The best Christmas gift

When I was 8 years old, my friend Gina introduced me to her grandmother.  I was a very shy child anyway, but this introduction took me completely by surprise and I was speechless.  How could this woman be a grandmother?  She wasn’t old.  She didn’t have white hair.  I was convinced my friend had been cheated.  This…this woman, whoever she might be, was definitely not a grandmother.  At 8 years old, I didn’t know everything, but I did know what a grandmother was supposed to look like.

My grandmother was 49 years old when my mother was born.  That means by the time I was born, she was in her 70’s.  I never knew her before she was tiny and white haired.  She was grandma.  All grandmas were like this, I was sure of it.  All grandmas used magnifying glasses to read the prayer cards that were kept in their little black prayer books.  I was sure that if I’d peek into the little black prayer book of any grandma, the words would not be anything I could recognize, even when I was old enough to know how to read.  Grandmas had a secret language.  All grandmas ironed clothes with those heavy black irons that were heated on the stove and, of course, all grandmas wore corsets when they went to church, even if they needed a daughter to lace it up for them.  They also had pretty dishes filled with candies and cookie jars filled with cookies.  Any grandma worth anything would also have a backyard where their grandchildren could make mud pies.  My grandma did.  She was a grandma’s grandma.

All this came back to me last weekend when I got the call from my son saying that his wife was in labor and could I come to pick up the dogs?   Two enthusiastic Labradors in the back of our car, a reassurance from our son that the midwife was there and everything was going as it should; we went home to wait for the call that would let us know that our grandbaby had arrived safely. 

We waited.  We waited all day and all night.  We brought them some groceries that first evening and got an update.  Everything was going well, just slowly.  This baby was taking its own sweet time in coming into the world.  They probably would have had time to get to Bethlehem…via donkey.  They had opted for a home birth and while their house wasn’t much larger than a stable, it was definitely warmer and more comfortable. 

We waited for another day and night and finally got a call at 6:00 am on Saturday, December 19.  We were grandparents!!  Our little grandson had arrived!  The labor had taken just long enough that they made the decision to go to the hospital for his birth, just to make sure everything was okay.  A few hours later, Chris and I were sitting in the hospital room, holding our tiny grandbaby in our arms.  Nothing can compare to that. 

Nothing could compare, that is, except perhaps watching our son hold his tiny baby in his arms.  This was our son and he had changed right before our eyes, from a young man and husband, to a father.  Our daughter-in-law had become a mother.  What advice could I give them?

After watching them for awhile, I realized that there was only one bit of wisdom that I had to pass down to them.  It was something that was once told to me and I hope that it is the only advice I’ve ever given that anyone has taken seriously.  It is this:  You are your child’s mom and dad.  You know him better than anyone else ever will.  You know what he needs.  Don’t let anyone else try to tell you otherwise. They are adults now and are fully capable of making their way and taking care of their little family.  My job now is to trust them and let them be.

Trusting John and Coco is easy.  They are much stronger, more knowledgeable, and infinitely more patient than I was at their age.  I listened as John calmly explained to his wailing baby, “It’s all right.  You’ve just had a long trip.  It’s tiring.  It’s cold, too, after coming from the tropics, but this is a good place.  This is a good world.”  Later, I listened from the next room as Coco encouraged her little one to nurse.  She has such patience!  She is a singer and even her speaking voice has a beautiful, musical quality to it, especially when she speaks to the baby. 

Our grandson is very lucky.  He not only has a mother who sings; he also has a grandmother who sings just as beautifully.  It’s not me.  Coco’s mom was holding the baby and singing to him the day after he was born.  When it came time for me to hold him, he looked up at me and then his eyes went straight to Coco’s mom.  I knew what he was trying to tell her, “You’re not going to let HER sing to me, are you?”  My own children, two of them anyway, would put their hands over my mouth whenever I made the attempt to sing a lullaby to them.  I love to sing so I didn’t understand this attitude at all.  My kindergarten children were a captive audience and had to listen to my singing.  I was always amazed at how quickly they fell asleep at naptime when it was my turn to sing lullabies. 

I never knew my grandfathers, but I know that Chris will make an excellent Grampa.  He’s getting ready.  He brought several books home from the library the other day.  He’s on a Robert McCloskey kick and has read Blueberries for Sal, Lentil, and Journey Cake, Ho!  Our grandson will like books and stories, I know that already. By the time he is ten, Chris will have introduced him to most of the classics:  Dickens, Shakespeare, and P. G. Wodehouse.

