Endometriosis: Facts You've Probably Never Heard

As my struggles with my endometriosis have worsened over the past few months, I've found myself thinking - if people really knew the facts about endometriosis, would they still treat sufferers with such indifference?  I think not... which is why I'm launching this new awareness campaign:  Things You Didn't Know About Endometriosis.  Today I'm going to list a series of facts about endo that most people who don't have the disease (medical practicioners included) probably don't know.  After that, I'm going to highlight each fact in its own blog post, including personal testimonies from endometriosis sufferers, medical research, case studies, surgical reports, and anything else I can gain access to.  I encourage you to share these posts with your family, friends, and doctors - both endo sufferers and non-sufferers.  Maybe, together, we can increase understanding of this disease in both the general population and the medical community... and maybe, if we can't bring an end to our suffering, we can at least decrease it.

Before I get into the little known facts, I want to give a brief overview of what endometriosis is, for anyone who might not know.  Endometriosis is a chronic disease of the female reproductive system for which there is no cure.  Endometriosis occurs when the endometrial lining (which normally grows inside the uterus to allow a growing embryo to implant, or is shed during a monthly period) actually grows *outside* the uterus.  Endometrial tissue can commonly be found on the uterus, fallopian tubes, ovaries, bladder, and pelvic cavity walls of endometriosis sufferers.  It can also travel to more distant organs.  Occasionally, endometriosis causes cysts - fluid or semi-solid sacs - to form on the ovaries.  This abnormal tissue can cause a variety of issues in the pelvic cavity, as it is actual, solid tissue that is not meant to be there.  Endometriosis can cause severe pelvic pain, abnormal and heavy periods, and infertility, among other things.

Normal uterus vs. Endometriosis

Here's a little something to help put this into perspective.

The definition of Endometriosis, from the National Library of Medicine:  "Endometriosis is a female health disorder that occurs when cells from the lining of the womb (uterus) grow in other areas of the body."

The definition of Cancer, from the National Library of Medicine:  "Cancer is the uncontrolled growth of abnormal cells in the body."

There is certainly one main difference between the two:  Cancer cells are malignant, and will grow uncontrollably until they take over healthy cells.  They grow at an unsually rapid rate, which is what causes this disease to be fatal.  Endometrial cells are not malignant.  They grow at a normal rate, thus the disease does not usually result in death.  But look at the similarities.  Abnormal cells, cells that don't belong where they are found, that can grow anywhere in the body... on healthy organs... encroaching on the space they need to perform their life-sustaining functions.  Malignancy.  That's the difference.  Not so different after all, it seems... especially when you consider the following:

• Endometriosis can grow anywhere in the body.  It is most commonly found on pelvic organs/in the pelvic cavity, but it has also been found in previous surgical scars, on the bladder, ureters and kidneys, on the bowel (intestines, colon, appendix, rectum) and even rarely inside the vagina, inside the bladder, on the skin, in the lungs, on the spine and even in the brain.

Possible sites of endometriosis

• Endometriosis can be fatal!  Endometrial tissue can cause internal hemorrhaging, undetectable by a CT scan, and result in death.  Don't believe me?  Read one sufferer's account here.
• An estimated 10% of women are affected by endometriosis.  That means that, if you think of yourself and nine female friends, chances are that one of you has endometriosis, whether it has been diagnosed or not.
• On that note, endometriosis often goes undiagnosed because women think they are just having painful periods.  Because it can only be confirmed by laporoscopic surgery and biopsy, many women suffer without ever knowing what is causing their pain.
• Though up to 10% of the female population is affected, not everyone suffers from endometriosis to the same degree.  In fact, endometriosis is diagnosed in stages (once again similar to cancer) from I (minimal) to IV (severe) based on the extent, location and depth of the abnormal tissue.
• Contrary to what society and some doctors will tell you, extremely painful periods are not normal!  If your 'cramps' are so severe that they interfere with your life and ability to function normally, something is wrong.  It is not normal to suffer so severely that you can't even get out of bed for several days each month - seek help!
• Endometriomas - ovarian cysts caused by endometriosis which do not usually resolve on their own and require surgery to remove, can range from sizes smaller than a pea to sizes larger than a grapefruit.

• There is no cure.  All treatments for endometriosis are aimed at reducing the pain and impact on other internal organs, and sometimes preserving fertility.  No known treatment effectively cures endometriosis in all patients.  It is a common misconception that pregnancy, menopause, or a hysterectomy will 'cure' endometriosis.  They will not.  Once the endometrial tissue has begun to grow outside the uterus, removing the uterus or the hormones will not always make it 'disappear'.  Many women suffer their entire lives.
• Some of the treatments are brutal.  First line treatment includes hormonal birth control, which can have serious side effects for many.  Second line treatment is surgery.  Other treatments include other hormonal medications with even more serious side effects, which often require other medications to counteract.  For some, the treatment is as bad or worse than the disease.  This starting to sound like any other disease you've heard of?
• In advanced stages, endometriosis tissue and adhesions can actually cause the abdominal organs to fuse together!
• No one is too young to have endometriosis.  Many women begin to experience their symptoms in adolescence (as I did)!  In fact, upon my diagnosis (at age 18), my doctor told me that one of the worst cases he had ever seen was in a fifteen year old girl who had only been menstruating for about two years.
• Endometriosis can cause infertility in 30-40% of sufferers even if the fallopian tubes are not compromised.  The reason for this is still largely unknown, but it is a very real issue for many women who try... and try... and try... and fail... and fail... and fail... to get pregnant.
• Endometriosis goes hand in hand with any number of other conditions.  Pelvic Inflammatory Disease (PID), Irritable Bowel Syndrome (IBS), sexual dysfunction, as well as other digestive, urinary, bleeding and even psychological conditions are often caused or impacted by endometriosis.
• Endometriosis is, in fact, referred to by endo specialists across the country as "the benign cancer", because it acts so similarly to cancer without being malignant.

Saying this is what it feels like is an understatement.

