delete. if only it was that easy to restart.
"Your body is a computer-you have to let it reboot-especially with all of the radiation." i'm so sick of hearing that. apparently there are many programs that still need to close. when i close one ("seizures" or "muscle atrophy" or "vertigo"), then another one opens. they keep popping up-new symptomes, new issues, new worries. a great deal of "harmful threats" to my system have not been blocked.
lately i have been having "visual disturbances"-my eyes will fade in and out and things start to move around a bit (kind of a milder version of the extreme vertigo I was having). some episodes are shorter than others. so it was time for an eye doctor appointment. i was looking forward to this one because i thought it would be an easy fix. they just do some eye tests and there's my answer, right?
nope. in the eye doctor's words, "There is nothing I can do to make all of these symptoms go away." he said that my eyes will adjust with time as they heal.
with time. with time. with time. it's always the same thing. i hate that stupid hourglass.
at night i'm happy that another day has gone by because that means i am closer to the "in time" everyone's talking about. but am i?
this weekend there's been a clicking in the back of my head and a tingling sensation on the right side of my skull. i'll have to call a doctor (maybe i'll put all of their names in a hat and pick a one) and let them know. but it probably will just get better with time. in this case, that would actually be a relief if it's something that will resolve itself and it's not something worse.
then there's this pressure under what feels like my entire face. when i blink my eyes i feel a pull on the top of my head. forget about raising my eyebrows-that has been a lost cause. but that will get better in time, right? and my headaches will disappear?
i always hope there's an easier explanation to new things that arise than there actually is. often there is no explanation. that makes it so much worse.
when will everything align? when will "time" come?
I eagerly await the day my arrow can finally click "ok".
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Monday, September 26, 2011
overdosed.
Saturday 11:00 pm-evening medications
Saturday 11:30 pm-filling pill box for the next week, noticing I only have enough for two days...
I don't know what happened between the time I had my medications in my hands and when I took them. I take a few pills every night so, for some reason, i must have gotten distracted and just instinctively took the ones I was supposed to put in my box.
We were about to go upstairs to bed and I grabbed my my pill box so we could bring it up with us. That's when we saw there were none in there and that the original medication bottles weren't as full as they should be. We panicked and looked everywhere to see if maybe I accidentally dropped them or something. i just couldn't remember.
Nope. i took them. i took triple the amount of anti-seizure medication I was supposed to take that night. (note: the tumor was in the memory side of the brain; fortunately i've had very few memory issues-unfortunately this was one of them.)
my body began to shake uncontrollably and everything was spinning. Tim carried me to the car so we could go to the Emergency Room. As is typical with every ER visit, there were hours of waiting time. I couldn't look anywhere so I tried to close my eyes but my body still shook.
My ekg and vital signs were okay and now I had to wait out the symptoms. After dry-heaving into my hospital gown as my limbs flailed about, Tim carried me into our house. I prayed I would just fall asleep. sleeping would be so much better than being awake.
It was like a nightmarish mixture of seizures and vertigo-but much, much worse than both-and it wouldn't stop. I made it to the couch and tim slept on the floor next to me. that night was one of the most frightening nights of my life. i continued to pray i would just fall asleep and that it would just go away. but it didn't.
yesterday I slept most of the day. i can handle drowsiness. it's so much better than any other symptom. it's so much better than being awake. i was happy when time went by because every minute was one closer to the medication half-life. one minute closer to getting this out of my system.
there were finally a few "good" days in a row when everything seemed normal from top to bottom, but those days were temporarily halted by this enormous mistake.
obstacles continue. at least this time, we know it'll go away. these are symptoms that can be explained and a source can be identified. but that didn't make it any more bearable.
maybe tomorrow the symptoms will be gone completely and it will be better to be awake.
Saturday 11:30 pm-filling pill box for the next week, noticing I only have enough for two days...
I don't know what happened between the time I had my medications in my hands and when I took them. I take a few pills every night so, for some reason, i must have gotten distracted and just instinctively took the ones I was supposed to put in my box.
We were about to go upstairs to bed and I grabbed my my pill box so we could bring it up with us. That's when we saw there were none in there and that the original medication bottles weren't as full as they should be. We panicked and looked everywhere to see if maybe I accidentally dropped them or something. i just couldn't remember.
