A Little George Bailey

I have been dreading Christmas. WH and I have had a rough year and are counting the days until 2016 brings us a fresh start.  Usually Christmas in my family means a big Christmas Eve party with all our friends. It means staying up late, opening presents, a leisurely meal on Christmas Day. This year, we'll have none of those things and I've been pretty much in the dumps about it.

But, as has become my new routine, I've reflected on the good in this. Which is what got me thinking about George Bailey. You know, George, the hero of It's a Wonderful Life, who got himself into some financial trouble while trying to protect his Uncle Billy. George gets in a fight with his family, runs away, and contemplates suicide -- until Clarence the Angel comes down from heaven to save him.  To show him what the world would be like if he didn't exist. And miracle of miracles, George sees the light and is rewarded by his lifelong friends getting him out of the jam.

And so this year, I feel a little like George Bailey. You see, we've been in a jam. We've lost everything -- or so it has seemed at many points this year. But miracle of miracles, our lifelong friends have helped pull us out of a jam. The fundraisers that have kept us afloat are a lot like the money from Mr. Martini's jukebox...they were there just when we needed them the most. The support was there, just like Mr. Gower's charge accounts, from our friends, that reminded us that we aren't alone.

We didn't have one angel this year, we had hundreds. We didn't have to wonder what the world would be like if we didn't exist -- because our friends reminded us how important we are. We didn't get into quite the desperate tight spot that George Bailey had gotten into, because our friends never let us fall.

So this Christmas, even though I'm sad about what won't be, I'm still feeling like "the richest man in town" because of how we've been held up, supported, and given so much that you can't put a pricetag on.

"Remember, no man is a failure who has friends." --Clarence

 If you would like to learn more about we're going through or help us as we battle this monster, please visit helpsasan.com.

For more information about environmental illness, mold, and mycotoxin poisoning, read here, here, and here, and watch video here.

Thankful for What?

It's no secret that this has been a hard year (hard few years, to be clear). And WH and I have been struggling. It's easy to get lost in that struggle, to forget that there is sunshine, to wallow. As Thanksgiving and the holiday season approaches, it's a stark reminder of what we don't have. But that's a rabbit hole I'm trying very hard not to let myself fall down.

I could easily think about how WH and I aren't able to be together. But instead, I'm thankful that we have each other. That we are in this thing together. That we bolster each other on those days that seem darkest. I'm thankful that we haven't lost each other even as we have lost so much else.

I could let myself feel all alone. But instead, I'm thankful for family and friends who have given of themselves to make sure that we aren't alone. To make sure that we feel loved. These warriors in our army have given their time, their money, their tears, their souls to make sure that we feel supported.

I could despair that we're not going to cook dinner together and sit around in our comfy pants after our Thanksgiving meal, dozing off in front of the TV. But instead, I'm thankful that our families will be together. Maybe it's not in the way we all wanted, but we will be together. Laughing, eating, loving, enjoying -- because we are suvivors.

I could look back at this awful, awful year and wonder where has it gone. But instead, I'm thankful for the time we had this year to keep fighting. For the time ahead of us that will surely bring better days and relief and wellness. Time -- it's the greatest thing we have as we continue to fight.

No, friends, I am not going to get lost in the quagmire that we've been slogging through. I'm going to hold my head up, power forward, and be thankful for the incredible gifts that we've been given this year. Because even through all of the loss and illness and struggle, we have been pretty damn lucky. And I know that there's more good to come.

If you would like to learn more about we're going through or help us as we battle this monster, please visit our YouCaring website.

For more information about environmental illness, mold, and mycotoxin poisoning, read here, here, and here, and watch video here.

How are you?

People ask me a lot how I'm doing. How WH is doing. It's always hard to know how to answer this question, because the truth is: not good.Sure, we have good days and good moments, but mostly we are struggling mightily every day. And when someone asks, "How are you?" it's always hard to know if they are asking because that's what people do, or if they really want to know. I have grown to hate this question. I hate having to think about how I am, how we are, and then having to answer it. Mostly I just say "fine," and force a smile.  But I can't remember the last time that, "I'm fine" was the truth. Because I'm not really fine.

I haven't had a hug from my husband in months. My clothes are so contaminated, and his sensitivity so severe, that me getting close to him makes him feel worse. I can remember what it feels like to hug. And that's what I have to think about when I go to bed at night, without him. We are alone together . . .

