Rejecting yourself isn't a good thing...

It’s not you, it’s me.  Typically these are words that we hear from a significant other at a less than optimal time.  So imagine my surprise when blood tested indicated that the newest addition the happy co-op I call my body was trying to tell me this.  For those of you who didn’t follow that grammatical nightmare of a sentence, recent blood work seemed to show tell-tale signs of my body trying to evict my new kidney.  I wouldn’t go so far as to say there was a notice posted and a sheriff knocking (sorry, you’ll have to bear with me – I seem to be on a bad analogy streak right now) but it was showing warning signs of an imminent everything-you-own-on-the-lawn moment.  Not good.

For those of you who religiously follow this blog and hang on my every written word, you all need a better hobby.  The plus side for your obsession is that you already know the backstory about all the work that went into figuring out that rejection isn’t just for pimply teenagers.  For those who don't, congratulations and here’s the condensed milk version – creatinine numbers climbed (to a 2.0 for those still keeping score) and never went back down below 1.7.  (if you have  to know what those numbers mean, just click here)  So, according to the deal that I made with the devil doctor, that meant my happy ass had to make an unscheduled detour on my way to work Thursday morning, commuting to Porter Hospital to get a biopsy done on the transplanted kidney via PBI.  The trip out to Denver was uneventful (aside from the torturous seating next to toilets a dung beetle wouldn’t enter) and the procedure today was also thankfully uneventful, even free of foul single-seating rooms.  I did determine something today however – walking into the local pub to be greeted by the barkeep could be construed as a good thing (though some negative people would say otherwise) but one thing is for sure – walking into a hospital to be greeted by name, especially when you live 2000 miles away, is decidedly not a good thing.  Nonetheless, I was cheerfully greeted by a very nice nurse who proceeded to attempt to stick what is pictured above into my stomach.  I lie, she didn’t but this fuzzy eared doctor (who was not a bear) did.  Yes, the needle pictured above is the exact model they used to extract two small pieces of kidney from me.  Of course they give you some numbing agent (got to pad that insurance charge somehow, right?) and say, “Did you hear that?”  Next thing you know, you look like a Saturn V rocket crash landed into your stomach.  I make it worse than it was – I actually didn’t feel anything because the nerves in that area still haven’t figured out efficient routing of traffic yet.  In fact, I watched the whole thing on the sonogram screen – the needle poking in, the extraction, all of it.  I wanted to make sure doc isn’t poking where he shouldn’t, given the importance of surrounding areas if you catch my drift… A thought just occurred to me – I most likely have been given a sonogram more times than a large percentage of women in the world.  Huh.  Random.

But that’s it.  If you can get past having 15 inches of plastic and metal unceremoniously shoved into sensitive areas, it’s not that big of a deal.  If you ask real nice, they might even let you see the tissue samples which look remarkably like inch-long strips of white 16 gauge wire (yes, I asked and yes, they showed me - don't judge).

So, what’s next?  I have to wait for results which, as with everything medical related, has a STAT associated with it.  I’ve already heard from the transplant center today and they said my kidney still loves me and wasn’t attempting to reject me.  Rather, it appears I’ve been hitting the phosphorous a little too hard (all with doctor approval) and as a result, little crystals were forming inside the kidney, reducing the efficiency of the kidney and bumping up the creatinine level.  It’s an easy fix – stop taking the damn pills and drink 135 gallons of water in the next 24 hours.  I might be wrong on the amount of water…

So that’s it.  I’m hoping this is the last I have to write about my organs but who knows, the saga always continues…

Handling Nuclear Fluid

And so it’s been a while since I’ve updated you all and for good reason – I’ve been doing just fine.  For better or worse, I’ve gotten pretty much back into the swing of things as they were before all the shenanigans in Denver.  Work has been an amusement park ride without the amusement and I firmly believe, more than ever, that the weakest link in any computer is the human controlling it.  I’ve also gotten back into the gym which has been a lesson in patience and humility – I have to remember to check the ego at the door and accomplish what I can, something I don’t do easily.