Nope. i took them. i took triple the amount of anti-seizure medication I was supposed to take that night. (note: the tumor was in the memory side of the brain; fortunately i've had very few memory issues-unfortunately this was one of them.)
my body began to shake uncontrollably and everything was spinning. Tim carried me to the car so we could go to the Emergency Room. As is typical with every ER visit, there were hours of waiting time. I couldn't look anywhere so I tried to close my eyes but my body still shook.
My ekg and vital signs were okay and now I had to wait out the symptoms. After dry-heaving into my hospital gown as my limbs flailed about, Tim carried me into our house. I prayed I would just fall asleep. sleeping would be so much better than being awake.
It was like a nightmarish mixture of seizures and vertigo-but much, much worse than both-and it wouldn't stop. I made it to the couch and tim slept on the floor next to me. that night was one of the most frightening nights of my life. i continued to pray i would just fall asleep and that it would just go away. but it didn't.
yesterday I slept most of the day. i can handle drowsiness. it's so much better than any other symptom. it's so much better than being awake. i was happy when time went by because every minute was one closer to the medication half-life. one minute closer to getting this out of my system.
there were finally a few "good" days in a row when everything seemed normal from top to bottom, but those days were temporarily halted by this enormous mistake.
obstacles continue. at least this time, we know it'll go away. these are symptoms that can be explained and a source can be identified. but that didn't make it any more bearable.
maybe tomorrow the symptoms will be gone completely and it will be better to be awake.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
right angles.
it may sound cliche, but there are SO many things we take for granted. i never knew just how many things that could include.
Last week I actually thanked God that I was able to turn to "toss and turn" in bed without getting dizzy. When the dizziness issues started at the end of June I had to basically be lifted into bed and positioned on my pillows. If I turned my head or body either way, the world would spin. Now when I wake up in the middle of the night and try to turn the other way to get more comfortable and STILL don't get dizzy, I thank God again.
When I sit up from bed and get out of chairs by myself without getting woozy, I am surprised and very, very grateful. this was not the case for most of the past month (but you already know that from the last post). I am overjoyed every time.
I keep track of things in a health journal and every day that doesn't include vertigo gets a "no vertigo-yay!" on its date. After a few physical therapy sessions to readjust the crystals from my inner ear back to where they should be (they explain it better), I have not had an attack since July 21 and many of the other symptoms have improved significantly.
When we stand up to walk, we assume we can do just that: walk. We assume that our vestibular system is working and that information is being sent from our brains to our eyes and that our bodies know where they are in space so that we can balance and that the muscles in our legs will support us. Many of these functions have been temporarily compromised, but let's talk about the muscles in my legs, which began atrophying due to the steroid. This is reversible with physical therapy (which I do twice a week) and with weaning off the steroid, but that doesn't make it any less frustrating. I walked from my room to the bathroom all by myself today without holding onto anything. I took 3 walks around the living room today. I consider it a successful walk when my legs feel strong, when I can walk with my head up rather than looking down and when my arms swing naturally at my sides rather than tensed in the air to keep balance. "Look at meee!" is a victorious announcement when this happens. I will not take my muscles for granted. I will thank God for every fiber and every bone and every system that works together.
One of the days after last month's chemo cycle, everything tasted DISGUSTING (it can do strange things to your taste buds sometimes). I even tried to eat a piece of raspberry-filled Ghirardelli chocolate and it tasted like gravel. we tried out various foods and none of them worked. my mom brought up some watermelon and I gave it a try. it worked! watermelon tasted like watermelon and it tasted good! I cried happy tears.
There are some frightening statistics about my specific type of tumor. (tip: never research your diagnosis. Never look where it says "prognosis.") We just went to an appointment where the doctor told us that since the surgery was done well and since I underwent radiation and chemotherapy and with my continued chemo treatments I can expect to have a normal lifespan. he was smiling when he said this. I was smiling when he said this. even though i honestly hadn't thought about the percentages in a long time and certainly haven't dwelt on them, the joy of having a doctor confirm this hope is something that cannot possibly put into words.
People around my age are "pushing 30"; when I turn 30, I have just beaten a statistic (which my doctor said that I would). I do not fear turning 30 or 40 or 50 or any "old" age; I look forward to it because that means that I. have. survived.
I am alive. I underwent the most serious and dangerous type of surgery that exists. twice. And I AM ALIVE.
One day I will not be surprised when everything feels normal and when everything works the way it should-but I will remain very, very grateful.
