Although there is some debate on that, I stand with Billy Graham.
We lost our Allie Girl today. And just when I thought there couldn’t be anymore sadness, our hearts are broken in half.
Allie found us. Rather, she found Felix, in August of 2007, when PLUTO Rescue did their events at Petsmart. It was August 4th, Felix’s birthday, and we stopped in just to grab a bag of food for Lucky. Meghan and I walked through the aisles enjoying some of the puppies around for adoption. Ready to leave, I asked, “Where’s Daddy?” And there he was, knee to knee – eye to eye- with Allie. “This is the dog I was meant to have,” he told me very matter-of factly.
Just a week or so after they met.
I came up with a litany of reasons why a second dog was a bad idea. ( We already had Lucky)
“What if they don’t get along?” (Solved in 2 seconds flat when they met outside Petsmart. They were fast friends.)
“We are having company for Meghan’s birthday next week.” (They offered to delay the adoption 2 weeks.)
“Our yard may not be big enough.” (We passed the home visit with flying colors.)
“We don’t have the money right now _” (I was grasping. The fee was so reasonable. And they offered to postdate the check a month.)
I lost.
But I won.
Big time.
Allie joined us on August 12, 2007. The guesstimate for her age was three. I suspect that was conservative. She stepped into our home with none of the puppy nonsense new dogs cause. She was trained, didn’t bite the furniture, or pee on the rug. She needed a little tiny training to settle down with her food. Easily done. And she really was the perfect dog.
Allie waiting until Felix wakes up
She was Felix’s dog from the get go. No matter where he went she followed. She slept on his feet at the TV at night. She waited for him on the weekends if he slept in. She sat at his feet when he whistled. She greeted him at the door. She knew it was he who had freed her from the cycle of adoption and fosters, and found her her forever home.
Her “tough” side – much like Felix’s, was put into check with the right love.
I took a bit longer to catch on. It took a few baths, and some nail cutting, and adjusting to calls from the groomers that they couldn’t service her. I had to understand her, her abandonment, and her need to trust again. Once I “got it,” we did just fine.
Mostly I fell in love with Allie because she loved my Meghan. I can remember nights, and there were so many sleep deprived nights, that Meghan would wake crying, and if we didn’t hear fast enough, Allie would come and get Felix and I and make sure we took care of her. She became so protective of Meghan – from “hide and seek” to watching her in the pool, to not resting until Daddy dug her out of the snow bank, Allie knew Felix was her master, and protecting Meghan was her purpose.
And how could I not love the dog that loved my two favorites?
Meghan, being without siblings, took to the dogs as her “furry sisters.” She always used the number 5 to represent her family.
And when she was sick, or hurt, or recovering, as she so often was, Allie was loyal and attentive always.
Being sick is the pits. Having Cowden’s Syndrome is horrendous. Having a dog or two to love you through it – definitely a bright spot.
There were so many nights. More than can be named. So many nights of tears and frustration and sadness and anger. Soothed by the love of a dog.
We love Lucky. Very much. But we always said Allie made Lucky a dog. Allie turned her in the right direction. Made her less neurotic and more normal. They were sisters. A good pair.
Cowden’s Syndrome just got a little harder to swallow.
Life just got lonelier.
Allie got sick fast. Maybe a few weeks of not being quite right. And a few days of really being laid up.
We took her to the vet Sunday. It looked bad. I took her back today. It was over. Her belly was full of fluid. Even without eating – 2 pounds heavier than Sunday. They didn’t offer to do blood. Or treat.
“This is it,” the vet said.
And Meghan and Felix came, and we sat as a family. And we said goodbye together. We hugged, and held, and loved and cried. Then we left.
Our world, and our lives forever changed. Richer for our experiences, more painful for our losses. For only those who love deeply, can hurt.
Thank you Allie.
Hopefully Grandpa Tom finds you. You two always got along. Cause I firmly believe I’ll see you both again.
Last summer we invested in a new roof for the house. I’ve never regretted it. Truth be told we had no choice. There were leaks and dry rot. All sorts of potentially serious places for significant damage. Lots of horrendous storms have pounded down on this roof since the summer of 2013 – both literally and figuratively. But we’ve stayed safe and dry. I have to figure its some combination of strong plywood, and a well done roofing job, coupled with our strong family bond, deep faith, and our ability to keep laughing.
The weather forecast this week is pretty awful. And I started thinking about how, “into every life some rain must fall.” And I started to wonder, whether maybe we’ve actually had enough rain.
Cowden’s Syndrome brings its own share of cloudy, overcast, generally awful days. And life, well it can get dicey and complicated even without Cowden’s Syndrome. This year has been wild. Full of so much sadness, and hurt, and sorrow. And in between there peeked in some fun, happy times.
This month has been tricky.
These last 2 weeks….
I’m really starting to think it might be time to consider an ark. I’m not wallowing. Nor do I think we are the only ones buried enough to need that ark (we’ll share,) but wow. Just, wow…
Two weeks ago tonight we rushed Meghan to Lenox Hill Hospital for emergency surgery on the AVM in her right knee. The 50 ccs of blood were removed from the knee-joint, and by Wednesday we were sent on our way. Thanksgiving weekend was spent home. Low key. Leg up. Resting.
We had goals. All geared towards December 8th. Goals set by the medical team. Swim practice was to begin again tonight. And Mom, FYI – goals are different from plans… 🙂
We slowly weaned off the crutches, and the pain medicine. We moved to an ace wrap as needed. By last Monday the 1st she went to school still in pain, but unassisted. The swelling was going down. The healing had begun.
But by Friday she couldn’t do it. Had to stay home because of the pain. The swelling looked a little off too. More rest.
Sunday she woke up late and come down the stairs declaring the pain was worse – and “different.” The knee looked horrendous. And very similar to its pre-op state. More resting. Some pictures. Some brainstorming.
ER 11/24Living room 12/7
All the while Allie, our oldest dog was having troubles of her own. Allie, lethargic for a bit – collapsed on a walk. Felix called me to pick him up carrying 70 pounds of dog. Off to the vet for abdominal x-rays and a negative test for pancreatitis. There was no discrete mass of the x-ray, just some shadowing. They decided to try to treat for pancreatitis despite the negative test. There aren’t too many other good options and I am worried.
And so we got medicine for Allie, and got her boiled chicken and rice for her bland diet.
And we took pictures of Meghan’s leg and elevated the knee.