But as all good things do, this also had to come to an end.  I have been getting blood drawn and seeing the local nephrologist every week and they noticed a disturbing trend.  One of the levels they watch like the stock market is my creatinine.  In a normal, healthy individual, this level should be below 1.2 mg per deciliter (thank God for the interwebs).  Of course, me being the over-achiever I am, my level was at 2 and had been rising for about a week.  This of course set off alarms to put nuclear power plants to shame and everyone was in a panic.  Well, I might be exaggerating a bit but the doctor was concerned – I saw him frown a bunch.  But wait, there’s more… when the doc put his stethoscope to my new addition, he heard what he described as a “gurgling noise” from the blood flow.  Normally a gurgling noise is relaxing but he was anything but.  Not a good sign for a Friday afternoon.

So of course he did what any responsible doctor would do and ordered a bunch of tests of indeterminate expense and meaningful value.  As a result, I was poked with at least one needle each day this week, pumped full of “nuclear medicine” (which seems to be an oxymoron to me) and probed with sound waves.  From all of that, we’ve determined, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I’m not pregnant (a great relief to me), that the bloodflow seems to be perfectly normal and that my body has no problems processing nuclear fluid which I’m sure will come in handy when WW3 breaks out and turns Boynton Beach into a nuclear wasteland.  Beyond that, I’m not entirely sure if I’m better off now or before.  That’s not actually true.  I know (because I was told, not because I became a doctor recently) that the blood flow to the kidney is not being blocked in any significant way (a concern shared by everyone) and that it appears, after all, that I was “only” going through a rejection episode.  Fantastic!

Now before you all decide to call me at once, let me explain that rejection episodes happen frequently enough to be considered “not uncommon”.  It’s like when a weapon of mass destruction is stolen – it apparently happens enough to have its own name.  So when my creatinine levels started creeping up, they thought that it was either the blood flow or a rejection.  Since we can rule out blood flow, it had to be rejection.  As a result, I had to go to the hospital to get a regimen of superdeedooper prednisone infusions, something I looked forward to as much as having my skull caved in with a dead cat.  This would apparently fix the issue as well as make me feel like I had gained 45 lbs overnight, so down the rabbit hole I went.  Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday I got the distinct pleasure of having IV’s shoved into my arms which, in the grand scheme of things, is a lot better than some of the other things I’ve had doctors and nurses shove in different places.  (side note: can you believe they charged close to $15k for the comedy of errors known as a stent removal?)

So today I went back to the doctor after having STAT bloodwork done this morning which I’m imaging has less to do with statistics and more to do with “GET IT DONE ALREADY!”  The good news is that it appears I’ve talked my immune system off the ledge and my creatinine levels are down to 1.7.  The doctor smiled instead of frowned which I take as a good thing and we all hugged before I left.  Not really.

So the moral of the story is that I didn’t do anything wrong.  (so Tracey, you can put down the pitchfork).  The doctor wracked it up to the fact that I have a very good immune system which in this instance isn’t helpful.  Damn me for being healthy! 

So that’s the story.  A bit of a scare but otherwise just another week in the life…

p.s. - I'm thinking there's a better way to tan...

Home...

A quick recap of the events of this week: Sunday, Easter with Danielle, Shanan, Amelia and Tracey.  Monday, final checkout with doc and garden hose removal.  Tuesday, raping by airline to fly home. Wednesday and today, work from home days.  Now you’re all caught up. 

I know some of you are nosy so here are the gory details.  Easter was great, a beautiful spring day in Denver and Tracey and I went to City Park to enjoy a little outdoors.  We then went to Aurora to see Danielle, Shanan and Amelia by way of a very sketchy liquor store.  It was great that I got to see them once more before heading home. 