So, dear doctor who felt the need to tell me it was "not necessary to admit endometriosis patients for pain control" in the emergency room tonight, perhaps if you educated yourself a bit on the disease you are supposed to be treating, you might understand that even though it doesn't kill in as huge numbers as cancer, endometriosis can be devastating, your tests can be wrong, and your judgment is harmful.  Next time I see you... I will be armed with information.  And to you friends and family of someone who has endometriosis... remember the quote:  "be kinder and gentler than necessary, for everyone you meet is fighting some kind of battle."  Your friends and family members may not be fighting cancer, but they are fighting a disease, and it is a brutal disease with brutal treatments.  They need you now more than ever.  And to my endo sisters... take a moment just to reflect on this sentence... you are not alone.  Imagine if, when you walked into the ER for the umpteenth time because your pain was out of control, you were surrounded by other women also suffering from endometriosis.  Imagine how supported you would feel.  Well, sisters, we may not always be able to be there for each other in person, but we ARE here for each other, in spirit, in support.  We know how it feels.  You don't have to go it alone.  Reach out to those who understand, and arm yourselves with information for those who don't.

Sources:

1. National Library of Medicine.  Retrieved August 14, 2013, from http://www.google.com

2. Facts About Endometriosis.  Endometriosis.org.  Retrieved August 14, 2013, from http://endometriosis.org/resources/articles/facts-about-endometriosis/

3. About Endometriosis.  Endometriosis.org.  Retrieved August 14, 2013, from http://endometriosis.org/endometriosis/

4. Myths and Misconceptions in Endometriosis.  Endometriosis.org.  Retrieved August 14, 2013, from http://endometriosis.org/resources/articles/myths/

5. Endometriosis:  A Guide for Patients.  American Society for Reproductive Medicine.  Retrieved August 14, 2013, from  http://www.asrm.org/Endometriosis_booklet/

6. Endometriosis In-Depth Report.  New York Times.  Retrieved August 13, 2013, from http://health.nytimes.com/health/guides/disease/endometriosis/print.html

Anniversaries

This summer has been full of anniversaries for me.  Not so much joyous ones as painful ones, unfortunately.  I'm doing pretty well staying in the present despite these strong memories, but I also think it's healthy to respect the past and the feelings these anniversaries bring out in me.  For that reason, I'd like to take a moment to reflect on them tonight.

The first anniversary I faced this summer was an old one, a wound that has healed over and instead become a scar - one that has changed me and that I will have with me always, but no longer so fresh.  June 13, 2001, was the day my parents split up.  It always falls within a week or two of another day in June that causes me distress over the things my family has been through in the past 12 years as well.  But in the past few years I've been okay.  This year, that just so happened to also be the anniversary of the day A and I left for the best vacation of our lives.  So yes, I looked back on and felt the depth of how my life changed on that day 12 years ago, but I no longer thought only of how it changed for the worse - I looked at how it shaped me as a person and even changed for the better.  Would I have ever become the person I did and left for that vacation a year ago if it weren't for the events of my adolescence?  Would I have the empathy I do for teens who are going through similar things to what I did?  Probably not... and for that I wouldn't change a thing.

The next set of anniversaries was harder.  June 20 was the day our lives changed forever... the day my sweet A told me the one secret I couldn't keep... the day I set out trying to make things right for her... and ultimately failed.  The following day, the 21st, was the day we flew home and disaster struck.  They didn't believe us.  I couldn't keep my promise... the one I made to A that I would help her.  I couldn't keep it because the system wouldn't let me.  We parted ways in the most painful way possible... we said our goodbyes in sign language through a plate glass window... I... love... you...

June 20, 2012... the day the storm brewed up.

June 21, 2012... the last happy picture before everything changed.

June 27 was the hardest anniversary of all.  That was the day it had been one year since I saw my princess A.  That was the last time I laid eyes on her, our final goodbye.  I remember it like it was yesterday.  She was in the back of her grandpa's truck, no booster seat.  Somehow I bought myself time.  I spoke as quickly as I could.  I told her I loved her, that I had tried to help her, and that I was sorry for the things that were happening to us.  I told her I would miss her and that I would always be here for her.  I asked her if she remembered my phone number.  She said she did.  I told her to remember to tell the truth all the time, and to try not to get in trouble, to make good choices at school and to take care of her little brother.  Then I told her I loved her again.  When they drove away with her, we both waved until we were out of sight.  That was the last time I ever saw the little girl I raised for seven years... the little girl I love like she were my own flesh and blood... who I would give my life for.  Now it's been a year.  The longest I have ever been away from her by far.  Not a day, or even a moment goes by that I don't miss her... that I don't regret what happened a year ago... but I do believe she's coming home, one way or another, and that God will protect her until then.
This year the pain of that anniversary was eased by the joy of a coming birth.  I spent the night at my best friend's house helping her prepare to be induced the following day with her 4th little girl.  After a couple of crazy days with hospital policy, Rylee was born on Sunday, June 30.

Congrats, Shannon & Mike, and thanks for the new memories of snuggling your little ones!

Those days last year set in motion a battle we fought for the better part of a year... one that didn't end the way we hoped it would.  It makes the anniversaries sting all the more that we tried so hard to make things okay, and we just couldn't.  Those painful anniversaries shouldn't exist.  They just shouldn't.  We should be enjoying another summer together... but instead, we're both going it more or less alone.  I live for the day we have a happy anniversary to celebrate... a homecoming.

July holds a different set of anniversaries.  Tomorrow, July 15, will mark two years since my best friend Angie went to Heaven after a five and a half year battle with cancer.  She was only 20 years old.  It was a year ago, almost to the minute, that I last saw her... that we said, not "Goodbye", but "See you later".  We never said goodbye... we even talked about how we never would... because we knew it wouldn't be goodbye, not really.  We knew we'd see each other again in another life.  Instead, the last words I said to her were "I love you."

This may be the only two days of the year that I spend much time thinking about those particular hours two years ago that came at the end of Angie's life.  That's not the person she was and that's not how I like to remember her.  That's not how she would want to be remembered.  I spend most of my time focusing on who she was before that - the funny, silly, compassionate, beautiful, strong and amazing person who was my best friend for so long.  I remember how scared she was of 'losing herself'.  She didn't want a time to come when she didn't feel like herself, because she was so sick.  I thank God that she was able to maintain her sense of self right up until the very last week.  I thank God that when that time came, He brought her home quickly.  I thank God that He gave us time to say that one last "I love you".  And even in those last difficult days... I know she could hear us.  I know she knew we were there.  She became agitated when someone started to cry.  She calmed when we reassured her that we would be okay.  She heard us when we told her it was okay to let go.  Her pain ended two years ago.  In that way, it's a happy anniversary.  But it's a terrible one for the rest of the world, for we lost a beautiful, amazing person... one who I was privileged to call one of my best friends.