Today we got up early to give Allie her medicine together.
Then Meghan dragged her painful, aching leg around school until I could get us an appointment.
1:30 arrival at Lenox Hill. Sonogram initially showed no blood. Then, wait for it…. there it is. But no obvious spot its coming from. Shocking really. Could it be residual from the procedure two weeks ago? It looked to be about 5ccs. Nothing compared to the 50, but I remember a time less than 5ccs of blood in the knee-joint freaked them all out. Now all of a sudden – we’ll just wait and see.
They used words like “discomfort,” and “irritating.” She used words like, “excruciating.”
Not the first time we haven’t seen eye to eye. But he’s all we’ve got. One of very few doctors in the north-east to operate on these in kids.
I get not racing back in. I do. But validate the kid for the love…. I know she’s super sensitive, but that just means she feels EVERYTHING, INCLUDING the stray blood in her knee.
Wrap it. Elevate it. Put swim off another week. (Tough talk from the guy who initially said she wouldn’t even need crutches.)
In the car Meghan told me to get my Christmas shopping done. Just in case. She hopes she’d wrong – but it doesn’t feel right.
My money’s on her- and it’s a bet I hope to lose.
Allie, she’s super mushy. Who knows?
Online shopping here I come.
I’m done with the rain. Really over it. Rainbow anyone?
It’s always a good time to be grateful. Especially Thanksgiving week with catastrophe averted. Even full of memories from a year ago, I feel gratitude.
Just a week ago I wrote a post called “Plot Twist”
where I mentioned the AVM in the knee was starting to become a problem.
One day I will learn to trust instincts. I will look back on signs and think – I should have seen that coming. But, for now I remain a bit of a slow learner.
See, in May when we ended up with the gastritis mess, there were warning signs. For days prior she spoke of the “fire” in her throat. Of this general feeling of being unsettled. And then everything broke down.
Monday was not the first time in recent weeks she had complained about the knee.
In August, about three months after we stopped the Celebrex, there were signs. Subtle signs. We went for the MRI. We went for the visit. The doctor saw “something,” evidence the AVM was still “live.” He told her to wait until there was pain, and then come see him. Our appointment was for December 1.
The pain has been progressive. But, right or wrong, having a rare disease, and living with a child who has one too, I often have on my “suck it up and let’s go” personality.
“Mom, my knee hurts. I think it’s swollen.”
“Yes. it’s a little swollen, but mine is too. You’ll be ok.”
“Mom, my leg is throbbing. I can feel it pulsing.”
“Mine does that too – here, feel. Now let’s go – we have to get to school”
Ok, so looking back, perhaps these are not normal conversations. I am in consultation with a vascular surgeon to address the messiest of my leg issues – as soon as I can fit it in. Maybe most parents would have been more bothered. I mean I WAS bothered. But, if I stopped every time – goodness, we’d never even get out of the house. If I addressed every pain – I’d give this disease more power than I’d like it to have.
So for now, we “suck it up” together. Different. But the same.
We talk about other people’s pain. We wonder about different types of pain. We think about what it would be like if the pain could be fixed. We wonder about kids who use pain as an excuse. We acknowledge that you can never know what goes on in someone else’s body.
So we adopted positive thinking and visualization. She drew a smiley face on that knee to convince herself she could get through it. And she pressed on.
Sunday, while I was in Vermont, she was at a swim clinic. And Monday, she finished an hour and change of practice. Walked past me smiling. Walked out of the locker room and basically fell to the floor.
I did some more of my “suck it up” talking, as my heart sank. This was the real deal, but we were too far from the car. Everything about her body language told me we were in trouble. I finally, by Grace alone got her into the car, and headed immediately to urgi care. We lasted about 10 minutes there before we were booted to an ER. The leg was getting frighteningly larger by the moment.
The knee with the AVMThe “good” knee
My gut. My instincts told me to go to the knee surgeon. So we threw a bag together and got to Lenox Hill Hospital on 77th street.
After I got them to page her doctor, we immediately were notified we’d be admitted.
When we got to the room at 4:30 AM the tell-tale “NPO” (nothing by mouth – for any surgery rookies) was on the door. Can’t knock the kids timing. I knew he operates Tuesdays.
The team arrived mid morning to assess. They set her up for 1 PM surgery.
“That’s blood. And it has to be taken care of now.”
Ok – show me where to sign.
Blood and joints don’t mix. Not without consequences. This I know from experience with this child.
Get it out.
And as I waited… that awful waiting time… my mind wandered. I thought about her swimming, and the time she is trying so hard to beat. I thought about how much harder she’ll need to work to get it back together. I thought about it being unfair. And I thought about a mom in California whose extended hours on the phone to me as we were panicking and newly diagnosed were of such solace. I though of the hell her girl has gone through. Over and over. Then I thought about my internet friends in Australia. One young lady who had her thyroid removed AGAIN. Yep – two partials, and then one side GREW BACK. Unfair. Then the ultimate lesson in unfair in the countless brain surgeries, 10, 12 hours at a clip for a young woman with a similar vascular condition to Meghan in a much more dangerous place. I thought about her life on hold. I thought about her recent surgery derailed as they discovered multinodular goiter on the thyroid. I wished I could have tea with them. Right then. To talk to someone who does this. This hospital thing. This surgery thing. Like its their job. Cause that’s just what we do.
And there are no contests. No one has to have it worse. No one makes you feel like it’s not important. This just is our life. This is life with Cowden’s Syndrome. Beat it. So it doesn’t beat you.
And when they came to get me, to tell me she was in recovery, they told me they drained 50ccs of blood out of that knee-joint. Apparently there was a hole about the size of a pea. It got plugged. A fast flow leak. They hope that’s all of it.
This is about 50ccs of water – roughly the same amount of blood that filled her knee joint.
Flashback to 2012. Last surgery, when the doctor was so unsettled that there was ANY blood in the knee-joint that he told us about the damage it could cause and sent us to Boston for a consult with a doctor who could scope the knee-joint. And we went. But we never went back. Things got better. We started Celebrex a month after that surgery in 2012. That was number 4. Number 5 was yesterday.
In 6 weeks we’ll go back for post-op. We’ll talk about whether things are better. There is someone in New York, on his team, doing that scope now – if she needs it.
In 6 weeks I hope she’s kicking some serious butt in the pool. I hope this is a memory. An update in the growing medical file.
