Rounding Third and Heading for Home!

Gosh, my posts have dwindled to one a month and this one's overdue.

On the breaking-news front:

• I am in the midst of my 11th chemo treatment. After this, only one more to go, hence the headline.

•  Just returned last night from a 9-day trip to my old stomping grounds, Ohio. (Guess the headline could apply to this too.) It was great to see my sister, who lives there, and my brother who flew up from Atlanta. We managed to work in visits with a couple remaining aunts and a cousin whose sense of humor and sarcasm kept us in stitches. Makes me wish I lived closer to "family." Of course, the 90+ percent humidity toward the end of the trip did dampen that urge.

• Got to see three of Nate's baseball games. He has played great at first and outfield this summer. His Uncle Ray is still bragging about a throw Nate made from deep left-field to home plate for an out. (Most such throws are to a "cut off" man, usually the third baseman or the shortstop, but Nate's got a good throwing arm so he threw a bullet directly to the catcher.) Now he's getting his hitting in order. Wood bats are different. He's been blogging about his summer baseball experience. You can catch up with him at http://natebeingnate.blogspot.com/.

• Amanda flew into Ohio a few days after I did and is still there, enjoying (NOT) the humidity. The bad news is we were only able to take Amanda and Nate's grandma to two games before the assisted living nurses said the humidity wasn't good for her.

Shortly before my visit, one of my ex-sisters-in-law called to say I was welcome to stay at her house while attending Nathan's games. Sharon is a cancer survivor and knows the benefit of having family around during times like this. Sharon and Ray have been hosting Nathan for the last three weeks and have actually enjoyed having him and have offered to keep him through the rest of the season. I think Ray — father of three wonderful daughters and grandpa to two wonderful granddaughters — is enjoying having the testosterone level evened out a bit in his household. Anyway, it was sweet for me (and Amanda) to be included in their household for a few days. And it's nice to know my second family — which I've been a part of for nearly 25 years — isn't divorcing me, too.

I try to listen to all of the Ironmen games, which are broadcast on the Internet. To listen, go to http://www.lcironmenbaseball.com/ and click on "Listen Live" on the right hand side of the page. (Warning: the broadcast goes silent between innings and during pitching changes, so if you don't hear anything, give it a minute or two.) Seeing a few games gave me a chance to connect names to actual players and also to meet a few parents of players. About half of the Ironmen team hails from Ohio and the rest are scattered around the country. Amanda and I were walking out when one set of parents volunteered that the team loves Nate. "He's so positive, so upbeat, so involved with the team. Even when he's not in the lineup, he's supportive of his teammates." Makes a parent proud!

Amanda and I had lunch with my childhood friend Billie and her younger daughter. Billie is one of two school friends with whom I've maintained contact over the years. As lunch was winding down and the girls were taking a powder room break, Billie and I were congratulating each other on having raised such smart, beautiful, level-headed daughters. Guess we did all right! Makes a parent proud!

Who knew that all those years of slaving over jobs, houses, relationships, and life's ups and downs, the one thing that truly matters is your children. When they're good, life is good.

Life is good!

Long time, no blog

Boxes are still running my life. You'd think that four-plus weeks after the move, I'd be unpacked and settled in. Hasn't happened yet. I guess I've got a good excuse. In my usual perfect timing, I came down with a sinus infection five days before the move. Antibiotics knocked it back pretty quickly, but not before the infection wiped me out. That and yet-another round of chemo — this one on the heels of the move — knocked me back into last year. Usually, the Tuesday to Thursday chemo leaves me fatigued through Saturday. This time the whole weekend came and went and I did squat. Just opening a box took enough out of me that I'd either sit for a while or, more likely, take a nap. Even Sparky got tired of napping!

I did finally start to feel better by the following weekend, but then it was time to gear up for another round of chemo. The good news is I now have eight rounds under my belt and only four to go. Boxes will be in my life as long as they need to be.

Things chemo, moving and divorce have taught me:

We lived a very peaceful life in Dove Canyon for nearly 15 years. Maybe too peaceful. It was the kind of neighborhood where you pulled your car into your garage, closed the door and cocooned in your house or back yard, rarely to be seen. If I hadn't been an avid (if sporadic) gardener, I doubt I'd see a neighbor for days. So I've enjoyed rediscovering the sounds of life that occur in my rental townhome. Kids actually play outside. Sirens whiz down Lake Forest Parkway. Even the occasional rumble of my neighbor's home theater sound system doesn't bother me. An added bonus: An ice cream truck cruises the neighborhood like clockwork at 5 p.m. each day. I'd forgotten there were such things. (So far, I've resisted temptation.)