Angie and I, goofing off a little over two years ago.

At the end of the month, a day will come that marks one year since the passing of my precious one-year-old kitten, Boo.  A couple weeks later will come the happier anniversary that marks the homecoming of his younger brother, Marbles.  My kitty-babies.  This August will mark one year since a very dark time in my life.  But I'm better already and I'm going nowhere but up.

My Boo, when he was a tiny kitten.

My Marbles... this is about as tiny as he ever was!

As painfully full of anniversaries as this summer has been, I am proud of the way I have handled them.  I am glad for the happy new memories I've made, and for all the ones I'll make in the future.  And I know one day, just like the anniversary of the day my parents split up, the wound that those days have given me will be nothing but a scar - one that has changed me, and one that has made me who I am.

The Strongest People I Ever Knew

My best friend Angie was the strongest person I ever knew.

Yes, that's me hiding from the picture.  So long ago.

She fought cancer for five and a half years.  Over and over.  Surgeries.  Chemo.  Experimental treatments.  She went through more than I could ever even describe to you.  And she wasn't alone.

Angie had a type of bone cancer called osteosarcoma.  It's a childhood cancer, it tends to occur in growing bones, especially arms and legs.  It can present in elementary age through adolescence, but it can come back for years into adulthood, despite still being considered a 'childhood' cancer.  Angie was 20 when she died, of a childhood cancer.  She lived that long - to be an adult - because she had some of the best doctors in the world, and because she was a fighter.  She had a strong spirit that, whether she literally or figuratively fell, just got back up and kept on smiling.  Sure, she had her down days.  Everyone does.  But she taught me a lot about what it means to be strong... that sometimes it's just... well, I almost said 'putting one foot in front of the other', and then I laughed, because I realized that would have cracked her up - Angie only had one leg.  Foot jokes were her favorite.  I remember her telling random people that her right foot itched, and they'd look at her, and lack of a right foot, and get this confused look on their face and not know what to say... because they just didn't know her well enough to know how often she made that joke (or that sometimes, it really did itch).  In any case... that sometimes your only choice is to keep going, keep trying, keep breathing... and strength is not the ability to do that, because we don't have a choice, but how you do it.  She did it laughing.  With her friends.

No picture is complete without a goofy face or bunny ears.

Angie met a lot of people in her fight.  She went to camp, went on ski trips, with other kids who had the same or similar types of cancer.  She told me all about them.  Their strength.  Their surgeries.  Their relapses.  The fun, silly, hilarious things they did together.  They were such a huge part of her story.  They understood what she was going through in a way that no one else did, and gave her somebody to talk to about it until the very end.  She took their setbacks harder than her own.  They made endless trips to the hospital less miserable.  Seeing a friend made her day.  And there were those of us like myself who were with her through it all, but we didn't understand what she was going through, not even close.  She needed those friends who did... even though she hated, so much, that they had to suffer through what she did.  She'd have taken every one of their burdens from them if she could have.

I found out tonight that Angie is seeing one of those friends again... he lost his battle to osteosarcoma this week.  I remember her talking about this friend often... that he made her laugh, that she'd run into him at the hospital and it made her day, how much fun they had together, how much they had in common, how much she respected his perspective.  My thoughts and prayers are with the family and friends of that young man tonight.  I've walked the road of losing someone I love to cancer, and it's a dark, hard road.  Would you please offer up a prayer tonight as well, for all the people this young man left behind?

There are other friends of Angie's who are still fighting.  Friends she admired for their strength, who she saw as stronger than herself (even though they - all the 'cancer kids' - had a kind of strength the rest of us can't even imagine).  Friends who were her first and foremost concern even to the very last moment.  I remember one of them came over the day before she died.  I can't imagine how hard that must have been... I know how hard it was for me.  I also know that neither of us would've been anywhere else.

Angie 'introduced' me... in person or just through her words and stories (which were vivid as she was a writer, and a very good one at that) to some of the strongest people I ever knew.  People who are fighting a battle I can't imagine.  Children, families who are staring cancer in the face and pushing forward.  People like her.  And there are thousands of them.  34 children were diagnosed with cancer today.  34 families will never be the same.  34 more kids will have to learn to be a whole new kind of strong.  And this happens every day.  Every one of those kids is someone's best friend, someone's daughter or son, someone's brother or sister.  They matter.  Their fight matters.

I'm just typing as I think tonight - I'm not sure exactly what point I'm trying to make... but I just want people to see them.  To see their struggle.  To remember their strength.  With every pink ribbon you see, imagine a gold one for childhood cancer.  Support an organization that helps kids with cancer, or funds research for childhood cancer.  Give a hug (or better yet, some chocolate) to the mom of a little one you know who is fighting.  Offer your ear as one to listen, your shoulder as one to cry on.  They are strong, but they are not strong alone.  They learn to lean on the people they love.  It's a battle we don't have to let them fight alone.  It's a battle that I hope and pray to see the day no one else has to fight.  Just... learn from their strength.  And love your kids.  Life is too short not to live it the way Angie did, the way her friends who were also fighting did... with strength and joy and love.

The Right Words

In the wake of unspeakable tragedy on Friday, millions of people are trying to find the right words.

To comfort the grieving.

To say to their children.

To describe how they feel.

To end the violence.

To ease the pain.

"I'm sorry" falls so pathetically short.  "I'm here for you" just doesn't seem like enough.  "Heartbroken" can't even begin to describe it.  Even "I am praying" can't do enough to take away the pain.

Many seek comfort in the Word of God when the words of man cannot speak strongly enough to their hearts.

I am sure that nothing can separate us from God's love - not life or death, not angels or spirits, not the present or the future. (Romans 8:38)

Jesus then said, "I am the one who raises the dead to life!  Everyone who has faith in me will live, even if they die.  And everyone who lives because of faith in me will never really die.  Do you believe this?  (John 11:25-26)

Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.  (Matthew 5:4)

But Jesus said "Let the children come unto me, for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven."  (Matthew 13:14)

His Truth lends aid to many, its worth cannot be overestimated, and yet, even the Word cannot erase the pain.  God did not promise that all our days would be without pain - on the contrary, he told us they would come!  In the same breath, He promised to guide us through them.