That whole "Netflix and chill" thing? Yeah, we can't do that. My husband lives in a hotel, and I can't go there (see above, re contamination). Sitting on the couch together watching a movie and chilling out . . . I can't think of anything closer to heaven.

We eat out all the time. Sounds luxurious, right? It isn't. We have no choice. It's the only way we are able to see each other. If I never eat in a restaurant again, it will be just fine with me. Cooking is a simple pleasure that I miss more than I realized I would. I long to cook for us both and enjoy a quiet meal, just the two of us, no waiters, "ambiance," or other people around.

Every day, I look at the weather forecast with trepidation. I may be the only one thankful for the unseasonably warm fall we are having, because my husband can't find a coat. The fabrics exacerbate his symptoms (think about it...most of our clothes are imported, often by boat. Boats are prime breeding grounds for -- you guessed it -- mold). Can you imagine not being able to find clothes to wear, or a warm coat? Eventually our luck will run out and the weather will turn, and he will have no warm clothes. This is our reality and I am heartbroken by it daily.

Our lives are consumed with worry. Will it get cold tonight? Will the place we've chosen to eat have put their dusty Christmas decorations out yet? Will the hotel rates fluctuate higher this week? Will the doctor call back? Will the contamination spread? Will the pain be bearable today? It's like a chess match, constantly, and you never get to stop thinking, stop worrying, stop moving the complicated pieces around the board. 

I don't mean this as a pity party. This is our reality. We are surviving it day by day. And we are finding bright spots. We are surrounded by unwavering, unbelievable love and support. There are rays of light in all of this, but there are also a lot of clouds.  So, just know if you ask me how I'm doing, even if I say, "I'm fine," I'm not.

If you would like to learn more about we're going through or help us as we battle this monster, please visit our YouCaring website.

For more information about environmental illness, mold, and mycotoxin poisoning, read here, here, and here, and watch video here.

What You Can't See

There's a lot about mold exposure and environmental illness that seemingly makes no sense. There are a lot of unknowns and even more "unseens" that make it a mystery, not only to the doctors and providers who are treating it, but to the person who is suffering from it. I have learned a lot about all the things you can't see simply by listening to and learning from my superhero husband.

What you can't see is the constant pain he is in. He looks like the picture of health, but inside he's hurting. He can't buy warm clothes because many fabrics are also contaminated. So much of what is in stores has been imported, often by boat (a prime breeding ground for mold), and the fabrics irritate him. He can't find a warm coat right now -- so we are not looking forward to the colder days that are invevitably coming. While he is smiling on the outside, my warrior husband is suffering on the inside. But he'll never let you see it.

What you can't see is contaminated environments. Despite being a new building, recently cleaned, or looking nice, some things aren't what they seem. There have been countless times that we've walked into a restaurant, store, or other building only to learn seconds later (because that's how long it takes to react) that something just isn't right. New buildings (or recently renovated ones) frequently have residual construction dust that can exacerbate his symptoms. We often play "Goldilocks" in a restaurant to find a seat that's just right (not too near the outdoors, or near dusty plants, or near exposed brick, or, or, or...).This level of sensitivity to contamination is what has prevented him from finding a place to live, and why he's living in a hotel room. It's an invisible prison.

What you can't see is the incredible strength. For more than four years, this has been our reality. And for four years, my husband has kept hurting, kept going, kept fighting. Every day is like a chess match, anticipating what new challenge this disease is going to throw at us, what move we will have to make next to think ahead. And despite every setback, every devastating pivot, my husband has been nothing short of amazing. Check and mate, we will beat this thing because of his incredible strength.

You can't see all these things, these invisible, powerful, life-changing things, but they're there and they're part of who we are. A friend recently compared us to a duck, gliding on the surface but paddling like hell underneath. Yes, we're paddling like hell...you just can't see it. If you would like to learn more about we're going through or help us as we battle this monster, please visit our YouCaring website.

For more information about environmental illness, mold, and mycotoxin poisoning, read here, here, and here, and watch video here.

The C Word

Contamination. This is the center of our lives. When you are living with environmental illness and toxic mold poisoning, contamination's the thing. What does that mean exactly? Lots of things, actually. Mold spores are everywhere. And we all tolerate them. But for someone with mold toxicity, they're an invisible hazard. WH is extremely sensitive to any sort of mold in his environment. They cause strong reactions and set back his recovery signifcantly. Things like books and fabrics are the worst culprits, but anything -- even glass, plastics, metals -- can become contaminated.