Sometimes the only option..
This is life. This is life with Cowden’s Syndrome. This is our life.
Everyone has something. And yes, it could be worse. But right now, at this moment – we are tired. And that’s OK too. I am emotional, remembering a year ago today we admitted my Dad to the VA hospital that he would never leave.
Thanksgiving will be quiet tomorrow. Just the three of us. And reflective. This week is going to be wracked with emotion.
For tomorrow, I’ll take the fact that my husband makes a mean turkey and a fantastic Gluten Free stuffing as a win.
The little things ARE the big things. We ARE BEATING COWDENS!
Yesterday afternoon began very typical of so many of our days. I left work, got Meghan at school, and instead of heading home we headed to 60th and 5th for a doctor’s appointment.
Trip to Manhattan, not a problem. Trip IN Manhattan – super high stress.
Felix met us and I was able to let Meghan out of the car to endure the extra 20 minutes needed to get around the block to the parking garage I had printed a coupon for. Silly as it may sound, that advanced planing has saved me hundreds of dollars – as our bill yesterday alone was a meager $35 for the lot as compared to the $63 it could have been.
Inside we filled out tons of paperwork, Meghan and I as new patients, and Felix in for his one year follow up. It was the first time we’ve actually had an appointment as a family.
Last year we ended up with this doctor for Felix after a skin biopsy went bad locally. It took weeks for me to obtain less than favorable results, news of unclear margins, and the potential wait of several weeks for a repeat excision. I promptly transferred the biopsy slides and all information to a cancer specialty center in Manhattan and we met our doctor. She had the slides reviewed and told Felix that not one, but BOTH sites biopsied needed further attention. She took them to clean margins and ultimately diagnosed him with “Dysplastic Nevus Syndrome.” He had been fortunate. Precancerous lesions cleanly removed. Annual screening from then until forever.
This year Felix squirmed a bit when I talked about his follow up, but I knew if we could all be connected to this doctor it would be a win all around. Little did I know the scope of the score it would be.
Meghan, now with not only Cowden’s to raise her skin cancer risk, but also the genetic “dysplastic nevus syndrome” potentially inherited from her father, needed a dermatologist in place for annual screenings – ASAP. And for me, well, it was something I had been doing, but not with someone too good. Time to ratchet it up a notch.
The doctor was amazing.
She immediately made Meghan feel comfortable and valuable, and spoke with her at length about the presentation of Cowden’s Syndrome she had experienced. My daughter is incredibly empowered about her own health and held a 10 minute conversation quite nicely. While I filled in a few gaps, the doctor told us she had worked previously at the NIH, (National Institute of Health,) and the NCI (National Cancer Institute) and was therefore, aware of Cowden’s Syndrome. That alone is a rarity in our world.
But she took it much farther than that. She wanted to know about the disease presentation in me as well. She wanted to know how much had gone on before and after diagnosis, and how difficult of a path we had traveled to try and find knowledgeable doctors. She was in constant thought, wondering about what she could do. She spoke almost immediately about training her peers to be the front lines in screening for Cowden’s Syndrome, and how if they could identify classic marks like the trichilemmoma she removed from my forearm, they might be able to raise flags early and help save lives.
Harmless enough, common in Cowden’s Syndrome, she wanted one confirmed though biopsy.Healing… less than 24 hours later.
She wanted to know what we had in terms of screening, and records. What could I send her? CDs? Images? PDF? How fast? She could have my CT scan reread for no fee. Just send everything. (Of course everything is in about 6 inches of binders. So there is sorting and scanning to be done.
What is this http://www.PTENfoundation.org ? She wanted to know. Can she refer people there? What if she publishes in a dermatology journal? Could she list the foundation?
My head was literally spinning – but in a good way for once.
I am going to present on you she said, both of you. But no one has to know its you.
And finally a doctor who ALSO feels this way!
“Can I come?” asks my curious 11 year old.
“Of course…”
And as she took such a liking to Meghan she asked me who was managing her care. When I said, “me.” She was visibly bothered for me.
Someone should be looking after her. Let’s think about what she needs. And with that she rattled off doctors to handle things I couldn’t get my local doctors to address with a ten foot pole. She told me I’d hear from her this week, and from some other doctors too.
I left with three negative exams, 6 months for me and Meghan, and a year for Felix. I left with my belly hungry and my head racing.
Was I dreaming? Had I really finally found the doctor to help us?
No one should have to travel your path alone, she said. You need help navigating.
From her lips to God’s ears. May she be true to her word.
In the mean time I have quite the homework assignment.
So as I sit with my “eventbrite” window open, excitedly hearing the “dings” of attention out February Fundraiser is generating – I am going to get started on perhaps the most important homework of our live
My friend in Australia reached out this week. My “blogging buddy” sensed the silence meant things had gone awry. Continents away; she knew. She was right.
Writing is my release, my sanity, my way of keeping Cowden’s Syndrome and the fast paced, quick changing world around us in check. Writing keeps me “honest” as they say.
And over the last two weeks there have been things to write about. There have been CT scans and fears, and mishaps. and pain, and hunting down doctors and bickering over erroneous bills. But, for the last few weeks most of those things have taken place hastily, in transit. I had some place else to be.
On Wednesday I got the call that Grandma Gen had died.
And as I sit here more than 48 hours later, I am sure it hasn’t sunken in. Not really.
Even as I look out the windows at the changing leaves, and I am brought back to last October, as Dad was getting sicker, quickly, I can not really process.
Gone too soon…
I sometimes feel like so much goes on so fast that sometimes the brain just has to protect the heart for a while.
I have an odd connection to numbers, so it struck me that Dad had died on a Wednesday too. 46 weeks ago. And as we approach what was sure to be some challenging anniversaries, my family will gather this weekend to remember again, a life well-lived.
Wednesday was my cousin Christie’s birthday. 23 years old. I so hope that she found her cake. Because Grandma would have never let a party pass without some cake.
Wednesday was my cousin Kim’s birthday too. 30 years old. One to be filled with joy.
I know girls. I really do know. A piece of my heart died forever on that November day, my 18th birthday when we lost Angel Meghan. And last year, on my 40th, Dad and I went to the VA for a really tough appointment. And then to get the legal papers signed. And as he signed he said, “It’s your birthday!” And I said, “There’s no one I’d rather spend it with Dad.” And there wasn’t. And I don’t regret any of it one bit. And in the end, that is what matters. No regrets.