Two years ago, I remember discussing this very topic with my best friend after the bad news had come that her cancer could no longer be treated - when the 'if' we hadn't even dared to consider instead became a 'when'.  Angie was an amazing and unique person - there's not a soul on this earth just like her and there never will be.  As we had that serious conversation one night, we came to the conclusion that the 'right' words just didn't exist.  For as much as we both loved words, loved painting a picture with them, finding just the right one for every situation, they fell far, far short in times of grief.

Then, because we were both silly and couldn't stand to be serious for too long, we decided to make up our own word, to say all the things words couldn't say.  To say I love you, I'm with you, I'm sorry, I wish I could make it better, there are no words to express to you the depth of my emotion.  The word was "spingledon".  Then we had a good laugh about our new made up word, and like words themselves never could, each other's friendship and understanding comforted us both.

Another time, I remember agreeing with her that, "It's not what you say - it's that you cared enough to say it."  And that is what I want to leave you with tonight.  My best friend Angie was wise beyond her years, and a year and a half ago, she herself went home to be with God far too soon for any of us who knew her.  But I draw comfort today from the knowledge that she and her wisdom are there in Heaven, lending love and comfort to the children we are all grieving.

If you are grieving, if you are seeking to comfort the bereaved, if you are trying to put your feelings into words and coming up frustrated and empty handed, take heart.  No one has the 'right' words.  We all feel our way through the darkness, doing the best we can, and in the end, it's not what you say, it's that you cared enough to say it.  Your sentiment will shine through.

My choice of words for all of you?

"Spingledon."

Some days are just hard.

This post is only remotely adoption related.  It's on my adoption blog, but it's also on MY blog, and I think I figure pretty prominently into the adoption equation (for me), so, I vote still relevant.

I miss my best friend.

I miss her so much.

I miss this day:

Trying on silly hats while we shopped for angel tree with girls group.  Not caring or thinking about the tough stuff, just being friends.

And I miss this day:

You were so tired.  You tried to stay awake for us, but you drifted off, and tired as we were, we rested with you... but you noticed later that we both had hints of smiles on our faces... we weren't really asleep.  The bracelet I'm making there in this picture from over a year ago is still tied around my right wrist.  I picked out your favorite colors on purpose and made you one too.  I don't know what I'm going to do when mine breaks.  I'll have to fix it somehow.  I wore it when you were here.  I wore it the day you went.  I wore it all the days after.  It's like a part of me now.

Everything I've done lately has reminded me of you.  I read the Hunger Games series, then saw the movie, and I thought so many different times how much you would have loved it.  Especially some of the minutiae in books, those little things we both loved about reading.  I campaigned hard for a fundraiser for adoptive families, watched people who had nothing themselves give their very last, and I thought of you and how you listened to me when I talked about issues and causes that mattered to me, not just to humor me but to hear me.  You cared.  I never felt like you were just tolerating my incessant blather, you wanted to know.

You would have been so excited for my future adoption.  You wanted to see the world.  Maybe you would have even traveled with me when it was time.  You would have read every blog post.  You would have told me how good they were when I doubted myself, and we would've talked about how important it felt to write just the right thing, even though ultimately you're blogging for yourself, not others.  We talked about that before.  I didn't quite understand until now.

Friday is my birthday.  Last year, you couldn't go out, but you invited me over for my birthday, ordered our favorite pizza, and then served up my favorite (fudge swirl) ice cream.  Half that carton is still in my freezer.  I can't bear to throw it away, but eating it probably isn't a good idea either.  You'd have a good laugh at me for that one.  This year I asked for donations to the Pleven Orphans Medical Care Fund for my birthday.  I have no doubt you would have jumped at the chance.

Should've, could've, would've.  There's no point in further enumerating all the things we would do if you were here, but they keep playing over in my mind... a tantalizing view of what I can't have.  I know I should focus on our good memories, and I do, most of the time, but tonight I'm just sad that you're not here to make more. I'm sad that I have to wait so long to see you again.  I know you know all these things I want to tell you, but I want to tell you in person, see your face, hear your goofy but insightful responses.  If Heaven had a phone, I'd call you up and talk all night.  Tonight I miss you.  Tonight I think of what should have been, and I cry.  Tomorrow, I will think of you and smile... like I do every single day.

But for now I just miss you.  Some days are just hard.






God called my best friend Angie home on July 15, 2011, after a five and a half year battle with cancer, more surgeries than I have fingers to count them on, and even more times exceeding all the doctors' expectations.  She changed my life, she made me who I am, and I'll always be sad that we won't do all the things we'd planned together... but I'll do them, because I know she would want me to.  If you've grieved a loved one, you know that sometimes you feel like you have a fresh perspective, you can finally look back and smile, and other times it just hits you like a Mack truck.  This is one of those times for me.  Last year at this time we were celebrating, spending as much time as we could together, and this year I'm missing you.

Some days are just hard.

Love you, best friend.  You'd better set aside a while to talk for when I get there where you are, because I have so much to tell you!  And I can't wait, but in the meantime, I'm going to make you proud.

A Heart for Adoption, Part II

In my previous post, I wrote of my grandparents, Anthony and Adeline, and their son, 'Little Tony'.  Incidentally, the day I began to write this post, January 16, happens to be my grandma Adeline's birthday.  Happy birthday, Grandma - and thank you for being one of the very first pieces to my puzzle.  Thank you for bringing my uncle Tony home and loving him, even though the doctors said he was 'defective', even though no one believed in him.  You did, and that changed more lives than I think you could have ever imagined at the time.

But all that happened long before adoption was even on my radar.  In fact, the next piece of the puzzle begins at that time as well, when I still planned a 'traditional' family.  In the beginning this story may seem to have little to do with my adoption story, but it concerns someone who is very dear to me, and I feel every bit of it is important, so please bear with me as we walk this path.

I was 13 years old when I started Confirmation class at my Methodist church.  Most children went through Confirmation in sixth grade, but I hadn't attended church regularly until late in 7th grade, so I went to Confirmation late.  As such, I often felt alienated by the other students, who were two years younger than me.  There was one person, though, who didn't make me feel that way, and her name was Angie, and little did I know then that she would become my best friend, and would teach me more about life, love, and hope than anyone I ever knew.

Angie and I were fast friends, as we both had a goofy sense of humor and a love for children.  After confirmation, we worked together in the church nursery, and in the summer teaching Vacation Bible School.  When I went to high school we started to drift apart, only for life to bring us back together two short years later.