It may sound silly, in fact, we've had doctors who have said as much, but little things can carry a big wallop. We recently got new credit cards. Credit cards. Innocuous enough. But devastating. We don't know why or how, but the cards were terribly contaminated (perhaps they were made in a mold-ridden facility, perhaps they were shipped in a moldy truck, it's mind boggling to speculate, so we try not to). Innocuous things that we aren't expecting can knock us to our feet.

A contamination is devastating to the environmental patient. Because of his severe sensitivity, for WH, it means his reaction is even stronger than usual. It means headaches, nosebleeds, shortness of breath, elevated blood pressure, chest pains, and more. It means that, because my clothes are now contaminated, we can't sit next to each other -- let alone hug or kiss. It means simple things now become complex. For example, instead of simply coming home and getting comfortable in front of the TV, one must "de-con." A shower with antifungal shampoo, careful bagging (in zipper bags to prevent contamination) of all clothes. It means living in a hotel, isolated from everyone and everything.

Shopping is a nightmare. In a time when most of our goods are imported, contamination is pretty much the norm. Clothes that are mass produced under unsafe conditions (mold, chemicals, dust, to say the least) in foreign countries are shipped here by boat (mold, mold, and more mold) and stored in warehouses (did I mention mold?). By the time they get to the store, they're often so contaminated that they're unwearable to the toxic mold patient. And it's not just clothes...paper towels, food items, anything that can absorb mold spores is at risk -- and so is the patient.

WH often calls himself a "truffle-sniffing pig for mold" because he can sense it within moments of exposure where others aren't aware of it at all. Avoidance is critical to recovery, but living in a humid city, surrounded by constant, common contaminants, often makes avoidance a challenge. And when there's a devastating, unforeseen event, avoidance means isolation -- from your home, from your family, from anyone who is contaminated at all. So much isolation.

This illness may not have a name, it may not be something you can see, but it is real and it is devastating.  If you would like to learn more about we're going through or help us as we battle this monster, please visit our YouCaring website.

For more information about environmental illness, mold, and mycotoxin poisoning, read here, here, and here. If you are inclined, you can watch the video below for more about contamination and how it happens. Both of WH's amazing doctors are featured in it.

I am 40.

Today I am 40. It's a milestone, to be sure. But it's one that's a little harder to face than previous ones (here's why). Rather than wallow or feel sorry for myself, I'm going to practice self care in the form of self love. A friend on Twitter yesterday (when I was still 39) suggested that I mark the end of my 30s by giving myself 39 compliments. I didn't quite get around to it, but I've decided to kick off 40 with 40 compliments for instead. Here goes:

1. I'm tough. 
2. I've got a great head of hair.
3. Loyal, almost to a fault (but we're dealing in compliments here, not faults).
4. I have low blood pressure  (which should not be underestimated as one ages).
5. No wrinkles! (Also should not be underestimated)
6. I will laugh with you and cry with you, because I really do care.
7. I'm a pretty damn good writer. 
8. I make a mean chili, burrito, and chicken soup (but not all in the same pot).
9. My eyes (my best feature) are pretty.
10. I work hard.
11. I play harder.
12. I love big.
13. I will never forget your birthday. 
14. I can bargain shop better than anyone (have I mentioned the $150 Manolos)?
15. I'm smart.
16. I'm a smart ass (a trait I value in others as much as in myself). 
17. I'm great at planning things, especially parties.
18. I have good taste (subjective, to be sure, but it's my compliment, so I say I do).
19. I'm a connector...nothing is more fun than making sure great people know each other. 
20. I can sew on a button (we're only halfway there, and this is getting hard).
21. Getting hard? That's what she said! I can make a TWSS joke with the best of 'em.
22. I have a great sense of humor (see above).
23. I have soft hands.
24. I'm up on current events. 
25. I genuinely care about people and the world we live in.
26. I'm a fast typist. 
27. I can name all the Supreme Court Justices and every member of the Brady Bunch without Googling it.
28. I'm pretty good with makeup (my own...sorry about your face).
29. I know all the words to American Pie.
30. I love giving gifts and will pick the perfect one just for you. 
31. I am a champion napper.
32. I'm a wonderful auntie to all my littles.
33. I've got great manners. I always say please and thank you, and mean it.
34. I'm good at putting things in perspective. 
35. I've got faults, and I'm willing to acknowledge and accept what they are. 
36. I will always try to see both sides of the story, even if I only agree with one of them.
37. I'm a good swimmer (even though I hate the water).
38. I can see the beauty in simple things.
39. I'm the best friend I can be. I live for my friends. When I die, I want my tombstone to say, simply, "She was a good friend."
40. I know who I am, and I love her. 