Monday started bright and early with labs at 8am followed by the hose removal ceremony.  This ended up being one of the easiest things I had to do at Porter and didn’t even have to put on the ceremonial gown before lying on the table of sacrifice.  They shot some glowy liquid (but it only glows when we put radiation on it – thanks, that makes me feel so much better) in through the tube to check to make sure I was watertight.  Fortunately for me, I wasn’t leaking anywhere so they decided to pull the tube and make me completely organic again.  Once out, they covered up the hole with gauze and another one of these pieces of adhesive saran wrap that becomes part of your skin – great for sealing an open wound but removing it takes the top two layer of skin with it.  Not a good trade-off in my mind.  One thing the doc said stuck in my head when referring to the bandage: “You might see it get soiled.  This is normal since we punched a hole in the main drain.  Keep an eye on it and make sure it doesn’t get too nasty.”  He wasn’t real clear on what “too nasty” looks like but thankfully it looks like the bandage is still very white and clean looking.  I just have nightmares of taking it off and, well, you can guess the rest. 

I also met with the nephro as well on Monday because why pass up an opportunity to stick it to my insurance one more time?  He gave me a clean slate to muck up infinitely and sent me on my way.  

My flight home was uneventful once I got past the raping at check-in.  I know that my bag was overweight but I was already carrying over 40 lbs on my shoulders and short of a bag like Hermione’s, I couldn’t possibly stuff a tissue in there.  I even busted out the “I just had a transplant and am carrying far more weight then I’m supposed to” line and got nothing.  So my bag got to fly for about half the cost of my flight.  And this is where I call shenanigans.  I could have repacked part of my bag in a box and checked two things for $60.  This, of course, would have entailed me tearing open my suitcase in front of the entire airport and putting some things in a container of dubious tensile strength.  Not very appealing.  I seriously thought I was talking to knights demanding a shrubbery.  Moral of the story?  Be wary of any muggle-born carrying small bags or an extraordinary tall knight wearing a funny hat.

Back home, things are about the way they were before I left.  My boys are very glad to see me and won’t leave me alone.  The house is still standing and I’m settling back in.  I’m back to work as of yesterday but working from home until Monday when I will let my shining light breathe life back into the office.  Actually, it might be a little clouded since it is a Monday morning but I’ll be there on best behavior anyway. 

So that’s my story.  Unless something major comes along, this is the end of the transplant updates.  Thanks for checking in and making it easy for me to disperse information.  Keep checking periodically for updates but be wary – I can be random.  I know this comes as a surprise to some but yea, really really random.  So read at your own risk.  Of losing intelligence.

Hospital S&M

I’m sure you all are waiting breathlessly for details on how today went.  Far be it for me to make you pass out waiting, yea?  For those who like things summarized, the stent is out and I have a nice size piece of piping sticking out of my stomach which needs to be removed on Monday.  You have your update.  Now go before your eyes pop out of your head and your ADHD drugs stop working.

For those who appreciate flowery prose and want to know details on what transpired today, I can promise only one of those – I leave it to you to determine which one.

I had to be at the hospital at 8am for lab work which generally consists of sticking a needle in an arm, rotating it 360 degrees until I am squirming and then sucking 5 vials of blood out of me.  Not exactly a leisurely beginning to a day, no?  I’ve become immune to it by now (having to do it at least twice a week since I’ve been here) and at least they’ve stopped saying to me, “You know that your red blood count is low?”  I always had to laugh at the irony of telling me that my blood count is low after extracting amounts from my arm.  But I digress.

After labs I went down to radiology where I was told yet again to strip and put on a gown.  Seriously?  I’m starting to think that folks working in hospitals have a strange fetish.  Properly prepared for the upcoming festivities, I was then asked why I was there.  True, it’s a bit strange to be asked this but apparently this is normal procedure to ensure that I, the patient, know what I’m getting myself into.  Unfortunately, this time the nurse was honestly asking me because they were just as much in the dark as to what needed to be accomplished.  I could have told them to make me look like Abraham Lincoln and gotten a facelift out of it.  Her admission to me didn’t inspire confidence and I quickly checked out possible escape routes lest they start hacking off perfectly good body parts.  Apparently what happened to me is so rare that no one at the hospital had ever seen it happen before.  Again, not confidence inspiring. 