I was sixteen, and a Junior in high school, when Angie was a freshman.  I was excited to finally go to the same school as her.  We would wave in the hallways, sometimes chat before class... then, sometime in November, I stopped seeing Angie around so much.  I went to writer's club after school one day, and I'll never ever forget the details of this day...  the girl who told me had blue hair.  We sat, with our desks in a circle, reading poems and deciding which ones would go into the school literary magazine.  We read one poem and then the girl with blue hair spoke up (for the life of me I don't remember what her name was, maybe I never knew).  She said "I just want to ask everybody to pray for Angie, she just got diagnosed with cancer".  I stopped.  I looked at her.  I said, "Angie?  Angie Sayers?  She has cancer?"  The girl with blue hair nodded.

My world stopped spinning.

In that moment, I was overcome with so many emotions.  Fear, at what this might mean.  Regret, that I had allowed us to drift apart.  Concern, for what my friend was going through.  Anger, for WHY, God, WHY would you do this to Angie of all people?  I had a friend in high school who used to punch walls when she was angry.  That day was the first time I understood that impulse.

I sat in the hallway and sobbed.  This couldn't be happening.  Cancer.  People die from cancer.  Sure, lots of people survive, certainly Angie would be okay, she was young, she was healthy!  But... cancer.  And what to do now?  We'd drifted apart - how could I call her and say "I know we haven't talked in a while, but hey, I heard you had cancer, what's up"?  I didn't want to be that person who just turned up again because something 'interesting' happened.  Instead, I was a person who realized that I had made a mistake by letting a dear friend drift away - and the harsh realities of cancer made it necessary for me to realize and rectify that mistake.  On Angie's birthday, while I was babysitting, I called her.  I hated calling people, it terrified me.  I didn't know what to say.  But I knew I couldn't *not* call her.  She told me that she was doing pretty well, that she had started chemo and had just started to lose her hair.  She told me that she would have an operation soon to amputate her right leg.  Later I would learn more about the type of cancer Angie had, and why it was so aggressive.

After that first hard phone conversation, I saw Angie at church a couple of times.  We made a video for her at Christmas, saying, if she couldn't come to church, we'd bring church to her.  I started attending a Bible Study and we invited Angie to come anytime she felt like it.  One night when we were in the church basement painting decorations for Vacation Bible School, Angie turned up with her friend Lauren, who I also knew from a while back.  That night I remember Angie making a joke about having one leg - I can't recall exactly what it was, something about socks or something - and I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.  It wasn't long before I would learn the answer - LAUGH.

Yes, laugh.  Even when it seemed there was nothing to laugh about.

Angie had osteosarcoma (and don't let that cute pinky purpley picture fool you, it's a nasty, nasty disease).  But it wasn't just that she had cancer, it was that her cancer was caused by a genetic defect called Li Fraumeni Syndrome.  The cancer and the syndrome combined created an aggressive situation which had necessitated the removal or her right leg, above the knee.  LFS meant that Angie lacked a gene that suppressed the growth of tumors - so now that she had cancer, she was even more at risk for relapse.  Nevertheless, in June 2005, Lauren and I triumphantly carried a banner stating "Happy Done Chemo-Ness" and a cake into the hospital.

Angie did relapse.  Many times.  But in between, we lived.  We attended Bible Study together every week.  If it was cancelled, or even cut short, we loved to go out for ice cream.  Sometimes after Bible Study, we'd go into Giant Eagle late at night for donuts, enjoying the use of the motorized carts (legitimately used... although I'm sure employees would've frowned on us hitchhiking rides on the back of them...).  We laughed, and loved, and made memories that would last forever.  Angie brought light to everyone who met her - even though we meant to be the ones who were strong for her.

After I graduated high school and was diagnosed with endometriosis (more about that in my next blog post... or the one after that?  Hey, I'm not writing these things, I'm just the one sitting behind the keyboard.  They write themselves...), Angie and I got to discussing more serious things.  Her LFS meant that if she were even able to have biological children after all the surgeries and chemo she went through, she would risk passing the gene on to them, which would increase their risk for cancer.  At a young age, an age at which the most serious decision most people face is whether to date the hot guy on the football team or the funny nerd in the chess club, she made the decision not to have biological children, but to adopt.  My best friend Angie had a heart to adopt.  And though life forced her to make that decision, she had always been, whether she knew it or not, the type of person who could have a heart to adopt - ever since those early years we bonded over providing childcare in the church nursery.

Earlier in my life, even through the first years of high school, I planned a 'traditional' family.  I just couldn't wait to get married, get pregnant and have children of my own.  (I now realize I have effectively scared off any single males who might have stumbled upon this blog... bye guys!)  Then at 18 years old I faced a diagnosis of a fertility disorder.  Suddenly I began to look at other options.  I decided I'd like to become a foster parent, maybe even adopt from foster care.  When Angie and I chatted, I began to mention my thought of adopting from foster care.  She had always wanted to adopt twin boys, so we developed an idealistic plan in which I would provide foster care, and then some day, when twin boys crossed my doorstep and needed adopting, I'd call her, or better, just walk over (as we wanted to live side by side and raise our kids together) and she could adopt them.  O for the naivety I held when we made those plans.  Nevertheless, we held onto hope.  Hope that she'd beat the cancer once and for all, and we could move on with our plans of adopting and raising our families together.

But just as our conversations got gradually more serious, so did Angie's condition.  By Summer 2010 the cancer had metastasized to her lungs, necessitating many surgeries and more chemo (through which we visited her in the hospital and did silly things like taking pictures of the bathroom and laughing about random gross medical stuff... many times we laughed, "only us")... and finally in August a tumor in Angie's left lung threatened her heart and required the removal of the entire lung.  I took off work the day before her surgery - a surgery which was incredibly risky, and we honestly all worried about whether she would make it through - and spent the day with her, swimming, eating snacks, talking about anything except the scary possibilities of the following day.


Angie made it through that surgery, and true to her spirit, she even attended classes at a local University that fall!  Realizing the seriousness of the situation we were in, we made even more of an effort than ever to spend time together - whether it was just sitting together and playing Sims, chatting on AIM, watching movies, playing games, going to the accessible playground... we made so many memories.  Then in November even worse news was handed down.  The cancer had returned, in her remaining lung - and it was inoperable.  An obscure drug that had worked in one other case similar to hers seemed to be the only hope.  It was expensive and difficult to obtain, but in the way that only God can, He opened doors for her to obtain that treatment.  Regardless, we were concerned that it was only a matter of time.  Her family went on what we referred to as a 'Grand Adventure', traveling across several states to see family and enjoy the sights.  I received postcards and souvenirs from places like Seattle and Hawaii.  And while Angie didn't want to know how much 'time' the doctors said she had left, I learned during that time that they'd given her 2-3 months from the day in November that they found the new lung tumors.  She was traveling for nearly all of December, so when she came home in January, we took every opportunity to spend time together.