Last week I actually thanked God that I was able to turn to "toss and turn" in bed without getting dizzy. When the dizziness issues started at the end of June I had to basically be lifted into bed and positioned on my pillows. If I turned my head or body either way, the world would spin. Now when I wake up in the middle of the night and try to turn the other way to get more comfortable and STILL don't get dizzy, I thank God again.
When I sit up from bed and get out of chairs by myself without getting woozy, I am surprised and very, very grateful. this was not the case for most of the past month (but you already know that from the last post). I am overjoyed every time.
I keep track of things in a health journal and every day that doesn't include vertigo gets a "no vertigo-yay!" on its date. After a few physical therapy sessions to readjust the crystals from my inner ear back to where they should be (they explain it better), I have not had an attack since July 21 and many of the other symptoms have improved significantly.
When we stand up to walk, we assume we can do just that: walk. We assume that our vestibular system is working and that information is being sent from our brains to our eyes and that our bodies know where they are in space so that we can balance and that the muscles in our legs will support us. Many of these functions have been temporarily compromised, but let's talk about the muscles in my legs, which began atrophying due to the steroid. This is reversible with physical therapy (which I do twice a week) and with weaning off the steroid, but that doesn't make it any less frustrating. I walked from my room to the bathroom all by myself today without holding onto anything. I took 3 walks around the living room today. I consider it a successful walk when my legs feel strong, when I can walk with my head up rather than looking down and when my arms swing naturally at my sides rather than tensed in the air to keep balance. "Look at meee!" is a victorious announcement when this happens. I will not take my muscles for granted. I will thank God for every fiber and every bone and every system that works together.
One of the days after last month's chemo cycle, everything tasted DISGUSTING (it can do strange things to your taste buds sometimes). I even tried to eat a piece of raspberry-filled Ghirardelli chocolate and it tasted like gravel. we tried out various foods and none of them worked. my mom brought up some watermelon and I gave it a try. it worked! watermelon tasted like watermelon and it tasted good! I cried happy tears.
There are some frightening statistics about my specific type of tumor. (tip: never research your diagnosis. Never look where it says "prognosis.") We just went to an appointment where the doctor told us that since the surgery was done well and since I underwent radiation and chemotherapy and with my continued chemo treatments I can expect to have a normal lifespan. he was smiling when he said this. I was smiling when he said this. even though i honestly hadn't thought about the percentages in a long time and certainly haven't dwelt on them, the joy of having a doctor confirm this hope is something that cannot possibly put into words.
People around my age are "pushing 30"; when I turn 30, I have just beaten a statistic (which my doctor said that I would). I do not fear turning 30 or 40 or 50 or any "old" age; I look forward to it because that means that I. have. survived.
I am alive. I underwent the most serious and dangerous type of surgery that exists. twice. And I AM ALIVE.
One day I will not be surprised when everything feels normal and when everything works the way it should-but I will remain very, very grateful.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
plateau-nly hope.
surely there must be some sort of plateau of awfulness-where everything stops being so...increasingly awful and levels stop taunting me with their existence. With every experience, I feel like I could say, "this is the worst thing that's ever happened to me..." and then more and more arrive and then I'm into my next-"no, this is the worst thing that's ever happened to me" season.
I live in constant fear. I have lived here for a year and a half. these particular waters are deeper-much more frightening. and i can't swim.
Since June 20th, there have been only 2 days that did not involve severe-vertigo attacks. I am grateful for those days, but I am always wondering when the next attack is coming. Today was one of those good days; I'm still wondering if something is on its way.
Now when I change physical positions (from sitting on the couch to standing up, getting out of the bed, moving my head to a different side), I have to close my eyes so my body can re-center itself and so I don't get dizzy. Then I have to have someone help me to stand up or change said positions so I don't get dizzy. and so I can avoid a vertigo attack as much as possible. and because my legs are now weak (see previous post about the steroid's effects).
These are all new things. I have never had to look at my feet to make sure they were still working the right way. I have never had to pre-plan so many of my movements just to avoid something awful happening to me. I HAVE had to have someone walk with me on the stairs, but that was weeks/months ago. I had been improving. HAD.
I keep counting down the days until this big vestibular/vertigo/dizziness/visual/balance test I have coming up. Ok, 10 days...10 days...10 days...but what happens after that? It feels like these issues will never end-they just become more out of control. Now I just wait and wonder...what's coming next?