Compliment yourself. Whether you're 40 or 20 or 80 or anywhere in between. Don't wait for a milestone.

You Don't Know What Pain Is

When you're dealing with chronic illness, it's not always easy for others to understand the depth and breadth of what that means. I've been by WH's side for the duration of his illness, and even I only know a fraction of what he goes through on a regular basis.  This was solidified for me earlier this week when he gave me an example of how bad his pain is.

A few weeks ago, he had to have two teeth removed due to infection in his jaw likely related to the mold exposure. Last week he had to go to the dentist again, because even though the area was healing, his jaw bone had grown spurs (think icicles growing up from the bone and beginning to poke through the gums that had been recently operated on). It was extremely painful, and I cringed when he told me about it. The oral surgeon had to go into the area, snap off the offending bits of bone, and saw it down to smooth so that the problem wouldn't happen again. It sounds like hell, right?

Just about everyone out there can relate to dental pain. Who amongst us hasn't squirmed under a drill at some point? Each time WH would tell the story of his dental woes, our friends and family would wince and express how awful, how painful it must've been. After one of these wincings, WH said to me, "You know, everyone gets it when I say how painful my mouth is. Everyone can relate to that. But compared to the pain I've been in for the last four years, it's nothing."

Suddenly, I had a moment of clarity that I hadn't since we started going through all of this: I don't know what he's going through. I have no concept of how horrific this illness is and what a warrior he has been as he goes through it. I don't know what pain is. It reminded me of a scene from one of our favorite movies, Silence of the Lambs. The film is oft quoted amongst us, even at the most inappropriate times. In the scene, serial killer Buffalo Bill is trying to get his dog back from the woman he's kidnapped. She tells him that the dog has broken his leg and is in a lot of pain. At that point, Bill yells, "You don't know what pain is!"

This illness is unfathomable, even as I've witnessed it. We simply don't know what pain is. If you would like to learn more about we're going through or help us as we battle this monster, please visit our YouCaring website.

For more information about environmental illness, mold, and mycotoxin poisoning, read here, here, and here, and watch video here.

A Shoeulogy

Lest you think that this has all been about perspective and growth and strength, I feel the need to share with you one of the most devastating (and, frankly, shallow) aspects in our journey to health through loss. I reached a point several years ago where I was utterly pleased with my wardrobe. I had cultivated and curated pieces that I loved and could intermingle with each other to wear again and again. It made me feel good and it gave me confidence.

More than my wardrobe, though, was my shoe collection. I can only say, with a tear in my eye and not an ounce of irony, that my shoes were my babies. I had boots: suede, leather, snakeskin; red, black, brown, camel; high heel, low heel, mid heel; knee high, calf high, ankle booties. I had heels: patent, suede, fabric, leather; gold, black, brown, burgundy, red, nude; stiletto, wedge, chunky. I had sandals: strappy, flat, walking; leather, rope, cork, plastic. I even had a couple of pairs of sneakers and three or four pair of flats. Did I mention the boots?

Learning, as we did, that we would have to lose everything in order to gain health was hard enough to bear, but when it became clear that "everything" included my shoes, it was just too much. I would dissolve into a puddle just thinking about it. And with that, let me provide you with a eulogy for my shoes, a shoeulogy, if you will.

Goodbye, red snakeskin Manolo Blahniks. From the first moment I saw you on the rack in Filene's, I knew we were soulmates. From your $250 pricetag (which I talked the checkout lady down to $150) to your perfect stiletto heel to your absolutely uncomfortable leather sole, I loved you. You were with me at my rehearsal dinner, on a trip to Prague where I nearly broke your heel off (sorry about that...nobody told me there'd be cobblestones), and on days at work when I really needed to be sassy. You were the queen of my closet.

Goodbye, nude pumps. You served dutifully for several years, smartly blending in with browns, blues, oranges, and even, on one occasion, sequins. You were up to whatever task I chose to draft you into: a business lunch; a summer wedding; dinner out on a Saturday night; brunch with the Girls. You were the pearl necklace of shoes -- elegant and suitable for nearly every occasion.

Goodbye, black riding boots. From September through March, you were the go-to choice for comfort and ease. Whether it was a denim skirt or skinny cords, you knew just how to make any outfit look as if it had just emerged from a Town & Country Magazine shoot in the English countryside. Cheerio, old friend.