Throughout the month of January, Angie started to get horrible migranes.  She tried for so long to grin and bear it, to pretend to be okay, because we were all afraid of what news would be handed down next... but the bad turned to worse and Angie went to the hospital in unbearable pain.  At that time they found multiple malignant tumors.  This time there was no mincing words.  The doctors said she would die within 2-3 weeks.

During this time, a number of people and organizations extended their kindness to Angie, and for this I will always be thankful.  One of her dreams, to have a book published, was realized on February 15, 2011, when Illuminations was released.  Another desire she'd had for a long time, to get a cat, finally happened in early March, while I was in the hospital having surgery.  We'd spend days and weekends off in those times just hanging out at Angie's house.  Sometimes her many medications made her doze off in the middle of a thought. That was okay - we dozed with her.

As we always used to say, even the best medical science couldn't predict the will of God, and Angie lived until July 15, 2011, when she finally went home, her pain finally gone for good.  






It has now been six months and two days that she's been gone.  What Angie left with me cannot be put into words.  She left me with the memory of her bright, sunny spirit, always looking for a positive way to spin things, always making the best out of the worst.  In the months before she died I made a sunshine ornament and hung it from the rearview mirror of my car, to remind me that Angie was always a reason to smile.  She left me with so many blissful memories of friends, fun, and innocence.  When I say I can't put it into words - and then I try - I find myself feeling woefully inept, because the words to describe what Angie left with me just don't exist.  She saved my life.  She picked me up on my darkest days, dusted me off, and made me smile - even when I was the one supposed to be supporting her.  The day she died, we found a letter on her computer, left for us in a true Angie nature.  I want to take an excerpt directly from that letter, for her words were always better than mine.

 I don’t want you to cry forever. I want you to turn around when you’re ready and seize life with all you’ve got. I want you to remember, if anything, for my sake, that life goes on and you’re a precious part of it. I take comfort in the fact that even though I’m gone, each of you are not, and that I will always continue to live in your memories and in your hearts, because I will never have truly left you.

Oh Angie.  Tears stain my cheeks again writing this.  No, you have not left me.  Not one bit.  Angie, you are in my heart.  My heart for adoption could not have been prepared if not for you.  I promise you now, as I promised you countless times up to the day before you died, I will live on.  And I'll do all the things we always said we'd do together.  It will hurt not to be able to reach out and touch you during those times, not to have your house for my kids to run over to and play, but they will know, I will know, that we have an angel... sitting up there, danging her legs off a cloud.

Dearest Angie, thank you, for instilling in me a surefire desire to adopt, for giving me somebody to talk to about it while everyone else was planning their 'traditional' families, for supporting me every single inch of the way.  Thank you, for still being in my heart - my heart for adoption.  Please ask God for me, and please peek down over the edge of that cloud, at the thousands of children waiting for adoption today, and hold them in your heart.  Please don't forget to check up on me... because someday I'll bring my children home, and I'll tell them all about the special best friend I had for nine precious years who helped prepare me to be their mama.

Your mark will never... fade away.

The Worst - and Best - Year of My Life.

2011... what to say, what to say!  Never in my life has a year been packed with so many life-changing events.  Seldom before has my view of the world, or my plan for myself shifted so drastically in such a short time.  Finally, never, in a year, have I experienced so much utter pain, on every level:  Physical, psychological, emotional.  And yet, a few days ago, in a room with some of my best friends in the world, I officially survived it!

A week or so ago, I was poised to write a post titled "Where I Was" - which was intended to explain the place I was in my life before everything changed for me.  I scrapped it, because it came out sounding like a laundry list of bad things that had happened to me.  But it's another important piece of the puzzle... because in order to understand where I am now - you must understand where I was then.  So, instead of attempting to recall the original post (which I failed to save), I would like to post this more as a 'year in review'.  I will warn you that it is long, as are most of my posts (I have a writer inside me struggling to get out!).  I have tried to shorten it several times but I feel like that cheapens it - takes away from the picture I'm trying to convey - so it remains as is.  Further, it has always been my desire to be completely honest through this blog (although some things will not be shared for privacy reasons) - I will not sugar-coat the truth here.  If you have time and so desire, read.  If you don't - that's just fine too.  As always, many more thoughts are floating around my head - blog posts for days to come - but this one, for today.  Without further adieu...

January
In January I began my second-to-last quarter of College with a heavy heart.  As excited as I was about graduating, my best friend Angie had recently been diagnosed as terminal with the cancer she'd been fighting for over  five years.  They gave her 2-3 months to live - in November.  I felt as though nothing I did, aside from spending time with her, mattered in the least.  My best friend was dying.  Any day, she could be gone.  How could I care about alternative fuel sources or historic Spanish literature at such a time?  In addition, I was dealing with chronic, debilitating physical pain of my own and scheduled surgery for my endometriosis for March 2.  The month found my Dear Borrowed Kids living in a hotel, then with me, then with their grandmother.  Then at the end of the month, the doctors found multiple tumors in Angie's brain.  They said 2-3 weeks.  It seemed like every situation in my life was worse than ever before.  The only light I had... were those special days I spent with my best friend, enjoying each other's company, laughing over nothing, while we still had time.

February
If you'd asked me in January, I could've scarcely believed that February could be worse... but it was.  The frustrations of January continued, and grew, and multiplied.  Late in the month, it became apparent that my beloved cat Buckeye, nearing 17 years old, whom I'd had since I was five years old, was not simply 'slowing down in his old age' - he was dying.  After what was essentially a heartwrenching emergency vet appointment on a Friday night, I was told he was in end stage renal failure.  I asked if he was in pain, through my sobs.  They told me that he could be, and that he was certainly uncomfortable.  We were given medications to make him more comfortable.  I didn't want euthenasia.  I never believed that it was the right of man to decide who lived or died - human or animal.  I took my baby home and spent the weekend with him... but by Sunday night, I knew.  It wasn't fair to put him through this anymore.  He was dying.  It was going to happen, and soon.  I held him close to me one last time on Sunday night, all night... I went to class and pretended to care... and then I came home and took pictures and snuggled him some more.  Then we went to the vet, and I watched them put my baby to sleep on February 28, 2011.  The liquid was orange.  I'll never forget a single detail about that day.  I took him home, wrapped him in one of my favorite sweatshirts, and buried my precious Buckeye.