Confusion reigned for a bit until a doctor came over to set things straight.  He described his job as a “removal specialist” and his team removed all kinds of things from inside the human body.  He didn’t go into detail and I honestly didn’t want to know specifics.  He outlined what he thought would happen but unfortunately there were a lot of unknowns including, but not limited to, bleeding out, the stent breaking again and/or inability to get to the stent in the first place.  Fantastic.  This is going to be fun.

With the general plan of not letting me die on the table in place, off we went to another room full of exceptionally expensive looking machines.  The idea was to use an ultrasound and x-ray to find where to stick me, stick me with a sizeable needle, extract the offending plastic and call it a day.  Put like that, I was starting to feel better.  Or maybe it was the drugs.  Either way, I resigned myself to the idea that it was out of my hands and let’s just get on with it.  They covered me up from head to toe with a tarp and set to work.

I didn’t get a general anesthetic but they did numb the area where the needle would be traversing my epidermis meaning I got the full experience.  After consulting the magical machines that saw my insides, they decided on a good place to poke and went for it.  The doctor, who must moonlight at a local S&M club, decided it would be a good idea to show me the sheath that would be going in and providing access to my insides.  My only frame of reference is a coffee stirrer.  Oh boy.  Thankfully the guy knew what he was doing because he hit the right spot on the first try.  Next up came another wire that apparently was only used to make me believe I needed to use the bathroom BAD.  It had something to do with my bladder and “finding purchase” but to be honest, I was actually more interested in the big 60 inch screen that showed the x-ray version of my abdomen.  It was scary and incredible at the same time, watching these things move around inside me.  More importantly, it offered a distraction to the decidedly uncomfortable feelings emanating from inside me.  Finally came the extracting wire which was essentially a tiny lasso they used to snag the end of the stent.  I watched on the screen as they went in and out, trying wrap up the stent until finally – success!  Before I could say “yeehaw this is fun”, bang, it was outside me and in the doc’s hand.  I was about to breathe a sigh of relief when he whipped out a 15 inch length of plastic tubing and said, “We’ll put this in to make sure there’s no complications and so that we have a way to get back in if we have to.  It can come out in a 5-6 days.”  Without waiting for my OK (which was implied apparently), I watched in morbid fascination as all but 3-4 inches was summarily shoved inside me. 

So that’s about it.  I got one tube taken out and another put in.  As I mentioned, they claim it is to make sure I have to come back for more wallet-burning work am safe from any leakage which is better than the alternative I guess.  I get to go back in on Monday to get it ripped out.  After all that transpired, I am left with a piece of tubing the size of 10 gauge wire sticking out of my stomach an inch to the right of my belly button and one hell of a sting from where I was stuck.  Life could be worse.

Obviously this changes my plans a little and now I anticipate making my glorious return to Florida on the 10^th.  Let’s see if I can actually get that to work this time.

As always, thanks for your support.  Now back to your regularly scheduled life.

Stents, Tense and Tents

Good day all my faithful followers.  I know that I’ve been quiet lately but in reality, not much has been going on.  The twice a week visits to my parole officers transplant team have been nothing but positive, so that’s a plus.  I have also gotten out and about in Aurora (where my cousin Danielle lives and where I’ve been staying mostly) with the help of Tracey’s car.  Last week I stumbled upon the Wings Over the Rockies air museum and spent an afternoon wandering around one of my boyhood dreams, military aircraft.  I got the distinct impression that security was not impressed with my precise recitation of Top Gun lines from the cockpit of the F-14 on static display.  Some people have no appreciation of the dramatic arts…