I need to be able to walk without looking down at my legs. I need to be able to move without closing my eyes. I need to be able to know I can function an entire day without having to wrap myself into a fetal position as the entire world spins. I need to know that these are sure things-not just "good day" things. I need certainty.
Fear comes not only from these issues themselves-but also in the fact that they were NOT even PART of the possible effects mentioned to us about treatments, medicines, etc-they crept up on us completely unaware. What else will do the same? What other unexpected effects should I...expect?
It is terrifying to know that there are things happening in my brain and body that my team of physicians do not understand, but I have faith. I have to. I have faith that I can and will overcome, but I can't do it alone: I have to hope that every prayer and every song and every bit of strength is being sent to heal this completely. sent by others. sent on my behalf. because i can't do it alone. and i know that i am not.
I live in constant fear. I have lived here for a year and a half. these particular waters are deeper-much more frightening. and i can't swim.
Since June 20th, there have been only 2 days that did not involve severe-vertigo attacks. I am grateful for those days, but I am always wondering when the next attack is coming. Today was one of those good days; I'm still wondering if something is on its way.
Now when I change physical positions (from sitting on the couch to standing up, getting out of the bed, moving my head to a different side), I have to close my eyes so my body can re-center itself and so I don't get dizzy. Then I have to have someone help me to stand up or change said positions so I don't get dizzy. and so I can avoid a vertigo attack as much as possible. and because my legs are now weak (see previous post about the steroid's effects).
These are all new things. I have never had to look at my feet to make sure they were still working the right way. I have never had to pre-plan so many of my movements just to avoid something awful happening to me. I HAVE had to have someone walk with me on the stairs, but that was weeks/months ago. I had been improving. HAD.
I keep counting down the days until this big vestibular/vertigo/dizziness/visual/balance test I have coming up. Ok, 10 days...10 days...10 days...but what happens after that? It feels like these issues will never end-they just become more out of control. Now I just wait and wonder...what's coming next?
I need to be able to walk without looking down at my legs. I need to be able to move without closing my eyes. I need to be able to know I can function an entire day without having to wrap myself into a fetal position as the entire world spins. I need to know that these are sure things-not just "good day" things. I need certainty.
Fear comes not only from these issues themselves-but also in the fact that they were NOT even PART of the possible effects mentioned to us about treatments, medicines, etc-they crept up on us completely unaware. What else will do the same? What other unexpected effects should I...expect?
It is terrifying to know that there are things happening in my brain and body that my team of physicians do not understand, but I have faith. I have to. I have faith that I can and will overcome, but I can't do it alone: I have to hope that every prayer and every song and every bit of strength is being sent to heal this completely. sent by others. sent on my behalf. because i can't do it alone. and i know that i am not.
Monday, July 11, 2011
identity crisis.
me: chemotherapy is for people who are sick.
me: physical therapy is for people who are broken.
tim: you ARE sick and broken.
I'm sure you know about the chemo for the next year since there is an "unspecified malignant neoplasm"-basically a small group of cells that want to multiply quickly and, if do they do, this tumor will infiltrate and increase in aggression. Even though it's technically a benign tumor, they are treating it aggressively because of this. It already recurred at a higher grade. This tumor instinctively does this. Do I have to convince you of what happens if this one recurs at a higher grade?
But the physical therapy? That one through me for a loop. During radiation, I had to take a steroid to prevent brain swelling. This steroid has become (almost) the worst part of recovery. Just taper off of it, right? WRONG. If it was that easy, I would have been out of this nightmare 2 months ago.
1. This type of steroid weakens the legs and I have my first appointment tomorrow morning for physical therapy. The words "paraparesis" and "myopathy" were thrown around on the script. I fell a few days ago-my legs just gave out and I often have someone walk with me or I hold onto anything near me. Falling onto a wooden floor will have that effect on a person. I know it will be okay-but-it's mid-July. I'm a teacher. I don't HAVE time to waste on this nonsense.
2. VERTIGO. There's speculation that the radiation itself may have triggered some sort of inner ear infection. It's impossible to describe how debilitating it is-it's more than just spinning or being dizzy (not that those are fun either). It's closing your eyes and not being able to escape what is happening to the world or your body and then feeling extreme nausea. This happened to me every single day since the end of June-for hours at a time. Luckily, as of this week it has "only" happened for a few minutes instead of hours (thank you, prayer and a stronger med). I'm going for a 2 hour test to determine the problem. I wish the test was today. I can't handle 15 more days of this.
me: physical therapy is for people who are broken.
tim: you ARE sick and broken.