I’m getting ready, too.  I plan on having a pretty dish to fill with nice, organic, healthy treats.  There will be cookies, too, though I won’t promise that they will be healthy.  I still have my grandma’s German prayer book here.  Someday our grandson will look through the prayer book and wonder at a grandmother’s secret language.  He can look at it through a magnifying glass if he’d like to.   He can also make mud pies in our back yard.  We have plenty of mud. 

The only thing I can’t do is look like my grandmother.  My hair isn’t all white, though the white bit is coming in nicely.  I’m not little and I’m not old.  I rarely iron my clothes at all, much less with the heavy irons that were heated on the stove.  I have several of the old kind.  One is used as a door stop and the other two are used to press my hand made books.  I don’t wear a corset either.  We’ll leave that with his grandma’s grandma.

Mostly what we plan on doing is just stepping back and watching our little family grow.  They’re off to a most wonderful beginning.

PD and the Bureaucracy: A True but Lengthy Tale by Ed Sikov

Ed originally posted this on our "Patients Like Me" group forum.  I read it there and begged Ed to let me post it here in my journal.  Ed Sikov lives in New York City and he is a real writer.  People actually ask him to write books.  He has written a number of celebrity bios, including, Dark Victory: The Life of Bette Davis, Mr. Strangelove: A biography of Peter Sellers, and On Sunset Boulevard: The Life and Times of Billy Wilder and several books on film history.  He is also a good friend. 

Thank you, Ed, for sharing this article with us. Not only is this educational for all of us who are coping with Parkinson's or other health challenges and coping with various beauracracies, you're also a master storyteller.            ~terri

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PD and the Beauracracy:  A True but Lengthy Tale              by Ed Sikov

I live in NYC, and every few years I get a notice for jury duty. I’ve been on 3 criminal cases, been empanelled for 1 civil case (but the parties settled before we got to trial), and been dismissed once or twice after not getting selected for 2 days of service. In other words, I’ve done my part, and I enjoyed doing it.

This year was different – I got my notice and was terrified. Why? Because my particular version of Parkinson’s means that while I’m “on” every morning, I’m “off” for at least an hour, maybe 2 every afternoon. I have memory problems all day. I’m just not as sharp as I once was. I had visions – based on my experience of every day since last summer - of myself falling asleep during testimony; failing to remember testimony; getting confused over testimony – in short, having what happens every day when I’m safe at home happen in public during a trial when a defendant’s freedom hangs in the balance. So I got my neuro to write a letter recommending that I be excused.

All went well at the courthouses – the person at the first one sent me to the second one, which happened to be the one with the vast steps on which Sam Waterston et al skip up and down on LAW AND ORDER. The first fellow I saw there was great – very understanding and sympathetic. He asked me what prevented me from serving, and I told him. Fine, he said. But then he went away and stayed away a long time, came back, and with a look of sorrow and embarrassment said, “My boss wants to talk to you.”

Enter the bureaucrat: we’ll call her Pearl S. Bickle, Vice-Assistant Jury Clerk, New York County. Ms. Bickle, wearing a smart knit suit the exact shade of “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter” and an ugly strand of costume pearls, sat me down and, with her face pulled so tight that her mouth stretched wide as if she was smiling, said, in an equally rigid voice, “I have a friend who has PD, and he runs a multimillion dollar corporation!” Then she just sat there grimace-grinning at me.

What was I supposed to come back with? “I’m sorry”? “How nice for him”?  “What do you want me to do – throw up?”

I said, “We all have different symptoms.”

She asked me why I couldn’t serve; I described my average day – being fine in the morning and “off” in the afternoon, with memory problems confirmed by a neuropsych exam. Though she had never heard of a neuropsych exam, she was clearly certain that PD had no symptoms other than tremors. I started feeling frustrated, angry, and insulted. She then launched into a literary critique of my neuro’s letter. It was wrong, vague, incomplete, poorly written, and didn’t serve her purposes at all. No, siree – not at all. Didn’t he understand anything?

