the thing up by its rubbery tale and carried it to her truck. An unmarked truck, mind you. We weren't sure if she was planning on cooking it up in a stew or adding it to her taxidermy collection. Whatever she was doing, all I could think was: "and I thought I was having a bad day ... ." At least I wasn't scraping road kill off the steamy pavement. 

It was a Thursday, not the customary Wednesday, which means that the entire staff at the Cancer Center was different and I knew no one except the oncology nurse who gives me my Neup shots every other week. Luckily, she is the sweetest nurse I've met and I was so happy to have her inject me. When we arrived, all of the computer systems were down so they did not have access to records of my prescribed dosages, nor access to my past blood counts. My white blood cell count was low and they considered not giving me treatment, but it was decided that I could go ahead with it ... thank God. Nothing worse than getting yourself pumped up for something only to not get it over with. I didn't see the doc since my doc wasn't working, but 

somehow they were able to draw up my dosages and all was good. 

Also different, I did not wear my Minnetonka moccasins and I wore cropped yoga pants. This was not good. I forgot how cold I tend to get with some of the drugs passing through me, plus the AC was cranking. Next time, I will not venture away from my moccasins which always keep me feetsies at the perfect temp, despite the July heat. 

Despite all of these elements being out of whack, I received a flawless IV insertion ... a one shot deal. No wriggling and failed attempts. This made me breathe easy. She again felt through many of my veins noting the hard and collapsed ones, but was able to find a useable entryway to my circulatory system. She also gave me preventative Tylenol, which she said helps to counteract the flu-like, achey symptoms that I end up with as a result of the Bleomycin. I was then instructed to take Tylenol every six hours for the next 24 hours ... this was news to me. But I guess that's the bonus of getting to work with another nurse and getting another opinion. 

Though the insertion was good, the vein couldn't hang with the Adriamycin. I had what is called a vein "flare." The Adriamycin is one of the chemo drugs that is so strong that the nurse needs to administer it as a slow, push syringe, rather than through the IV drip. The nurse needs to sit with me through the process. Suddenly my arm started developing a red rash as a result of this "flare." She had to stop administering the drug and coated my arm in hydrocortisone cream then also started me up with an IV bag of Benadryl to decrease the flare-up reaction. Though the Benadryl didn't make me fall asleep as she suspected it would, it made me feel very woozy and uncomfortable. I was ready to leave after that, but still had the long and slow Decarbazene to go, my least favorite of the four. This is the one that burns through the veins, but with the help of a couple instant ice packs, the feeling is numbed. 

My mom and I popped in the DVD of the final Broadway performance of Rent. This helped greatly to pass the last couple of hours of what felt to be a marathon chemo session. I've seen the show I believe five times --- on- and off- Broadway, but now I see it in a whole new light. The songs and the lessons have always been meaningful and moving to me, but now being in a similar state of life, a person "living with, living with, not dying from disease" the lyrics ring true all the more: 

"No Day But Today." 

We hit up the Simsbury Farmer's Market on the way home (after a delicious bacon, egg and cheese on cheddar everything from Brookside, obv.). I picked up some snap peas, but had to sit on a bench shortly after getting there. The Benadryl really wasn't settling well. Then we had to pick up my meds at CVS and I thought that I might hurl right there are in Pharmacy "Pick Up" line. I did my yoga breathing and grabbed for a pack of peanut M&Ms, which instantly curbed the nausea ... crisis averted. 

Then it was home, finally home. I curled up with my prayer shawl and a Guiness glass of Miralax-filled apricot juice and settled in for a long, hard drug-induced coma. Sammy by my side as always. 

I'm Gonna Eat Lighting and Crap Thunder

I'm going in for treatment 5 today, the start of my third cycle of ABVD. I wouldn't exactly say I'm looking forward to it, but let's get it over with. Bring on the poison. 

I had a "bonus" day of normalcy yesterday as my chemo was pushed off a day due to my oncologist's vacation. Because he went away, I got my own little vacation from the chemo recliner. The day was beautiful - the perfect temp and not a cloud in the sky. I set up my "office" outside and felt very accomplished. My work projects are in order, the house is "clean," the bills are paid (rather, at least in a pile of "to be paid"), I've caught up on e-mails and washed all the laundry. I'm ready to curl back into chemo ramificationess. 

Last night was spent under the stars at Simsbury Meadows at the Talcott Mountain Music Festival for a concert of Billy Joel music featuring Michael Cavanaugh, of "Movin' Out" fame and the Hartford Symphony Orchestra. We sang and danced to "Piano Man," "Pressure," and even "The Crocodile Walk" with our gang of T'ville neighbors and their adorable kids. Even better than the show, I got to catch up with many of my former Arts Council colleagues also there on the lawn. Truly amazing people ... it was great to see their always positive faces. Some people just always know what to say and do and that crew epitomizes those skills. 

All in all, it was a great run this time around.  I can't even remember the bad days. Let's hope the strength continues through this bout. Like my idol, Rocky Balboa, I've put in the training ... minus the raw egg breakfast shake .... and am ready to go the distance.  Cue the fight music. Now to face Apollo once again.