In Memoriam

Doing his favorite thing... exploring the great outdoors.

And yet, through all this, guess who continued to hang on?  Guess who was there for me as I cried the night I buried my kitty?  My best friend Angie, of course.  Facing a terminal diagnosis herself, she never once passed up an opportunity to help a friend.  By the grace of God, we made memories that month, memories that I will never, ever forget.

March

March just did not start off on the right foot.  Having just lost my lifetime feline companion, my heart was shattered. I was heading into surgery not knowing whether or not my best friend would still be alive when I came home.  I was scared, to put it mildly.  The night before my surgery, Angie and I were visiting an animal rescue - she and I were both intending to adopt kittens - and a stupid, silly little misunderstanding sent me into the hysterical sobs I'd been holding back for 24 hours.  Once again - guess who was there to give me a hug, and tell me she was there for me?  Oh, Angie, how much you did for everyone else, even as your own time drew to a close.  

Then my surgery went bad.  Two more surgeries, one of which was markedly more invasive than those prior, had to be performed simply to keep me alive.  I was bleeding internally and my blood pressure had dropped to a dangerous level.  I had to receive a blood transfusion while in surgery.  All I remember is signing the consent form, and hearing them yell things like "Clear the OR" and "We need to get her some blood"... and looking up at my doctor as they were putting me under and croaking "Save me."  I was so scared.  There are large blocks of time about which I remember nothing at all.  A simple outpatient procedure, turned so bad.  I spent a week in the hospital.  There were fears of infection and other complications.  I was miserable - and I wasn't home where I could spend time with Angie while I still could.  I could barely text her with all the medication constantly dripping into my IV.  My texts came out garbled and hard to read.  I didn't want her to visit because it could make her sick.  Things didn't get much better when I went home.  I was in a lot of pain for a long time.  I had to take an incomplete on all my winter classes.  As if all of this wasn't enough, things went bad with my two younger Dear Borrowed Kids, causing them to be abruptly withdrawn from my life - and loving them as though they were my own, this was a blow.  

The end of March, however, found things looking up.  My dear Angie was still fighting the good fight, we'd both adopted precious kittens.  I had high hopes for things to come.  

Introducing Boo, the adorable kitten.

April

Being my birth month, I had high hopes for this one, despite still reeling from the effects of a terrible March.  The falling-out with the family of my two younger DBKs was hard, but I felt differently about it than I'd expected.  I felt as though I'd made a choice that was in all of our best interests, and that the current situation was only temporary - so I was at peace.  I was in the process of seeking an internship to complete my BA in Public Health, and hoping for something I'd really enjoy.  As it so happened, I landed an absolutely perfect internship with the injury prevention department at the local health department, with whom I'd been volunteering at car seat checks for years.  A few weeks into the internship, they offered to pay me - well.  A couple weeks later, they told me they wanted to hire me when I graduated.  It was like a dream come true!  I never could have imagined things working out so well.  Best of all, the end of the month came, and Angie and I were still playing games and laughing together, just like always.  Even the best of the medical community cannot predict the will of God.  

May

Like April, May brought good news.  It certainly wasn't without its difficulties, but it was overall positive.   I went to a fabulous conference both for my job/internship and for myself, in the process seeing a dear friend whom I hadn't seen in nearly a year, and in the same breath the parents of my missing DBKs called seeking to mend fences.  I spent 30+ hours a week doing a job I loved, and my free time with the people I loved.  Toward the end of the month, Angie started gearing up for her final Relay for Life - and we couldn't wait to cheer her on.  She was getting sicker... but still smiling, still blessing us just by being her radiant self.  May was good.

June

In June, the hard times started to come back.  I was driving a car nearly as old as I was, and while I was thankful for it, I knew its days were coming to an end.  It needed repairs I couldn't afford, and I didn't see any point in trying to afford them when I'd just be in the same place in a few months anyways.  Finally, the brakes completely gave out and I made the decision to sell it and buy a new car.  It was a little earlier than I'd hoped (I'd hoped to buy a car after graduation - Clyde (that was the car's name) apparently was a couple weeks off on that timetable), but it was what I wanted and what I felt was right for me and for the precious little ones I needed to transport safely!  Have you ever watched the crash test for a 1990 model year vehicle?  No?  Okay, don't.  Especially not if you drive one.  Only by the grace of God was I saved - when I hit the brakes and they failed, I stopped literally inches from the bumper of the car in front of me.  I puttered off to a safe place to call AAA.  I could've hit that car in front of me... and become that crash test.

Well, finding a new car wasn't as easy as I'd hoped.  I'd done extensive research into it over the past years, anticipating a post-graduation purchase and I was ready to go - but not only did I hit a snag, the situation kicked up some pretty devastating family drama.  All this came to a point just as I was driving home from Relay for Life - watching my dear best friend make her final 'Survivor's Lap'.  I was left feeling heartbroken, alone and as though no one had faith in me.  What should have been a happy time of my graduation was instead painful.  

Finally, towards the very end of the month, I was able to get a new car, with the help of my mom, who has been my rock throughout my entire life.  I was excited and things seemed to be looking up heading into July.

July

There are no words for July.  Loss.  Heartbreak.  Pain.  Sadness.  Mourning.  None of these even begin to cover what we all felt when dear Angie died on July 15, 2011.  No matter how hard I might try, I'll never forget the days leading up to that day... just... indescribable.  Angie would've blushed and told me to stop flattering her, but she was my hero - not because she had cancer, but because she had cancer and she didn't let it stop her.  Sure, she had her down moments, everyone does, but she just kept on going.  She told me once "I didn't really have any other choice".  Oh, dear Angie, how many times I've said those same words.  My wonderful best friend is deserving of a blog post of her own, but that is for later.  For now... a photo of the two of us:

I miss you every day, dear Angie.  You are a huge part of who I've become.

August

They say "When it rains, it pours".  This statement, I've found to be so true.  August began with the struggles of July, then more struggles with my two younger DBKs.  August delivered some bad medical news for me, which got me quite down for a while.  My hours as a temporary employee at the job I loved were running out and the future of my employment still not cemented.  Finally, at the end of the month, tensions which had been rising for a long time between myself and the family of my two younger DBKs came to a head, resulting in me losing them again.  Further, my physical pain was slowly but steadily coming back, and I was wondering why, if I'd been through all this surgery just months earlier, was I in pain again?  The end of the month came only with uncertainty.