I am ready for chemo to be done. My platelet count is low, so every little bump becomes a major bruise. I know I should be thankful that chemo has gone as smoothly as it has. Aside from the fatigue during chemo weeks, my other big side effect has been thinning hair. How bad is it? Let's just say I keep a lint roller by my bed so I can swipe clean my pillow each morning. I know I should be thankful that I still have hair — however sparse — all over my head. At least it's not like breast cancer chemo which leaves most women temporarily bald. However, it drives me a little crazy that Nate has taken to shaving his head. If he doesn't want that hair, I'd take it! The good news: It takes about a third of the time to blow dry my hair these days.

The other good thing chemo has done is kill my appetite. During one of my early chemo sessions, I panicked when I overheard a woman complaining that she'd gained 10 pounds during chemo. Since I'd dropped 10 pounds during the "divorce" year, and lost 5 more after my colon surgery, I wasn't eager to think about packing the pounds back on. Fortunately, I've lost 20 more. Chemo makes food taste differently — and not in a good way. Things taste bland or metallic; chewing is exhausting; swallowing an effort. Even when something sounds good, halfway through the meal it loses its appeal. Consequently, I don't each much during the chemo weeks. I think my stomach has shrunk, so that even on off-chemo weeks, I fill up pretty quickly. Can't decide if this has been the easiest or hardest 35 pounds I've ever lost! Makes me laugh: My good friend Shari has taken to calling me The Incredible Shrinking Woman.

I worried that the move would make the divorce more "real," and thought that I might sink into a major funk. However, it's been rather peaceful not having to tap dance around a soon-to-be-ex. I think I did my grieving while we were still living under the same roof. I'm still not happy to be divorcing, but I do know I will survive. A favorite quote: I can be changed by what happens to me. I refuse to be reduced by it. —Maya Angelou

Back to my boxes.

Moving on, literally and figuratively

My house looks like it's been ransacked, but packing does that to you. The sale of our house of nearly 14 years is proceeding smoothly with closing scheduled for May 20. (We'll have 3 days after that to vacate the premises.) Amanda and I spent lots of time looking at rental options on realtor.com and, with the help of my Realtor friend Grace, we settled on a townhouse in Lake Forest, about 20 minutes from here. Now that we have a new place lined up, everything else seems so much more real.

The owner has been nice enough to allow us patio access before the lease even starts, so we've made several trips over with my multitude of potted plants, plant stands and assorted tables and chairs. After decades of gardening in yards where the work is never done, I'm looking forward to "container" gardening where I might actually get everything looking good and be able to relax and enjoy the outdoor space without thinking: "There's another flower bed that needs weeding or planting."

Nathan's home for three weeks, so I have some muscle at my disposal. Typical Nathan, he called me Thursday afternoon on his way to the airport in Longview, Texas. He was 15 minutes away for a flight that was leaving in 20 minutes. Arrrrrgh. Actually, the Longview airport is so small that he had a slight chance of still making the flight. But, alas, the doors to the plane were closed so he had to bunk in with a friend and fly out Friday. It's good to have him home and if he ever stands still long enough, I want to measure his height. I swear he's taller than 6-foot-3.

Nathan was one of my concerns in rental house hunting. He'll hardly be in California for the coming year (summer in Ohio playing in a wood-bat league and then his final year of college in Texas). Amanda and I could have made due with a two-bedroom, but I wanted him to have "a space to call home." The townhouse has four bedrooms (tiny, tiny, tiny), so even Sparky gets a room!

Mark is "too busy" to find a place, so he's opting to live in a hotel for the coming year. With rents so high in California and his company's corporate discount at this hotel, it makes sense financially. Personally, I think it's strange, but I keep reminding myself I don't (pick your verb) get to / have to / need to manage his life anymore.

Chemo looms tomorrow — my sixth of 12 treatments — so the rest of the week will be wiped out. Hopefully by the weekend when the lease starts, I'll rally and be able to make a few trips over with lamps, pictures and other assorted stuff that's too hard to pack up for movers to handle. I've got some friends lined up to make some car trips and once my "stuff" starts to occupy my new space, a new page will be turned in my life.