I thought – “Yeah, lady – he’s working his ass off in the hospital and seeing patients every afternoon in his office while you run your pathetic little fiefdom as Pearl S. Bickle, Vice-Assistant Jury Clerk, New York County. The idea that a brilliant physician educated at the University of Bologna should be condemned by this civil servant hack was ludicrous but it was happening and I was in the middle of it struggling not to lose my temper in a courthouse, get arrested, and thrown in NY's infamous Tombs. Still, I imagined setting fire to all the papers on her desk, just to see the look on her face.

She then began firing off instructions about improving the letter to her satisfaction in a voice so soft and rapid that I had to ask her to repeat herself three times. Then I asked her to please write down what  she wanted.

Suddenly Pearl S. Bickle found her voice: “CAN’T YOU REMEMBER IT?”

“No,” I said – “That’s the problem.”

“BUT YOU’RE A WRITER!”

“Yes,” I said – “That’s another problem.”

“You’ve got to keep busy,” she advised. Oh, thank you, I thought – I hadn’t considered that option. Wow! A new idea!

After ten minutes more of this irritating and, to my mind degrading treatment, I finally convinced her that my symptoms were real. To which she responded, “What if you get better?”

In a voice trembling with rage, I informed her that PD was a degenerative illness, an the likelihood was that I would either stay the same or get worse. She simply did not believe me.

I asked her if she thought it would be fair to all concerned if I were to fall asleep in the jury box during a trial. She finally acknowledged that, well, no -  it wouldn’t be a good idea, and she decided that if I got my neuro to write her an acceptable letter the way he should have done the first time, one that said the following things – 1) blah 2) blah blah 3) blah blah blah – she would reluctantly consent to remove me from the jury rolls.

As she escorted me to the door, she blew me away by mentioning, “Actually, my friend with the Parkinson’s and the multimillion dollar corporation has a staff of hundreds to do his work for him.”

The gall. The stupidity. The pointlessness. The bureaucracy!

Two Percent Moments

Our yoga teacher, Paul, asked us what we do when we suddenly get angry about having Parkinson’s disease.  I had to think about this for awhile.  When I have gotten angry about my health challenges, I’ve been known to do some unusual things.  I doubt that wood carving and bungee jumping are on everyone’s top ten lists of “ways to cope”. 

Those activities are not available to me on a moment’s notice, and it’s probably a good thing.  I’m not at all sorry that I did the bungee jump. It was a thrilling ride.  It’s not, however, something I would do more than once a year. 

Wood carving is more of a calming activity for me, one where I can work slowly and quietly; unless of course, my dystonia kicks in.  If my dystonia starts up and my arms start to thrash about, wood carving becomes a thrill for all those around me.  My favorite place to carve is in our woodworking room at school.  It’s almost always crowded in there, filled with students working on their own projects.  Granted, 7^th grade boys might enjoy the thrill of dodging carving tools and watching their former kindergarten teacher doing a wild dance around the table, but I don’t think the insurance agent who provides the school liability insurance would find it entertaining.

How, then, do I cope with those moments?  My usual response is to DO something…anything that will help me to realize that I still can do something!  This is when I generally overdo it.  I bake cookies, clean, organize a closet, start a sewing project, volunteer for something at school, chop down a tree, do laundry, write a book, and decide I should go back to college and finish earning my degree.  Coping in this way usually earns me a day or two in bed.

Lately, I’ve found another way to deal with those times when I start to feel down.  I can take a few good deep breaths (thanks to yoga), stretch a little, relax, and tell myself that this is just a two percent moment.  What is a two percent moment?  It is a reminder to me that ninety-eight percent of the time I do well.  I am happy with my life and I wouldn’t change anything.  I have an amazing husband who loves me and supports me, wonderful kids who alternately make me proud and drive me crazy, and I couldn’t ask for better friends.  This is my reminder that the discouraging times don’t come about that often.  They are only a small fraction of my life – two percent.

Even when those discouraging times happen more than two percent of the time, I will still call them two percent moments.  It’s a place to put them and perhaps even a reminder that they are not in charge of my life.  I can file them away in the proper file folder and put them in their proper place.  

Of course, this is easier said than done.  When a two percent moment hits, something funny happens.  There are strange feelings that creep up and decide to hijack your brain, shoving it roughly into some corner and then hanging up that “out to lunch” sign.  It takes a lot of discipline to be able to reach in to myself and take a look at those feelings and prevent them from taking over.  It’s not that I want to ignore the feelings, either.  They are part of who I am and when I ignore them, they rebel and start shoving my brain around.  Getting to know those feelings and accepting them diminishes their power over me.  Allowing myself to experience those feelings, whatever they may be, is incredibly freeing.