Goodbye, red satin peeptoes. You carried me down the aisle on my wedding day, and danced the best night of my life away with me. You gave me a blister on my little toe, but I forgave you for it. And even if you didn't get out much after that night, your place on my shelf was one of honor.

Goodbye, black leather high heel Prada booties. Like your cousin Manolos, we met in that aisle in Filene's, your name on the box issuing a siren call that could not be ignored. Though you probably didn't appreciate it, I told anyone who would listen that you only cost $150 (marked down from $795) because I knew your real worth. What I would give to stroke your Italian leather one last time . . .

Goodbye, Stuart Weiztman lanyard cork wedges. You were without a doubt the most comfortable, sky-high shoes I've ever owned. You went with everthing: jeans, dresses, slacks. I could put you on in the morning, walk a couple of miles, and keep wearing you into the evening. A dutiful and practical shoe, you gave me height and confidence and comfort. I'm glad you're now living with some girl in Australia who totally gets you.

Goodbye, J. Crew red snakeskin mid-calf almond toe heeled boots that were half a size too small, but fit if I wore stockings instead of socks and ignored that I couldn't feel my little toe. You were the best $35 bargain a gal could ask for. For more than 10 years, you marched yourself out when I really needed a kick (and had forgotten about that pesky little toe thing).

Goodbye, Aquatalia knee-high suede high heeled dress boots, I think I'll miss you most of all. I coveted, nay stalked, you online for three years before I finally made you mine. You went with everything, kept me warm, and felt like you were made from the skin of a newborn. I loved everything about you and would've slept wearing you if I could. You made my life better just being in it, and it's a little darker out there now that you're gone.

To all the other boots, flats, sneakers, heels, and sandals, you may not have been my favorites, but you served me well and loyally every step I took. May every step you take be one toward heaven.

For more information about environmental illness, mold, and mycotoxin poisoning, read here, here, and here, and watch video here.

On the Way to Better

I checked into the hotel with just the clothes on my back, my phone, and my wallet. Minutes earlier, I had walked out of our now-empty home for the last time, having purged the remaining bits of our life into the garbage. Just before I left, I snapped one last picture of our beautiful view of Thomas Circle and tweeted, "I don't live here anymore." It took my breath away how much it hurt. 

The woman at the hotel desk handed me a package with the clothes I would wear and a purse I was borrowing from my mother. They were the only possessions I had. I swallowed the lump in my throat and went to my room.

As I stripped off my clothes and put them into a garbage bag, I thought to myself, "How did I get here? How had I survived the past year? Would I survive what was coming next? What was coming next?" There I was, in nothing, with nothing, and I couldn't fathom how I was going to put my life back together. I didn't know if WH was ever going to get better. If we were ever going to be better.

Standing in the shower, as I washed my hair (three times, with antifungal shampoo), I felt resolute. I was literally and metaphorically washing off all that had come before: the mold that had upended our lives; losing our home, our things; the months of searching for answers and doctors and treatments; the gutwrenching heartbreak of not living together, of not being able to comfort each other with even a hug, of suffering separately; the time we could never get back; the loss, so much loss. It all went down the drain as I stood there washing it away.

I went downstairs to the hotel's restaurant and ordered a glass of wine. I don't remember what it tasted like, or the two glasses that followed, but it was more sacramental than any communion wine I'd ever drunk. This was my rebirth. This was my new reality. This was my new normal. Starting over with nothing. Except that I didn't have nothing. I simply didn't have stuff. And in that moment, even as I sat there alone with nothing to my name besides the clothes on my back, I knew that I would never truly have nothing. I had WH -- who was on his way to recovery. I had my parents who were giving me a home again. I had our family who were holding us up in whatever way they could. I had our wonderful, loving, and supportive friends who had been there through all of the hell and helped us keep going, who gave us strength we didn't know we had. I had what I needed, what really mattered.

The hell wasn't quite over yet -- that kind of lingering burn doesn't go away in an instant and you bear the scars forever -- but eventually the burning stops and the scars fade, and you come out of it. And there we were, on our way out of it, on our way to better. . .

For more information about environmental illness, mold, and mycotoxin poisoning, read here, here, and here, and watch video here.

What Would You Do?

What would you do if the person you love more than anything got sick and nobody could figure out what it was or why it happened?

What would you do if, after visiting doctor after doctor and having test after test, you had to watch your partner be told "it's all in your head" as he only got sicker and sicker?

What would you do, when, after knocking on what seems like the door of every doctor in the country you finally found one who believed him and could treat him?