The last two weekends have been spent at Aunt Barbara and Uncle Skip’s place in Colorado Springs.  This past weekend we went up Pikes Peak on the cog railway, a spectacular trip I would highly recommend to anyone.  A word of warning – even though you might be sweating as you get on, you will appreciate the jeans and jacket you have because, for example, even though it was a chilling 79 degrees at the bottom, actual temp at the peak (14110 feet) was 33 with a 19 mph wind chill making it significantly colder.  So yea, a bit of a temperature swing.  The rides up and down are a bit fun with steep drops of 2000 feet or more on either side of the train while traversing up to a 27% grade.  To give you a reference point, the famed Lombard Street in San Francisco is only a 14% grade. 

Of course I had to be treated to Colorado weather while I’m here.  What is Colorado weather you ask?  Sunday, when we drove out to ride the railway, it was 79 degrees and I think it topped 80 that day.  Not bad for a Florida boy.  The very next day, Monday, it never rose above 50 and that night it snowed and kept doing so all of Tuesday.  Yet today, Wednesday, all the snow is gone and the temps are well into the 60’s.  Tomorrow it’s supposed to be back into the 70’s.  I know that Florida has its fair share of weird weather but I don’t think you can quite go from shorts, tshirt and flipflops to jeans, snow coat and insulated boots overnight.  Not that I’m complaining – I know back home it’s been AC-on weather for weeks by now. 

But enough about what I’m doing while not working.  I’m sure all of you are dying to know how Tracey and I are doing.  Well, maybe dying is an inappropriate adjective.  Anxious.  We’ll use that.  Tracey is up and around pretty well and at this point is planning on being back at work next Wednesday.  She still has her moments and both of us still need to take it a bit easy but life is returning to normal day by day. 

And then there’s me.  The 6 inch gash in my side is almost healed but as a genius once said, ‘tis but a flesh wound.  The insides are a little different.  On paper, I’m a fully healthy kid (only one part of that was true) and my blood work thus far has been stellar.  I’ve been a perfect patient for the doctors with no surprises.  Well…. That’s not entirely true.  I decided I was tired of being perfect and decided to throw a monkey into the wrench yesterday.  That’s not true – all I did was lie there.

Let me set this up a little first.  During the surgery, faceless people put a plastic tube inside me called a stent.  This is designed so that despite my best efforts, I cannot possibly twist the new tubing inside that hooks everything up and lets it flow properly.  Think of a thin piece of PVC inside a garden hose that prevents kinking and you get the idea.  Google at your own risk.  I don’t even notice it while it’s in but from what I’m told, it needs to come out.  One thing to note about this is that it apparently curls (like little piggy tails) on both ends to hold it in place and also might be held in other ways.  (this is what is called foreshadowing)

So, now that you know almost nothing about double pig-tail ureteral stents, I can get on with my story.  Yesterday was my big day to have this insidious piece of plastic removed.  One thing to note is how these things get installed and subsequently removed.  As you can imagine, it’s not something I swallowed.  Thankfully it was installed while I was under the influence of something and talking to a double headed purple platypus.  I would not be so lucky, however, for the removal.  I won’t go into specifics about the device used (called a cystoscope) but suffice it to say the entire procedure is decidedly uncomfortable.  Let’s just say it’s very unnatural to be going against the flow of traffic, yea?

OK, so I get myself once again into a fashionable gown and steel myself for what is about to occur.  Various people come into the room bringing random pieces of equipment and others pepper me with the same $%^&ing questions I’ve answered 50 times already.  You know, they write this stuff down each time I tell them, no, I don’t have an allergy to latex or iodine – is it so hard to pull my chart?  Next time they ask me, I think my response will be, “no, but I do tend to have a bad reaction to being asked the same question over and over”.  Most likely I would end up leaving feeling like a pin cushion but my point would be made on deaf ears.