So to my cousins whose birthdays will never quite feel the same I can tell you to focus on the connection. We all got a really strong angel in Grandma – but you girls… well you have something no one else has. I’d love to tell you “Happy Birthday” doesn’t still flip my stomach a bit, but I don’t much like to lie. What I can tell you is focus on the “happy” that was Grandma. Eat your cake. Always.
And Kim. The wedding will be December 6th. The shower is tomorrow. So compassionate. Not just to Grandma, but to everyone. Something unfair about the timing of it all. But, I can tell you I have a good feeling heaven will be tossing SHOWERS OF BLESSINGS your way.
It’s almost impossible to sum up my Grandma Gen to someone who has never met her.
Grandma was beautiful. Not only in a physical sense, but inside as well. One of the stories I never tired of hearing was the one of her and Pop’s first date. And because there is no way I could do it justice here, I will simply tell you she told it often, and rarely did a detail change. Decades after Pop’s passing, and 60 or so years since that date, her eyes showed the love in her heart. And even in her last weeks whenever we talked about Pop she would say, “God gave me such a GIFT when He gave me your grandfather.”
They were parents. Busy parents. Grandma was the Mom to nine children – 8 boys, and a girl. Most of us shudder at the thought of trying to raise 1, or 2, or 3 children. For Grandma there were never enough babies. Each one was a true gift from God. So for 20 years she had her own, from my Dad to my Uncle Gerry, and everyone in between. And then, just about three years after Gerry, my older sister Lisa was born. There was never a break. The house was always busy, and happy.
They took this shot as often as they could…
As a young child, the cousins just kept coming. There was always a baby to play with, and Grandma ALWAYS had a smile on her face. I believe between 1980 and 1990 – the core of the cousins, 13 if I have the numbers right- were born. Some just a few weeks apart. When all was said and done she boasted 27 grandchildren. There were busy Christmas Eves on Kingsley Avenue for a long time. There were swims in the pool, and dogs to guard the door instead of keys for the lock. There were trips to “Bud’s” for milk, and always a sweet treat. There were green mashed potatoes on St. Patrick’s Day that at the time just amazed me. The little things. So many, really, are the big things.
When I got to call Grandma and tell her that she was going to be a Great Grandma, she let out tears of joy. She was thrilled beyond words. 2003 was a good year – 2 grandchildren and 2 great-grandchildren. 9 more great-grandchildren have followed Meghan and Luke. And she never resisted an urge to tell friend and stranger alike about how proud she was, of all of us.
The first “great grandchild”
Maybe one of the most special things about Grandma was that everyone had their own “one of a kind” relationship with her. When you spoke to her you were the most important person in the world. And we were all perfect. In case the rest of the world missed the memo, or noticed a few faults along the way, you must have been mistaken. Each of her children, her grandchildren, and her great-grandchildren could do no wrong. And while in reality, we know we are all far from perfect, there is no denying that that kind of unconditional love felt awfully good.
Uncle Paul and Aunt Rita’s 25th Anniversary
Grandma had a firm, strong belief in God, Jesus, and she adored The Blessed Mother. She would often tell me, if you REALLY needed to get a prayer answered to pray to The Blessed Mother. She’s get word to Jesus, and He’d never deny His Mother.
Motherhood was her core. From her days playing with her baby dolls she prayed to be a mother. And boy were those prayers answered.
And through the years as the family grew, and changed, Grandma could be found smiling somewhere.
Grandma with Poppy Hollywood and Barbara and Gerry OGrandma and Aunt Shirley
I can say with confidence, that for all the years I knew my Grandma she never acted with malice in her heart, and always had the best of all intentions in all she said and did. Somewhere along the line I became a middle aged grown up, and I’ve picked up a few things. That pure heart, that is what defines people. At the end of the day it is the knowledge that they did the best they could with what they had where they were at all times that really separates the pure in heart.
And as sure as Jesus said, “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God…” I have no doubt my Grandma was welcomed into Heaven-warmly.
Because even after the stroke that was to be the beginning of the end, she was the most polite, well-mannered patient you ever could have imagined. In the hospital, in the nursing home, to anyone who did anything for her, “Thank you.” “They’re so good to me.”
Even as she waited for visitors, she stared at the picture of her children on the steps at Dave and Margie’s wedding, and she spoke with pride about each of them, and how their hugs warmed her soul.
Sometimes when I was visiting her alone she would tell me about the places she had been. Of course these were voyages of the mind, but I listened, as we all did, with intent excitement. These last few weeks were interesting, because you truly never knew who had been in before you, or who came after you, but we all had our times to listen and chat.
She and my brother used “FaceTime” so he could chat with her from Texas, and she sure knew it was him, somehow coming through my phone. Shane may very well be the first Thompson male to have his facial hair approved of by Grandma. He booked the first dance with Grandma at Kim’s wedding. And without fail as the call would disconnect, she’d say, “Shane, I love that kid!”
And there were days my Dad must have visited with her when she was lonely, and her brothers, and some others who gave her comfort, because we heard all about them too.
Even as her mind took her farther from reality, she smiled. She regaled us with tales of how we were all going to gather for family dinner. She told me one day she was buying 2 houses to there would be enough space for all of us. She would talk about the family being close, and how my cousins from Washington were coming with their families too! (We can dream!)
So this weekend we will gather together again. This time for the first gathering without our matriarch.
And we will spend Saturday showering Kim and Nando with blessings for their upcoming wedding. Because Grandma, who believed so much in weddings, and marriage, and love would have had it no other way.
Then Sunday we will get together in Harmon Funeral Home again. And in Irish fashion we will have a loud celebratory wake for a woman who lived a full, happy life. And we will look at pictures and tell stories, and we will laugh and smile. Together.
On Monday we will travel, and bring her back to Pop. 21 years later they will be reunited again, a love story never ended, simply interrupted.
Together again – together forever
Then the real work begins. It’s our job now. We need to stay focused. We need to stay connected. We need to stay together.
For so many of my cousins Grandma Gen was their last grandparent. I have a guilty amount of good-fortune, and celebrate three grandparents still. But. the significance and the importance is not lost on me.
In the end it is really only about one thing.
In our loss, we must remember their freedom. In our loss, we must remember the gifts they left behind. In our loss, we must remember they are never truly gone if we keep them alive in our words, thoughts and actions.