Another help is to look at what triggered that particular moment of discouragement.  Chances are it was something small.  An insensitive remark from someone or an obstacle in my path that causes me to trip can easily be discouraging.  After arthritis started in my hands, just the attempt to open a can with a can opener could trigger a two percent moment. 

The more I practice my yoga, the more I have the discipline to understand my feelings and cope with them.  I am also fortunate to have a good friend whom I call my Buddha friend.  As he has short term memory challenges, he has the gift of being totally and completely present in the moment.  When he is listening to you, he listens with his whole self.  Spending time with this friend is a meditation in itself; so much so, that when I described this friendship to one of my wholistic medical practitioners, she smiled and wasn’t surprised when I said that there is no other time when I have fewer symptoms than when I am visiting with him.   

That’s another thing.  Two percent moments can work the other way, too.  My husband comes up behind me and puts his arms around me or one of my former students stops by the school to visit me or a friend smiles and says something kind.  Reading a poem that my daughter wrote will do it, as will playing Scrabble with my son.  All of a sudden, I feel wonderful!  Life doesn’t get better than this!

The challenge for me is to accept all of these moments without trying to either push them away or hold on to them too tightly.  Feel and let go…. 

I’m getting better at this, at least two percent of the time.

Parkinson's Yoga

In writing about my yoga class, I have been remiss on one thing.  I'm sure that there are many people out there who would be interested in the work of Paul and Carolyn Zeiger.  It goes way beyond just the yoga classes that they teach. 

The yoga class has been such a gift to us.  Paul and Carolyn help us to do just a little more than we think we can, however, their first concern is always safety.  We not only learn the poses, we also learn how to get up from the floor safely and how to think consciously about how we move.  When they encourage me to do just a little more, I'm always reminded of how much I love to be comfortable.  As much as I am "built for comfort", I also realize that if I don't take this seriously and don't start paying attention to how I move, I will lose a lot of that movement to my Parkinson's.  That's motivating. 

What's really motivating is watching Paul move.  He's had Parkinson's a lot longer than I have and he moves better than I do.  As I said, they do much more than just teach yoga.  They help teach us how to live.

Here is their link:  www.parkinsonsyoga.org

Thank you Paul and Carolyn for everything!

terri

Out to Lunch

My brain went on holiday today.  It actually started yesterday when I mailed two packages of books to schools in Canada.  I packed them well and made sure to include the invoice.  I made it to the Post Office just in time, filled out the proper paperwork and sent them on their way. When I came home, Chris looked at me and asked if I had included our address on the invoice so they would know where to send the check. 

Of course I didn’t. 

Probably just a minor slip, I thought to myself.  Today started well.  We went to our yoga class and I know my brain came along because it was there when I needed it.  Our yoga teachers, Paul and Carolyn Zeiger, push us to do as much as we can…and then they push just a wee bit more.  I’m fairly flexible so it works okay, most of the time.  Once in the proper pose, we remain there for a minute or so, or until our muscles threaten to spontaneously combust.

Today we were doing the “CAT/COW” pose, where we get down on all fours and alternately arch our back like a cat and then do the opposite, looking like an old swayed back cow.  Carolyn felt sure I could arch my back even further than what I was doing.  It didn’t matter that my body was telling me it was impossible.  If Carolyn decided I could go further, I was going further.  I arched my back higher than ever.  Carolyn was impressed.

My bladder was not.  Fortunately for me, my brain did engage and I could hear it yelling frantically, “KEGELS!  DO YOUR KEGELS!”  Kegel exercises, for those of you who don’t know, meaning women who haven’t had children yet and men who haven’t lived with women who have had children, are exercises where one tightens up everything between the waist and the knees in a desperate attempt to keep the muscles in shape, the bladder where it is supposed to be, and make sure there are no bodily fluids leaking.  The kegel exercises worked.  It was a close call.  The effect of the kegels made an additional push in my arched back.  Carolyn was really impressed now!  “Hold it as long as you can,” she says. 

Believe me, that was my goal. 