I'm sure you know about the chemo for the next year since there is an "unspecified malignant neoplasm"-basically a small group of cells that want to multiply quickly and, if do they do, this tumor will infiltrate and increase in aggression. Even though it's technically a benign tumor, they are treating it aggressively because of this. It already recurred at a higher grade. This tumor instinctively does this. Do I have to convince you of what happens if this one recurs at a higher grade?
But the physical therapy? That one through me for a loop. During radiation, I had to take a steroid to prevent brain swelling. This steroid has become (almost) the worst part of recovery. Just taper off of it, right? WRONG. If it was that easy, I would have been out of this nightmare 2 months ago.
1. This type of steroid weakens the legs and I have my first appointment tomorrow morning for physical therapy. The words "paraparesis" and "myopathy" were thrown around on the script. I fell a few days ago-my legs just gave out and I often have someone walk with me or I hold onto anything near me. Falling onto a wooden floor will have that effect on a person. I know it will be okay-but-it's mid-July. I'm a teacher. I don't HAVE time to waste on this nonsense.
2. VERTIGO. There's speculation that the radiation itself may have triggered some sort of inner ear infection. It's impossible to describe how debilitating it is-it's more than just spinning or being dizzy (not that those are fun either). It's closing your eyes and not being able to escape what is happening to the world or your body and then feeling extreme nausea. This happened to me every single day since the end of June-for hours at a time. Luckily, as of this week it has "only" happened for a few minutes instead of hours (thank you, prayer and a stronger med). I'm going for a 2 hour test to determine the problem. I wish the test was today. I can't handle 15 more days of this.
This is no way to live.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
brown paper package.
The oral chemotherapy I take is manufactured by and delivered from a special pharmacy. I will never forget the day the first batch arrived.
I was given very specific instructions on how and when to take it-how long to wait after eating to take the anti-nausea pill, how long to wait after that for the chemo, how long to wait before taking my other meds...my evening from 6-11 was to be meticulously scheduled.
On that first night, once all the necessary protocols were followed, we opened the box and took out the card that contained the first set of pills.
I held them in my hand and stared at them for a long time, trembling. these pills held poison that i was about to ingest into my body. these chemicals were necessary to kill rapidly-dividing cells. these chemicals were necessary. these chemicals were necessary. I was terrified. and rightly so.
That first night brought on 9 rounds of violent vomiting. Within the first 3 days, I lost 4 pounds. Luckily doc put me on a much, much stronger anti-nausea med and those symptoms improved significantly as the days went on until they were basically non-existent (don't worry-that weight came back on in no time). I also followed the guidelines about what to eat and at what temperature, level of spiciness, and so on.
I took these pills every day for 6 weeks while also undergoing radiation treatments. Then I was to have four weeks "off" of both treatments so the healthy cells that were damaged in the process could rebuild themselves. (Meanwhile they are weaning me off a steroid I had to take to prevent brain swelling during radiation, which has its own effects-perhaps a different post for this one.)
Which brings us to now. A package arrived on Thursday that held my next batch of chemotherapy drugs. Starting tomorrow I will be 5 days on/23 days off for 12 months. These pills will be double the dose of what I took last cycle since I will be taking them fewer days a month.
At a previous visit, my neuro-oncologist said that I will be eased up to a higher dose. I thought that meant that they will ease me into this double dose for this next cycle. Wrong again. I will start with the double dose and might be increased to an even higher dosage in the upcoming months.
At this point you'd think I would not be fazed by anything I learn at my appointments. Nope. Still troubled.
On Thursday, when this package arrived, I opened the box to see the pills I will be taking on Monday and every 28 days after that.
I held them in my hand and stared at them for a long time, trembling.
I was given very specific instructions on how and when to take it-how long to wait after eating to take the anti-nausea pill, how long to wait after that for the chemo, how long to wait before taking my other meds...my evening from 6-11 was to be meticulously scheduled.
On that first night, once all the necessary protocols were followed, we opened the box and took out the card that contained the first set of pills.