September

This was a month which I spent largely at home, alone, which in retrospect was very bad for me.  My heart was broken again by more bad medical news, even as it lay shattered with the loss of my best friend and pain for my DBKs.  I worked periodically, rationing my last few hours, waiting for the day I could finally come back to work for good.  Finances started to become difficult, but I chose not to get another job, because I was certain I'd be returning to my 'real' job soon.  My physical pain had nearly reached pre-surgery levels and I started to look into other medical options, not excluding further surgery.  More than anything, I was lonely.  I spent so much of my time alone that even periodic gatherings of friends or family did little to ease the pain once I went back home.  September ended with even more uncertainty than August.

October

I knew all along that October would be hard, I just didn't know how hard.  You see, since my little DBK, A, was two years old, she has trick-or-treated with me.  This year, I knew we wouldn't be together.  It stung.  My work hours completely ran out and pay essentially stopped but for a trickle of mileage checks.  Still, I chose not to get another job, because surely I'd just have to quit in a couple of weeks anyways.  October went the way of September.

November

Though not the month I hit rock bottom, November was a steady downward slide.  I don't kid you when I say I'm lucky to have made it through alive.  Pain levels were back to where they were before my March surgery, sometimes even as bad as the post-op pain.  I was dependent on medication to even get through a day.  I was depressed and heartbroken over the state of my life.  My wonderful friends had noticed the change in me before I had and expressed concern, unfortunately leading to a turn of events which put us at odds and left me feeling even more alone than ever.  My work hours and income were gone, but I'd finally interviewed for my position about a week and a half before Thanksgiving, so I felt that there was a light at the end of the tunnel, I'd at least be back to work and out of the house soon.  However, the end of November came too soon, with the same uncertainty as the months before it - still no job, still no money, and now behind on bills and planning to schedule another surgery.  It felt bleaker than bleak.

December

What can I say?  December 2011.  Probably the most transformative month of my life.  Here is where this post gets divided into two parts - a 'before,' and an 'after'.  

December did not come quietly into my life.  On the very first day, it came with confirmation that I would have surgery - a good thing for my pain, but still scary, particularly at that time, having become more real and concrete in my mind.  In the same day, I learned that I'd been passed over for the job I thought was mine since April.  As it turns out, the effects of this economy are further reaching than any of us could have imagined, and circumstances precluded my superiors from being able to hire me.  Some of them, I think, were hurt for me as I was for myself.  I also think they were wrong - I do think I was the best person for that job - but who am I to decide right and wrong?  Ultimately, I feel there was a reason for the way things happened... but at the time, it was a devastating and heartbreaking blow to the very essence of who I am, not to mention further complicating financial matters just before Christmas, when I'd had such high hopes for making a wonderful Christmas for my family this year.  Further, it would be my first Christmas in six years without my little A - and the only Christmas season without AJ since he'd been born.  I was not feeling the spirit of the season, and my faith was more than shaken.  

But good things were slowly starting to happen.  A little at a time, I began mending fences with the friends I'd fought with in the previous months.  I felt as though there was a light at the end of the tunnel with regards to the everyday pain I was experiencing.  I started taking a more active role in making myself happy.  I was starting to heal, but I was still lower than low.  I felt as though everything I'd worked toward thus far, every thing I lived for, was gone.  What to do now?  I had a heart to help... and I'd tried and tried and it seemed like I'd failed.  

This, my friends, all that you have read up until this point, is the 'before'.

Here is the 'after'.

On December 3, 2011, just two days after the devastating news about my job, I saw this picture:  

From http://theblessingofverity.com/ with permission.

Now, if you've not read my blog up until this post, or are not part of the adoption community, you may wonder why on earth a picture of a child in a car seat could turn a 'before' into an 'after'.  Friends, let me tell you why.  That child in the car seat, her name is Katie, and she is nine years old.  She was adopted internationally, so malnourished that she weighed only 10 lbs.  What happened from then on is chronicled in my very first blog post, here.  There were nine days between laying my eyes on this precious child, and hearing God loud and clear in my own life.  Through every single one of those days, I could not get that precious girl - and so many others like her - off my mind, or out of my heart.  Not that I wanted to.  

Friends, I can't begin to tell you how the end of December left me.  Yes, I had surgery again.  More tears were shed.  More pain was had.  More uncertainties were faced.  More frustrations were voiced.  But everything - and I mean everything - had been put into a whole new frame. Where I felt no purpose before, I felt renewed energy and a call from Above that was impossible to ignore.  Every single one of those things that happened this year, and the one before it, and the one before that, on, and on, and on, had been preparing me for something - and doing a good job of it!  (This is a bit I will elaborate on later).  Where my faith was weak before, now it was strong.  Where my joy was small before, it was now huge.  Where my hope dwindled previously, it soared now.  God was using me to do His work - and He knew me only too well - to know just how willing I'd be to do this 'work'.  Purpose.  It was everything.

I will say that my initial reaction to what I saw was an emotional one - akin to when I was a little girl and wanted to give a home to every stray cat.  This is the truth.  But remember, nine days passed between the day I saw that photo, and the day I made the decision to say Yes to God's call.  Over those nine days, I thought of little else.  I read, I learned, I prayed, I researched endlessly, I still do.  The day I started this blog, my words were driven not by a temporary emotion, but by honest, informed determination; and so it has been ever since.  

I am not naive about things to come.  I know the reality.  In one short month I've read and learned so much, watched events unfold.  The road to the place I am today was not an easy one, it was rough and marred by obstacles, one after another.  I expect no less of the road ahead - and I welcome it, because I know, the rewards are great.  Because I know, this is right - and because I have Heaven on my side.  I thought I knew what I was doing, where I was going, and I thought I'd failed, but the truth lies in a quote from one of my favorite movies:  "Maybe God... has a bigger plan for me... than I had for myself."  ~ A Walk To Remember

So, there it was.  2011.  What, for all intents and purposes, should have been the worst year of my life - but for redemption in the Christmas season.  I can't say I'm sorry to bid it farewell, but what I can say, is that I'm excited to see what 2012 brings... and the year after that, and the one after that, and the one after that... on, and on, and on.