Then we came to the last part of the class.  This is the part where you lie down on your mat, let everything relax, close your eyes, and try not to go to sleep.  I don’t know whether it has something to do with menopause, or with my Parkinson’s, my meds, or if it’s just me.  As soon as we reach this point and I close my eyes to relax, I get teary.  Everyone else is quiet except me.  I am sniveling.  I tried hard to find some way to prevent a full blown snivel attack.  What could I think about?  My first thoughts were disastrous.  Do not try to stop the tears by thinking about a friend who is dying.  It doesn’t work. 

I whirled through about a dozen more possibilities before I finally settled on mentally sewing books.  This did it.  Bookbinding is a wonderful meditative activity.  It doesn’t require academic skills and it doesn’t even require creativity.  It is mechanical and repetitive.  The sniveling stopped.

After class was over, I said goodbye to Chris, and left for the bookbinding class that I am teaching at our high school.  What better after yoga then to teach this wonderful meditative work?  And how incredibly meditative can it be with a classroom filled with high school seniors, all needing help at once?  I’m afraid the beneficial effects of the yoga had some competition. 

I arrived at the school, just in time for class to start.  Unpacking my box of supplies, I realized I had left several key tools at home.  We managed to make do.  I turned it into this lovely lesson of “this is why I try not to depend on tools”.  The students, however, know that the tools make the work much easier and they didn’t particularly appreciate my philosophizing. 

After class, my cell phone alarm went off to remind me that it was time to take my meds.  I looked through my purse to find my pill container.  It was gone.  I figured maybe I had filled it at home and then left it on our kitchen counter.  I didn’t worry though and I finished out my day with only a moderate amount of symptoms, despite missing the dose.

My son rode with us part of the way home and filled my daughter and me in on their latest baby news.  Their baby is due right around Christmas day.  The big question is, “will the baby turn over or will the baby insist on being feet first?”  We don’t have the answer to that one yet.  I dropped him off at the light rail station and we continued home. 

Once we got home, I looked for my meds on the counter.  I couldn’t find them anywhere.  I still didn’t panic and thought I’d just continue with my daily routine.  I sent Chris to the store to pick up my new prescriptions and then I worked on dinner.  I figured I could get dinner made and the dishes done.   I filled the dishwasher with the dirty dishes only to have Chris come home a few minutes later and inform me that I had put the dirty dishes in with clean dishes and now they were all mixed up. 

The brain is definitely on holiday and in the big empty space where it used to be, there's now a sign that says, "Out to lunch".   If you see my brain anywhere, please let me know.  It’s pink and spongy and is carrying a small pill container filled with dopamine pills. 

Marathon - conclusion - and another marathon

Daniel did fly through the marathon.  He completed the 26.2 mile run in just 3 hours and 2 minutes.  That’s an average of less than 7 minutes per mile.  I watched from home in Colorado, tracking him on the route map all the way.  I also tried to find the quiet time to just simply think about Daniel and the race.  What must it feel like to run that far? 

I didn’t have any amazing psychic revelations, unless you count the sudden realization that 14,000 people starting in each wave equaled 28,000 elbows.  I don’t get along well in crowds with lots of elbows.  When I get jostled a bit, I tend to start walking sideways…or backwards, depending on how my body is cooperating at any one moment.  Shoulders are just as bad.  I wouldn’t have had to worry about getting tangled up with anyone else’s feet.  Mine tend to stay on the ground. 

I have learned a lot, just by reading Daniel’s blog and watching the runners.  Running long distances takes training.  It’s not just about being fast, either.  It’s about endurance and how to pace yourself so you can go farther without completely exhausting yourself.  I understand that well.  With Parkinson’s, every day is about pacing myself so I can go farther without getting exhausted.  

I’m in another marathon now and I need to step back for a moment and remember the pacing bit.  Tomorrow I start teaching again.  I will have one class a day, for four weeks, to teach bookbinding.  I know the students.  They are our high school seniors and they are a hard working and artistic group.  In addition to this class, I am preparing to have a vendor’s table at our yearly Christmas fair.  As this is the only venue where I sell any of my crafts, I am working hard.  I have my goals posted on my kitchen cabinet and I am slowly but surely making my way through the list. 

These two tasks work well together.  I can finish my own books as I teach the students, using my work as the examples for each step.  I will have some free time after my class and that will allow me to spend some time finishing sewing projects or putting together greeting cards.  There are three weeks to go before the fair.  I should be ready, no problem!