I miss my Dad. I miss my Grandma.
Their physical bodies are gone. Their energy, their spirit, their love remain.
Grandma Gen we’ll do our best to stay “on the right path,” as you so often said. And at every dessert table there will be an extra piece of cake or a “dollie” shared for you.
Enjoy Pop, and Daddy, and Angel Meghan, and Bo, and all the rest of those you love so much. No worries. When the time is right we’ll all be together again.
It wasn’t too long ago in conversation with my husband that we started to talk about all the things that have gone on in our lives in the last 2+ years.
The life changing diagnoses of Meghan and I and the correlating surgeries and appointments. just about took control there for a while.
And Felix studied for and ultimately obtained his electrical license through the drama, and extensive, ridiculous hiccups in the process.
It all just blurred in and we never properly celebrated that accomplishment.
Meg changed schools. Well, twice now.
We changed churches.
And the car accident, and the back trauma.
The rotted bay window, and the pool with the hole in the liner.
The loss of my father after a brief, battle with pancreatic cancer that had life changing ripple effects everywhere.
I actually sat down to write a list at one point. Maybe I felt, albeit temporarily, the need to justify the un-returned phone calls, the missed dates with friends, the chaos shoved behind closet doors, and the overarching feeling of disorder in my life. I wanted a way to explain why I felt like I was existing, not living. Why every weekend was faced with catching up, and why we were missing each other. I wanted to explain to the world how I was nutritionally healthier and stronger than ever before, and excited about my new products, but I was/am struggling to get out of my own way.
But this year has served up some intense wake up calls and I am trying to give them my full attention. Because if any reality resonates clear it is the one that there is no guarantee of tomorrow on this earth.
I am not trying to be morbid. Quite the contrary actually.
It is that very realization that caused me to shred that list I was making. It’s counterproductive to dwell. We must press forward anyway. So why stay stuck in the past?
There is a point in your life where you have to stop. And look around. And focus on the blessings around you. This paradigm shift, while far from perfected, is a work in progress.
We have taken steps to transform the house, even if that stands in the way of clearing off the credit card bills. Because, we are not extravagant, and never will be, but living in a neat, clean, organized house, when done well, is easier to maintain, and therefore an investment in our time together
We have family. And lots of it. At 40 years old, I can boast 3 grandmothers and a grandfather. I am becoming more aware each day of the depth of the value of those relationships. In addition to those 4 great -grandparents, Meghan has 4 grandparents of her own. I am beyond thrilled that Meghan, now 11, has had the opportunity to have created life long memories with all of them.
And sometimes it is within thoughts of those closest to us, that we remember what is the most important.
And if I really remember who I am, I have to speak of my grandparents, most especially today Mom’s parents.
Early in my life, when things were jostled around and life was uncertain, they were there. We lived in the first floor of their 2 family for the most formative years. They fed us breakfast and met us after school. They took us to sporting events and school activities while Mom worked 2 jobs. They were just always THERE.
And Pop was there to fix things, and Grandma to play cards and cook with.
There were summers in Ocean City, New Jersey – the best summers of my life.
There was a whirlwind trip to Disney, and so many more adventures.
I remember them as a young child, watching them. They never separated, even for a few minutes, without a kiss goodbye and an, “I love you.” This practice, perhaps formed after a lengthy service in WWII, and a full career in the FDNY seemed rooted in their deep understanding that we need to appreciate each other here. Now.
And when we moved into Mom and Ken’s house there was the summer Pop and Grandpa Al sided the house.
And in my own house the woodwork. The beautiful labor of love that is each piece of trim, each windowsill, each doorframe. In his 80s when I bought my house Pop trimmed each piece, and even helped Felix put in the front door. He shared his craft with my husband, and did so with patience and ease.
So much of the last 40 years of my life revolve around Grandma and Pop.
Never a task too difficult. Never say no. Always giving. Always sharing. Always loving.
When I think about my list that I had started to write, and then I think about them, I get a bit embarrassed.
Born in 1919 and 1920 they have seen more changes in their lifetime than any other generation. They lived through the Great Depression, and participated in World War II. They spent years apart, in touch by letter, only to marry a few weeks after Pop’s return in December 1945.
They built a family, my Mom and my Uncle, and the family branched out.
Pop worked in the Fire Department, and at Zion. Grandma took care of everything else so that there was never a thing out of place.
During their life transformations like – no phone to cell phones, and no TV to HD flat screens, and so many more have happened and they persevere. Pop Emails and surfs the internet, and even carries a cell phone – though it’s rarely on!
Times have changed and things slow down a bit. But it’s still a huge highlight to stop in for a visit and chat.
And when he can, Felix still picks Pop’s brain for suggestions of things he’s about to try.
All my life I remember them doing. For everyone. All the time. They are the ultimate lesson in “pay it forward.” They are for me the ultimate reminder of those vows we make before God and family and friends on the day we marry. Regardless of the wording used, the sentiment is the same. They promised to love each other, in good times and bad, in times when there was a lot, and in times there wasn’t, in times of sickness and in health, and to stand by each other for as long as God gives them life together.
Love my Grandparents!Christmas 2009Grandma’s 90th birthday on 2010At Pop’s 90th birthday in 2009
And even in the toughest hours, they make it look easy.
That is almost 69 years of marriage as God intended it.
There are so many things I share. And there are some that just aren’t to be shared. But make no mistake about this.
I’ve learned how to be a better person, and a better Christian from my grandparents. I learned how to be a better wife, from my grandparents.
This doesn’t detract in any way from the love of all the other influential adults in my life, including my own parents. We learn different things from different people at every place in our lives.
But today, it’s about Grandma and Pop. And how their selflessness and pure love never cease to amaze me.
I pray that though all adversity, my husband and I may set the same example for our daughter.
We are deeply, thoroughly, and completely blessed.
And when making lists its far best to make lists of your blessings than your struggles.
I spent the weekend with my college roommate. She was the one I lived with the longest. She was the one who introduced herself to me the first day. She held me 2 months later as I was wracked in sobs at the loss of my cousin Meghan on my 18th birthday. She learned how to drive in my Toyota. We had fun, shared friends, and life, and got to know each other in deep ways saved for long term friends – or ones you’ve lived with. We gathered enough good dirt on each other to be sure we’d be friends forever.
The last time I saw her was in December. She and her husband showed up at the wake for my Dad.