What would you do if that doctor told you that one crucial step to treatment was avoidance, in effect cutting off the head of the beast that got him sick -- and that meant losing your dream home and every. single. thing. inside it?

What would you do if your clothes and hair were so contaminated by the thing that makes your partner sick that it meant you couldn't live together until he recovered?

What would you do if people you loved questioned your commitment to your partner, at a time when he was in greatest need, and doubted your relationship?

What would you do if helping your partner get better meant debt, loss of friends, and that people sometimes didn't believe you?

What would you do if, no matter how many times you explained it, people still couldn't seem to understand the depth of this illness and said, "but he doesn't look sick"?

What would you do when, at 39-years-old, you had to move back in with your parents "for now," knowing that "for now" means indefinitely?

What would you do if you had to travel long distances regularly to see the miracle doctors who were giving your partner back his life?

What would you do if insurance didn't cover the miracle doctors, treatments, travel, or tests?

What would you do?

Over the past several years, I've found myself asking all of these questions. And the answers were always much easier than you'd think.

You'd fight like hell to find answers for your loved one.

You'd believe and reassure your partner, because you've watched him slowly decline.

You'd cry your eyes out because you finally found someone who could help you -- a doctor named Hope.

You'd cry again, over the things you we're losing, but know that what you'd be gaining -- your partner's health, your marriage, your life -- would be infinitely more valuable than anything tangible.

You'd look ahead to the days when you WILL be together instead of lamenting the ones you're apart, making the most of the time you are able to be together in the meantime. 

You'd cut naysayers loose, shrug off false friends, and lean on the ones who do support you, who are unconditionally there for you, offering reassurance instead of strife. You'd count every word of encouragement, of love, of healthy wishes as a blessing and live on those when the days were darkest.

You'd keep fighting like hell, like hell, like hell -- even on the days when it felt like hell.

You'd explain it again, and again, and again -- as many times as it took for people to get how sick he is, how easily anyone might be stricken, that this is real even though it doesn't quite have a name.

You'd bitch and complain. And you'd be grateful as hell that you have a safety net with people who love you and don't mind when you bitch and complain. And then maybe you'd bitch a little more.

You'd get up early and you'd stay up late and you'd know that every trip back and forth was a step closer to wellness and a chance for you to be together again.

You'd pay and you'd fight and you'd do anything you could because health shouldn't have a pricetag.

You'd never, ever give up because real love means that you fight for the person you love when they can't always fight for themselves. You fight, because you know he'd do it for you. And you keep fighting, together, because for better or worse sometimes means the worst.

For more information about environmental illness, mold, and mycotoxin poisoning, read here, here, and here, and watch video here.

Tested

Some days, I feel like I'm being tested. If I'm honest, the last couple of years, nearly every day, I've felt tested. This past weekend, the AC unit broke resulting in a flood in my room. Carpet was ripped up, blowers were installed, I was displaced. Nothing to go to pieces about, really, except that when you are in a constant state of unease, taking away one's "fortress of solitude" feels like the straw that broke the camel's back.

But in those moments this weekend (and in the ensuing days of ongoing disarray), there were little messages reminding me that I'm not being tested alone. That I'm not the disaster I often feel like I am. That I am loved.

Sunday, during a text exchange with a friend, she said to me, "Thanks for being such a good friend! To all of us who get to call you a friend." Reminder. 

Sunday afternoon, visiting a restaurant I hadn't been to in months, our favorite manager said to me, "Where have you been? I've been missing you and WH!" and followed with a big, sincere hug. Reminder. 

Monday afternoon, after lamenting on Twitter my displacement, another wonderful friend surprised me with a cake delivery at work. Just because. It left me speechless and happy. Reminder.

Yesterday morning, I was telling a colleague about my plans for the weekend which include a visit from a very dear friend, his partner, and their three "tornadoes." She said to me, "I really admire how much you value the people in your life. It's really remarkable how you keep in touch with people and show them what they mean to you." Reminder. 

This morning, a "good morning" text from another dear friend checking in to say hello because she hadn't heard from me in awhile. Reminder.

Yesterday, today, and every day, my friend @RedVelvetEsq is doing something to make me smile. Whether it was yesterday's email, "I don't want anything except to say hello. And, that I love you." Or this morning's request for advice and an offer of support. Or just knowing she's a pillar on my porch. Reminder.

If being tested means I get these little reminders, then I'll take it. And I'll pass with flying colors.