Once everyone was in the room, the fun began.  I end up flashing the goods to world+dog (remember what I said about dignity and hospitals not being good bed fellows) and the doc gave me a squirt of numbing gel.  “You’ll appreciate this in a minute,” he said ominously.  He proceeded to uncurl what can only be described as a cross between a mid-evil torture device and something from Aliens.  Without another word, in he went.  After rooting around looking for the stent or a pot of gold or Elvis, he stated, “I need the other one” and ripped his torture device out like he’s ripstarting a lawnmower.  Much confusion transpired as the nurses attempted to translate the language of doctor (and you thought their handwriting was bad) but finally the “other one” arrived.  Sinister black, this device did not inspire calm and rational thought.  Again, a little squirt of gel and in it goes.  The hunt began in earnest and I swore that he got bonus money for how many times I squirmed as he literally scraped my insides.  Oh, forgot to mention this was a two person job – the doc and a nurse to hold the scissor-type wire thing.  That got fed into the cystoscope and as they closed in on the stent, it got opened and closed as they tried to grab the offending plastic tube.  Much teeth gnashing on my part later, eureka, they had it.  Then, like fishermen, they yanked the wire out (and with it, the stent) much to my surprise.  Magically, the fruit of their labor appeared and the doctor said something that will stick with me for some time: “Huh, looks like it broke.  How long is it supposed to be?”  Aren’t you supposed to know buddy?  Much confusion ensued as people scrambled to find out what the stent was supposed to look like.  The doctor looked at me and said just what I wanted to hear, “I’ve got to go back in and check your bladder.”  So in it went for the third time and found nothing. 

In the interests of keeping this post below Shakespearean lengths, let me skip to the end.  After consulting with people who know about these things, it was decided they would leave the other half in for the time being.  Doc told me that they wouldn’t be able to get to the stuck piece with the cystoscope but rather would have to stick me in the stomach with a needle the size of Texas and get the piece “from the top”.  The jury is still out on which method is better for me (read: less painful).  As of right now, the uncomfortable acupuncture is scheduled for tomorrow at 9am so any chants, dances or other religious psalms sung in my favor would be appreciated. 

After all that, I am hoping/expecting/anticipating being home in Florida no later than Monday, 4/9.  That’s the plan as of right now but as I’ve noticed, life doesn’t really seem to care if you have a plan.  Here’s to hoping…

p.s. - yep, that's an x-ray of what the stent looks like... no, it's not me...

Forest and trees and all that...

Have some time where I actually feel like communicating so I figured I’d update all my blog minions on what the heck I’m still doing in Colorado.  I know it feels like 6 months have passed since I left on this journey (or at least it has for me) but then I look at it and it’s only been a total of 5 days, including the day of surgery. 

A quick status update on me: I’m moving around much better than the last few days which I attribute to two things: my innate to ability to heal faster than a caped super hero and the pain meds.  Percocet does a good job of taking the edge off but it’s not knocking me ou………………………………………………………….

asfjlkdsfgds;lkhgsffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff  Wha?  Oh, must have dozed off there for a sec.

But I’m up and about pretty well though I still look like Lurch as I walk since I have a 6 inch gash in an inconvenient place.  I don’t know what I was thinking about when I decided to do this when it’s still pretty cold out here and I have to wear jeans all the time.  What does that have to do with the price of pork in Israel?  Well, jeans aren’t exactly soft on the edges and that’s where they tend to rub the most.  As a result, I have to walk a bit more gingerly than normal to avoid any undo discomfort.  That combined with my non-shaven face (had an IV shoved in the side of my neck and it needs to heal) makes me look like walking wreck.  I have to say though, it seems people are steering a little clearer of me, a look of uncertainty in their eyes.  I just smile and nod to throw them.

The next few weeks are going to be interesting as I get used to a dizzying array of 12 (yes, a dozen) new meds taken at seemingly random intervals.  I’m ok with the number and can get into a routine for pretty much anything but they seem to find it fun to switch things up on an almost daily basis.  “Take  of these drugs twice a day for 4.3 days then reduce 20% three times a day for the next 38 hours then switch to…” I know that these things need to be monitored closely and some changes are necessary but I am getting suspicious that they get enjoyment out of it.