The time before that was when I made it out to the wake for her Mom.
Somehow we find each other…
And this weekend we hugged first on Friday, in that room in New Jersey, miles away from each of our homes. We cried, and hugged and pulled it together. As the scene was replaying itself again. But this time it was far worse.
College Graduation – 1995
It’s not right that we don’t see each other. And it’s no one’s “fault.” And I have a few dear friends I am in the same situation with – whose kids I’d barely recognize if it weren’t for Facebook and Instagram.
We stood together for a while, just the two of us. Interrupted only by people trickling by. We spoke about his fight. His strength. His battle. I told her how much I respected all he did to fight. I told her I was so privileged to have shared a few email exchanges after he took to this blog.
But, from where we stood, in the out of the way corner that defined her comfort zone, we might have even forgotten why we were there.
Although the reality became apparent through the greetings, and the hugs, and the “I’m so sorry…” sincerely sent in her direction, over and over.
Her little brother had died. Her “little” brother was little in age, not in height or spirit. He had a presence about him 20 years ago when I greeted him in our dorm room. When he spent time with us. His charm, and sincerity, and personality resonated even then.
Her “little” brother was 36. Diagnosed with stage 4 pancreatic cancer months ago, he fought with every fiber of his soul, through every treatment and surgery presented. He fought for his family, for his wife of 10 years, and for his two handsome young sons. He fought out of zest and a love of life. He fought for his siblings and his Dad.
I remember when she and I spoke this summer. I remember the conversation because she asked me a question I didn’t want to answer, but one I had needed to ask myself months earlier. She asked how long it had been for my Dad, from the time he was diagnosed until the end. And as I choked over 10 weeks, I instinctively tried to fill that statement with stupid things… “he’s young, there are things he can do…” But, she had heard a number. Just as I had when I had asked the question months earlier.
And I kept an eye on the calendar as I checked in on my friend. And every day I thought of her. I prayed often for her brother, and the family.
Sunday came the text that he wouldn’t make the week.
Tuesday came the one that said he was no longer suffering.
Friday rolled into today, and we sat. Side by side in a standing room only funeral parlor. We hung onto each other’s hands and friends and family alike shared stories, and memories of a guy who seemed to have been larger than life. And my favorite story of the day came when they said he went back to college after he had his boys. And he got his Master’s Degree too. Not for financial gain, but because, “How can I hold my boys to a higher standard than I hold myself to?” Class. His spirit filled the room. There was an abundance of support, and love.
And then we were at this backyard party at her brother’s house. And to the naked eye it could have seemed like any end of summer gathering. But it wasn’t. People were eating, and sharing stories, and passing time together. And two handsome blond boys ran about with their friends.
And then there will be tomorrow. And this young woman, now a widow, will need to press on for her boys. And those boys will slowly come to the realization that Daddy is never coming home. And his sisters to the reality that he won’t be at the next gathering, and his Dad to the realization that his son and his wife have now gone on before him – leaving him with lots to take care of.
36 years old. Father of 2. Dead from Pancreatic Cancer. Illogical. Incomprehensible. Insidious, painful, horror show of a disease. It just doesn’t make sense.
At all.
And there have been so many things that don’t make sense. Ever. They pale in comparison to the horror of a son and a brother, and a father dying out of order, yet still they are the things that keep me wondering about all things.
I think it was Wednesday at work.
I had a first grade class. And the loudspeaker went something like this, “This is a soft lock down drill. Please take all proper steps.”
And just like that 28 first grade students instinctively went to the back corner of my room. The stayed low and quiet as I shut the lights and the smart board and locked the door. They got themselves out of sight of the glass window on my door. And they sat. Silently. And I was stunned. I think it was the 10th day of school. They range from 5 to 6 years in age. And they never moved. They looked to me for a reassuring face. I faked it.
Truth is as necessary as I know they are – I HATE those things. And in this post 9/11 world, littered with countless nonsensical school shootings, and deaths, I get it. And I take it seriously. And the reality that one day we COULD be a target of chaos doesn’t escape me. But that doesn’t mean I have to LIKE it. I don’t like that we need to scare the crap out of these little ones just in case. They are growing up in a wild world.
So wild that when Meghan’s Social Studies homework became to be aware of the news every day, (something we actively have tried to hide her from because there is just enough CRAP in her life) one of the first stories to come across was terror threats in Times Square. She gets things very quickly. And she is stellar at context clues. Dad’s in Times Square every day.
These kids are growing up in a tough world. Grown up worries. Grown up realities. Young minds. It’s so hard to make any sense of it at all.
And so when the ones who are supposed to help -just don’t, well that seems to make things worse.
In the middle of the renovations that swallowed the end of August, Meghan broke her foot. A stress fracture to one of the superficial top bones. I am absolutely not getting “Mother of the Year”” for this, because I was in full on “suck it up we have things to do” mode for the first 36 hours after she banged the foot hard into a misplaced shelf in the basement. That was a Thursday night. And by Saturday of Labor Day weekend, we found ourselves in Urgent Care with a “suspicion of fracture.” Of course being a holiday that simply meant ice, rest and elevate till Tuesday when we could get to the podiatrist.
And we brought the X-ray, and the report. And everyone was very pleasant and we were told that the X-ray abnormality didn’t exactly line up with the point of severe pain. So, clinically it was appropriate to diagnose a stress fracture, put her in a boot, and have her repeat the X-ray in 2 weeks.
So she began middle school days after getting her braces off, with this giant black boot on her leg. And she plugged along for two weeks, and we got the X-ray repeated as we were told to. So, when we returned to the office for the recheck we gave them the disk and the report.
There was some grumbling about the radiology place we went to writing the “worst” reports (but no one told us where to go,) and some discussion in the other room about things on the film that were “probably nothing.” (Doctors should learn some moms have rabbit ears.)
So he came into the room after having had Meghan take off the boot. There was a surgical resident in tow.
“How does the foot feel?”
Meghan, “Much better.”
“Great, there’s no evidence of fracture on the x-ray. You must have healed. Let’s transition you off the boot.”
Please know during this whole exchange he NEVER EXAMINED HER FOOT!
Me, having already read the X-ray report, ” What about the report talking about “bony bridging and bordering sclerosis.?” Does that mean anything?”
“Well, it’s not causing her pain is it?”
Me,”Well she doesn’t have foot pain, per se, but, there is chronic joint/muscle/bone pain that we work on. Could things being out of order in the foot trigger some of this?”