I held them in my hand and stared at them for a long time, trembling. these pills held poison that i was about to ingest into my body. these chemicals were necessary to kill rapidly-dividing cells. these chemicals were necessary. these chemicals were necessary. I was terrified. and rightly so.
That first night brought on 9 rounds of violent vomiting. Within the first 3 days, I lost 4 pounds. Luckily doc put me on a much, much stronger anti-nausea med and those symptoms improved significantly as the days went on until they were basically non-existent (don't worry-that weight came back on in no time). I also followed the guidelines about what to eat and at what temperature, level of spiciness, and so on.
I took these pills every day for 6 weeks while also undergoing radiation treatments. Then I was to have four weeks "off" of both treatments so the healthy cells that were damaged in the process could rebuild themselves. (Meanwhile they are weaning me off a steroid I had to take to prevent brain swelling during radiation, which has its own effects-perhaps a different post for this one.)
Which brings us to now. A package arrived on Thursday that held my next batch of chemotherapy drugs. Starting tomorrow I will be 5 days on/23 days off for 12 months. These pills will be double the dose of what I took last cycle since I will be taking them fewer days a month.
At a previous visit, my neuro-oncologist said that I will be eased up to a higher dose. I thought that meant that they will ease me into this double dose for this next cycle. Wrong again. I will start with the double dose and might be increased to an even higher dosage in the upcoming months.
At this point you'd think I would not be fazed by anything I learn at my appointments. Nope. Still troubled.
On Thursday, when this package arrived, I opened the box to see the pills I will be taking on Monday and every 28 days after that.
I held them in my hand and stared at them for a long time, trembling.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
beautiful people.
I had my eye out for brain tumor walks for a while and was really excited when I saw that one was coming to Buffalo. so I made up a team name that amused me (it doesn't take much) and signed up.
I posted a link to it on facebook in NOVEMBER (in case you missed the obnoxious oval in the screenshot), hoping more teams around town would sign up and make the event successful. I liked the idea of a big event like this coming to Buffalo every year. I loved the idea of being able to walk among survivors and friends and friends of survivors and people from around Buffalo who just want to support a cause.
At that time I was having various issues but a second brain tumor was not even discovered until a month later. TO THE DAY. (the news came after hours. I wished my neurosurgeon an early happy new year.)
Months later, an "event" appeared on my facebook news-feed. an event that earned a spot on the "top news" section. an event where the default photo was my face silk-screened onto a t-shirt. an event i couldn't believe was "happening now".
and it didn't stop there. the items for sale kept popping up, like beautiful teal bubbles of compassion. on the jerseys of my husband's hockey team. on a tote held by a friend in a different state. on a t-shirt worn by a friend of my husband's mom (who I don't know). on a sign on a tent in Delaware Park. on a group of people who joined a team-who understand the severity of the situation-who want to raise money for this under-funded disease ("Why did this happen?" "We have no idea.")-who want to show they care.
Beautiful people had it in their hearts to create. Beautiful people made it possible to wear my heart on their sleeves. Beautiful people wore my heart on their sleeves.
*beautiful people part 2 (the benefit edition) still to come.
I posted a link to it on facebook in NOVEMBER (in case you missed the obnoxious oval in the screenshot), hoping more teams around town would sign up and make the event successful. I liked the idea of a big event like this coming to Buffalo every year. I loved the idea of being able to walk among survivors and friends and friends of survivors and people from around Buffalo who just want to support a cause.
At that time I was having various issues but a second brain tumor was not even discovered until a month later. TO THE DAY. (the news came after hours. I wished my neurosurgeon an early happy new year.)
Months later, an "event" appeared on my facebook news-feed. an event that earned a spot on the "top news" section. an event where the default photo was my face silk-screened onto a t-shirt. an event i couldn't believe was "happening now".
and it didn't stop there. the items for sale kept popping up, like beautiful teal bubbles of compassion. on the jerseys of my husband's hockey team. on a tote held by a friend in a different state. on a t-shirt worn by a friend of my husband's mom (who I don't know). on a sign on a tent in Delaware Park. on a group of people who joined a team-who understand the severity of the situation-who want to raise money for this under-funded disease ("Why did this happen?" "We have no idea.")-who want to show they care.
Beautiful people had it in their hearts to create. Beautiful people made it possible to wear my heart on their sleeves. Beautiful people wore my heart on their sleeves.
*beautiful people part 2 (the benefit edition) still to come.
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