Another thing I’m not sure I’m ok with is some of the meds I’m taking.  Take for instance Prograf.  Not only would cocaine be less expensive but it probably comes with fewer side effects and not harm me as much.  If I have too much Prograf in my system at any given moment, it can kill the new addition to my happy home faster than stabbing it with an ice pick.  If I have too little, my body essentially says, “OK, bud, you gotta go” and tries it’s best to make my body kick the squishy sack out.  So I have to toe a fine line forever.  Anyone who knows me knows that I can do that for a little while and if needed focus for a bit longer than that but then my lack of attention kicks in and all that goes out the window.  They also want me to take and record my temp, body weight, blood pressure, fluid intake/output, hair follicles lost, millimeters of nail grown and total skin cells lost three times a day.  This from a guy who would forget to feed the cats if they didn’t gnaw at his leg when they got hungry. 

I’m unsure how I’m going to manage all this but I’m sure it’ll work out in the end.  I guess I’ll put in the perspective of either I do all this and keep myself healthy and respect the ultimate sacrifice my sister made on my behalf (which I still don’t deserve but will strive to till I die) or I have to go through all this again before too long.  I have to tell you – while I can imagine much worse fates (and I still think I got off light on this one), I certainly have no desire to repeat this any time soon - or ever if possible.  For now, one day at a time.

Along with getting used to the meds (which all have fantastic side effects as you can imagine), I need to go back to the hospital so they can continue to rape my insurance ensure that I’m doing ok.  Right now I’m scheduled to donate blood three times a week and meet with half a dozen people in an office who will go over my recordings of things only they think are essential and erode my dignity by showing them my scar.  I mean I’m not one to be shy about taking my shirt off but you have to understand where this cut ends – very near a very sensitive part of me – like quarters of an inch.  If all the guys reading aren’t squirming by now, they should be.  But it makes for an interesting battle scar.  I wouldn’t go so far as to say conversation starter because I imagine that would be a bit awkward.  “You want to see my transplant scar?  Let me just unbuckle…”  I think not.

So that’s me.  Feeling good, healing quickly with a few things to conquer but nothing out of reach.  But enough about me – what about the star of this show, my sister?  Different story.

She’s still down in the Springs with Aunty and Uncle and still is… unmoving.  I can’t speak to everything that’s happened but I know she’s trying everything she knows and experimenting to get things going.  By the end of this, she could have created a new form of yoga – who knows?  She certainly could use a dose of good luck about now, so any you can spare, please send this way.  I’ll even buy some off you if I can… just let me know where to send the check – I promise it’ll be in the mail soon.  Keep up the good vibes, positive thoughts, prayers, rain dances (can’t hurt, right?) and let her know that you are thinking about her.  Everyone has been beyond supportive thus far, so thank you for that.  Just a little bit longer.

If you would indulge me a short pause of seriousness for a moment.  I know that I said to many of you that I didn’t think it was needed to have emotional support through all this and I would be lying if I said I didn’t still think that, albeit to much smaller extent.  However, I knew going into it and have been proven correct that having that support behind me and Tracey would make the experience much easier.  I can’t tell you how true that is.  I have been truly humbled by the number of people, even people who I know peripherally, who have expressed support and well wishes.  You all have overwhelmed me with love to the extent that I could never repay – but the awesome thing is that, although I will never stop trying to, I know it wasn’t given looking for repayment.  Almost as awesome as that run-on sentence, yea?  My point is, thank you has never seemed so small and doesn’t even begin to express how I feel towards all of you.  Alright, I promise no more of that nonsense unless warranted. 

So I guess if I had to sum it all up (and where’s the fun in all that?), you could say that I am not out of the woods yet but I see the edge and am running full force towards it.  Well, lurching quickly.