Me,”I guess really what I’m asking is, is anything on that X-Ray consistent with Cowden’s Syndrome?”
“Well does Cowden’s Syndrome cause bony overgrowth?”
Me, “You’re the doctor, I am asking you.”
“But you are far more familiar with the syndrome than I am.”
Me, in my own brain, Thanks to Google University, and then out loud, “Are you seeing this? (pointing to the extra bone that juts out of her left (and right) feet) on the X-ray?”
(THAT IS A PAGE FROM A WEBSITE, reviewed by a doctor at the cutting edge of PTEN research. It took me less than 10 seconds to find. It verifies bone cysts connected to Cowden’s Syndrome, and had anyone asked I would have been able to tell them about the “non-ossifying fibroma” in the left femur that scared the crap out of us when she was 2.)
“I don’t think so, but you should probably have a specialist look at that. I don’t need to see her again.”
And I turn to see the tiniest tear in the corner of Meghan’s eye…. “Mom, he never even touched my foot. He has no idea what the problem really is. What’s the point of wearing the boot? I have to trust my own body cause they don’t know anything. I think its healed and the boot is hurting my knee.”
Fair enough.
She’s the closest I have to a doctor, and the thing that has made the most sense all week.
When you have a diagnosis that leaves you prepped for cancers of all types at all ages and in all places, there are things that rock you to your core.
Sometimes living with PTEN Hamartoma Tumor Syndrome is like living under the constant threat of a terrorist attack. But the terrorist is cancer.
You get to live in fear, or live your life.
You get to try and make sense of things, or run with them anyway.
With the motivation of those – not connected to us by Cowden’s, but connected to us by life – who have fought the good fight, I try to stay focused. To live life instead of hiding in a corner, or some days under the bed with the lights off…
So many things, so many tragedies will never make sense.
But it’s less about making sense, and more about being sensible. It’s about instinct. And love, and compassion. And cures. I am a big fan of cures.
Tonight, wherever you are in your life. Whatever is rattling your world, I ask you to stop for a minute.
Say a prayer for those two little boys who will begin to know that Daddy is never coming home.
Say a prayer for a family who lost a 36 year old high quality man too soon.
And please. In this world that makes no sense. Do something logical. And kind. For someone. Cause we ALL need it.
Nope, not us. No way. No how. Terrifying. Not going to happen.
Until last week.
Something clicked inside her head, and she decided that she had come to conquer.
There was a pit in my stomach when she first declared she was going to go on Space Mountain. Roller Coasters have never been my thing either.
But, she even decided who was going to sit in front of her and behind her. No getting out of it for me.
She told me that she had been through a lot in her life. And that she shouldn’t be scared of a ride. True. There was that quote by Eleanor Roosevelt we had read, and referred to so many times.
No not the other quote, “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” – FDR
This one, “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
The first time we were both a little scared. Then there was the second time. And by the third time she owned it.
“Rocking Roller Coaster!” she declared.
And so we headed to the Aerosmith ride that wasn’t even on the consideration list a year ago. Twice. I went too. And I really didn’t mind.
“Life begins at the edge of your comfort zone…” Words I am learning to be truer each day.
And so in the week that was, we rode Space Mountain, Aerosmith, Big Thunder Mountain, Seven Dwarfs Mine Train, Test Track and even the Barn Stormer together. I did Star Tours too, but virtual reality isn’t really agreeing with me anymore. Maybe too much reality?
So she went on Mission Space with her Dad – twice. Once on the beginner level, then on the advanced. And they rode Splash Mountain too – just because.
It makes me happy to see her conquering fears. There are so few of them, that I am hopeful nothing like a roller coaster ever stands in her way.
And as I reflected on the idea that this kid, this amazing kid had brought me past a fear that had plagued me for decades, I found myself hopeful that she will always dance…
“Never settle for the path of least resistance… I hope you dance…”
“I Hope You Dance” – Lee Ann Womack
I hope you never lose your sense of wonder,
You get your fill to eat but always keep that hunger,
May you never take one single breath for granted,
GOD forbid love ever leave you empty handed,
I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean,
Whenever one door closes I hope one more opens,
Promise me that you’ll give faith a fighting chance,
And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance.I hope you dance….I hope you dance.
So it came as a little surprise when she was asked by the Borough President if she’d like to throw out the first pitch at a Staten Island Yankee Game to help draw attention to her platform and continue to raise awareness of Cowden’s Syndrome.
Meghan’s friend has been a great support in so many ways.
She didn’t hesitate with the “yes,” although she admitted not being too sure of what she had gotten herself into.
Thankfully my very good friend has 4 boys. And among them they were able to locate some gloves and some baseballs for a few impromptu pitching lessons. And I have to say they did a good job.
Leaving for the game she had quite a nervous stomach. Once we arrived she was focused on a “practice pitch.” Once that was accomplished we had a few moments to take in the magic around us.
60 of our friends and family had taken time out of their lives on a busy Wednesday night to support Meghan, and our need to raise awareness of Rare Diseases. In addition, it was team night for Meghan’s Swim Team, so there were many of them cheering as well.
When we had first set the date, I wasn’t sure how public to make the event. I didn’t want to put people out. So I posted it on my Facebook wall a few times. I was floored. And intrigued. My cousin Kim asked me to order 23 tickets for her. I didn’t ask too many questions. My family is big enough that cousins have to trust each other.
We were greeted by Kim, and there were T- Shirts. It took me a second or two to process. Then I read it. Looked around. Choked back a tear and threw it over my head.
Absolutely touching!
The pitch went off without a hitch, and the announcer crammed so much information into a minute it was amazing. It’s hard to hear, but trust me!
PRESS THE ARROW…
The night was just fun. Exactly how summer nights should be. The weather was perfect. The company was outstanding.
And, even as the crowd began to dwindle, we sat to watch the game, with the Yankees down 4-1.
And in the bottom of the 8th as it neared 10 PM, Felix and Meghan made a deal. If the Yankees scored in this half, we could stay till the end.
Four runs later, they pulled off a beautiful “come from behind” win.
And as we walked to the car we stopped at the “Postcards 9/11 Memorial” and we remembered how very lucky we are, even in the midst of chaos.
That first pitch, symbolic of overcoming challenges. Of conquering fears, and of new beginnings.