Of course there is another project.  Our son, Patrick, has submitted his book to the printers and is waiting for the proof copy to arrive.  After the book passes Patrick’s inspection and we deem that it is ready to be sold, we will be working together to create an advertisement mailing to go out to schools around the country.  That will have to be done before the first of December. 

Okay, I think we’ve got it under control.  The bookbinding class materials are ready.  I’m prepared to teach.  The Christmas fair crafts are getting done, albeit slowly.  We’ve got most of our mailing list compiled so that it shouldn’t be difficult to send out the advertisement. I’m organized. 

I’d like to think I am, anyway.  There is one more important project: we have a grandbaby due in FIVE WEEKS!  Okay, settle down, breathe a little.  I’ve been so scattered over the last week that I have piles of work everywhere in the house.  We couldn’t even eat at the dining room table last night because it was filled with sewing projects.  I go from one to another, flitting back and forth and getting very little done.  I’m getting tired.  It’s time to pace myself again.  Daniel, you can be MY race pacer, this time.

I have to remind myself that I don’t have to make ALL of the baby’s diapers and clothes.  The baby doesn’t need to have everything before he or she is born, either.  I’ve already knit a blanket and an outfit, and made a doll.  My son and daughter-in-law were showered by their friends, family, and church community today.  They have a good start. 

I’d better pace myself.  I want to have enough energy to hold my grandbaby.

Training – Day Four

Dear Daniel,

I’ve learned a lot this week as I’ve prepared to be your race pacer for tomorrow’s marathon.  This is an important task that I’ve been asked to do.  I didn’t want to go into this lightly. 

Tomorrow I will be with you in spirit.  What does that mean?  How will I do that?  One of my favorite book series has always been the “Wrinkle in Time” series by Madeline L’Engle.  She writes about a special way of connecting with another person that transcends space and time.  It’s called kything.  The word “kything” comes from the Scottish word “kythe”, which means “to make visible”.  Madeline L’Engle uses this word to describe a spiritual connection with another person that is not dependent on words or sight or touch.  In some cases, a person almost becomes one with the other person, seeing what they see, feeling what they feel. 

Can this be done?  There are people who say it is possible.  There has even been a book written about this subject by Louis M. Savary and Patricia H. Berne, called Kything: The Art of Spiritual Presence.  It is considered a handbook on how to kythe.   I have had experiences that have come close to what is described as kything.  I have never been able to explain them nor would I want to.  All I can do is describe what happened at the time.  I do know what it is like, for a very short time, to experience what another person is experiencing.  Whether I have a particularly vivid imagination or whether this is a true spiritual connection, I cannot judge.  I do know that it’s incredibly powerful when it happens.

What will I do tomorrow?   For you, Daniel, I will connect to the broadcast of the race then I will try to be still and connect with you.  I don’t know what will happen.

I wish you strength and lightness of heart!  Tomorrow we’ll fly!

Terri

Training – Day Three: A day of rest

Well, theoretically it was my day of rest between workouts.  I did get in a couple of short sprints, however.  The first one was getting up and taking our daughter to school, in the snow.  It wasn’t a major workout, just a short sprint.  The next one was the sprint over to check on my parents.  Once I arrived there, my pace slowed down considerably.  I think I was matching their pace pretty well.  It was also unbearably hot in their house, especially as I had dressed in several layers of clothing, mostly wool, as would any good Waldorf kindergarten teacher.  I got very hot and very sleepy. 

Once I was home, the need for rest had to be taken seriously.  I took a nap then later sat down to look at some of the details and history of the NYC Marathon.  I’m afraid I didn’t get very far.  I got sidetracked while I looked at the website belonging to Daniel’s wife, Melissa Clark.  If this name sounds familiar to you, I’m not surprised.  She is an excellent cook and writer and she puts these talents to use writing articles about food for publications such as The New York Times, Bon Appétit, Travel and Leisure, Forbes.com, Real Simple, and many others.  She’s written cookbooks and there are even YouTube videos featuring Melissa!  I was technically resting, but I was getting hungrier and hungrier.  We ended up going out to dinner to Patsy’s Inn, a lovely, fun, and funky Italian restaurant in Denver. 

As this is my rest day, I will not write much.  Tomorrow, I think a few more short sprints will be in order, just enough to make sure I’m in proper shape for Sunday. 

Thank you to everyone who has contributed to Daniel’s efforts so far!  And thank you to Daniel for running and to Melissa and Dahlia for always cheering him on. 

G’night!