That win the Yankees had just pulled seemingly out of thin air, was the result of a refusal to quit.
They worked like a team. They made it happen together.
A perfect ending to a perfect night.
Here are pictures of SOME of our team. There are just so many more that support us each and every day.
We LOVE you all. Thank you for helping us tell the world. We are …
BEATING COWDENS together.
There are not enough photographs, for those at the game, and for those who are ALWAYS with us in out hearts. There are not enough words to express our gratitude for the love showered on us so regularly.
It is only with your support that we continue to push on.
But then there are days that it smacks me right across the face. And it stings, no, actually it’s more like a scalding burn.
I post mostly about Meghan. She’s my hero. She’s my inspiration. She motivates me to be a better person, every day. But, if I really want this blog to be transparent, and I really want the truth about our experience living with and beating Cowden’s Syndrome to be out there, sometimes I have to allow my own inner self to be exposed.
I feel good. I really do. Aside from a little lag from my thyroid, I am feeling better and stronger than I have in years.
But there are the scars. They hide behind my clothes like a little secret. Cause people forget. And that’s what I want, because most of the time I forget too.
But then I look in the mirror, and I see the scars across the implants replacing the diseased breasts removed in the nick of time. And my shirt doesn’t sit quite right. And it’s probably my own fault, as I refused the tissue expanders necessary for a proper reconstruction. I didn’t have the time, or the energy, or the desire, or the stamina to put myself through the frequent fills, the repeated pain, and the additional surgery necessary for the sizes to be equal. It just wasn’t worth it to disrupt our lives longer.
I saw the plastic surgeon last week. My two-year follow-up. Hard to imagine. She gently reminded me again that she could even things out whenever I was ready. No cost thanks to the positive pathology for breast cancer, and the genetic mutation. No monetary cost. I’m not ready. Yet.
I saw the breast surgeon last week too. I see her every 6 months, so she can make sure nothing sinister is growing behind those implants. The reality and the reminder that as fortunate as I was – I still had breast cancer. And once you know for sure that those malignant cells had life in your body, you never look at things quite the same. “No lumps or bumps,” she happily reported. “See you in 6 months.”
I can’t wait.
And there are the lymph nodes in my neck. They were checked last week too. Sonogram. As long as they stay stable, we can leave them alone. “But, if they grow…” she reminds me every time. Six months for her too.
And my legs. Fitting into the smallest size they have ever in my life the veins are protruding again. The PTEN diagnosis, known for enhancing vascular issues, perhaps the explanation for the vascular problems that have caused 2 operating room visits and 5 in office procedures since I was 23. But, it doesn’t really matter I guess. The legs start with a familiar heaviness. Then there is the throbbing. The last thing I feel before bed, and the first thing I feel after the alarm gets shut down. And the pulsing – like I can feel the blood moving the wrong way through the broken veins. And the giant bulging, from groin to ankle, that makes it a little less fun to buy the shorts in a size 2. I switch to “Bermuda” length and some sundresses. I wait for the word that GHI has approved another vascular procedure.
Not to mention I saw the GYN Oncologist too. Everything ramped up a notch with the “Cowden’s Syndrome” label. There are no “regular” visits anymore. Even with that benign pathology, it’s a forever commitment to the “Clinical Cancer Center” of the hospital. Two years since the hysterectomy too. Time marches on. You can barely see the scars from the laproscopy. But I know they are there too. A few inches under the implant scars. Reminders of the year that changed my life. Our lives.
The week finished with genetics. Our geneticist – found by an incidental internet search at the recommendation of our physical therapist, is a gem of a man. He greeted me with a hug and a smile, and exclaimed that I looked better than I did at my diagnosis. Then he drew my blood. More genetic testing. This time not because of the Cowden’s Syndrome. This time, it is to fulfill the wishes of my father. Wrapping up a genetic counseling visit I completed in April, and after consent was received from GHI, the vial of blood was drawn to test for the markers for pancreatic cancer, the killer of my father, and paternal grandfather, as well as about 15 other markers I probably don’t want to know about. We both said a silent prayer that the test yielded a whole lot of nothing. We hugged again. It’ll be about 6 weeks.
So this morning my shirt didn’t fit quite right. The indentation on the right side was causing the shirt to fit lopsided. And the vein bulging out of my right leg, especially just above the knee was a little too much for me to take. I struggled with my tears, trying desperately to hide them from my extraordinarily observant soon- to- be -11 year-old.
This is the reality she knows we share. Yet, I want so badly to help her maintain some of her youth. Worry free innocence taken with the words, “You have a mutation on the PTEN gene…” and years of her own surgeries have stripped her of some of the privileges given only to the young. There is something about 11 surgeries with no real end in sight, that can leave you a bit anxious.
It only took a minute. Although it seemed longer. A hug from my husband. My ever patient, loving soul mate, who makes me feel beautiful just by the smile in his eyes when we kiss. And it was time to shake it off.
But not without first acknowledging that maybe that was quite a few appointments for a week’s time..
When we got in the car to head to the doctor, the Christian station was playing one of my favorite songs, “Fix My Eyes,” by For King & Country.
There are no coincidences.
And as we sang along, I looked in the rear-view mirror.
“Fix My Eyes”
“Hit rewind
Click delete
Stand face to face with the younger me
All of the mistakes
All of the heartbreak
Here’s what I’d do differently
I’d love like I’m not scared
Give when it’s not fair
Live life for another
Take time for a brother
Fight for the weak ones
Speak out for freedom
Find faith in the battle
Stand tall but above it all
Fix my eyes on youI learned the lines and talked the talk (everybody knows that, everybody knows that)
But the road less traveled is hard to walk (everybody knows that, everybody knows)
It takes a soldier
Who knows his orders
To walk the walk I’m supposed to walkAnd love like I’m not scared
Give when it’s not fair
Live life for another
Take time for a brother
Fight for the weak ones
Speak out for freedom
Find faith in the battle
Stand tall but above it all
Fix my eyes on you….”
Click the image to hear the song…
We spent Friday looking for sites for a fund-raiser for “Rare Disease Day 2015.” We met a lovely woman who was surprised we weren’t raising money for us specifically. We explained that we were grateful. I feel well enough to work. We have good medical coverage. There are so many not as fortunate.
When it gets to be too much, I know to fix my eyes on things far beyond the mirror. I have a greater purpose right in my own house. And WE have a greater purpose.
beatingcowdens 