One wrinkle: A few weeks ago, I rolled over to sleep on my stomach and felt a lumpy thing in my abdomen. Lumpy things are scary when you already have cancer. I mentioned it to my oncologist, who felt it and decided to order an ultrasound. (The ultrasound experience may be a blog entry of its own titled: "What's wrong with medicine today.") Anyway, best thinking is it's a seroma, which is "a pocket of clear serous fluid that sometimes develops in the body after surgery. When small blood vessels are ruptured, blood plasma can seep out; inflammation caused by dying injured cells also contributes to the fluid." (Thank you, Wikipedia.) This apparently has been developing since my January colon resection surgery. In the short term, it means a trip to my surgeon, Dr. Shaver, for a look-see on Thursday. In the long term, it could mean needle aspiration of the fluid or surgery to place a drain in my gut. Neither one sounds like fun, but at least no one is thinking it's a new tumor. Just one more hurdle on my road back to health.

Chemo: 1 down, 25 to go; er, make that 1 down, 12 to go; oops, 1 down, 11 to go!

I always have been math challenged. Somehow, when they said six month's of chemo, I divided the 52 weeks in a year in half, and figured I had 26 treatments. Amanda was driving me home after my first treatment and I was filling in a friend via phone: "So, I've got 1 down and 25 more to go." Amanda said: "WHAT?" and pointed out the fallacy in my calculations. I had totally overlooked the fact that my treatments would be every other week, thereby cutting 26 in half. What a relief! I'd gone from mentally preparing for 26 treatments and, in the blink of an eye, it had been cut to 13! Two days later, when I related that story to my chemo nurse Phyllis as she disconnected me from my pump, she gave me even more good news. "Actually, six months of chemo is only 12 sessions. You've just got 11 left!"

So, I've survived my first chemo experience. It began with nurses complaining about my chemo port placement. Seems instead of surgically placing it in a "pocket" with the incision above the device, mine had been placed so that the tender five-day old incision ran directly over the membrane nurses need to access to get the poison flowing. There was much hemming and hawing as two nurses tried to determine exactly where to stick the needle. (Have I mentioned how much I love getting stuck with needles?) In fact, when the port was first described to me, I envisioned it as more of an IV hookup that permanently hung outside my body for easy, needle-poke free access. I think I was confusing a chemo port with a PICC Line.

Anyway, lucky for me, it was a one-stick wonder and the only remaining concern seemed to be positioning me to maximize the flow. Amanda was my chemo buddy and kept me company for the nearly four-hour process. There were at least a dozen chemo patients in the room; some younger, some older; some with buddies, some alone; some sleeping, some chatting. Not everyone's chemo is the same length, so some came and went while I was there; others were there when I arrived and still there when I left. (Note to self: Pick a better chair next time. My recliner partially blocked the doorway to the nurses station so I was constantly pulling up my legs trying to get out of the way of passing nurses.)

I expected some "momentous occasion" feelings, but none came so I passed the time reading magazines, snoozing, people-watching, eaves-dropping and chatting with Amanda. The side effects kicked in later that day. They warned me about hyper sensitivity to cold and that happened with my first drink of water. The sensation was akin to dipping your foot in a too-cold pool. Only it was happening inside my mouth and throat. It wasn't painful, like a ice-cream brain freeze, just jarring. The next side effect happened at home when I carried a Diet Coke in from the garage fridge to my dresser. Halfway there, it felt like pins and needles were shooting into my finger tips. Sort of like accidentally shocking yourself. Or like having a hand or foot fall asleep.  Thankfully, the sensation stopped as soon as I put the can down.

They start you off with anti-nausea medication — and it worked for me. The in-office portion of the chemo cocktail took four hours. Then they hooked me up to a pump that would give me an hourly dose of one of the drugs over the next two days. I was invisioning a tiny little pump, but this thing was like a first-generation cell phone. Fortunately, it came in a case that I could carry over the shoulder, in a purse or wear as a fanny pack. At night, it rested on the pillow next to me — softly whirring once an hour. I had to remember to carry it with me for middle-of-the-night pit stops. Only once did I forget and start waltzing into the bathroom, only to be yanked back by my tubing. No harm done.

On Thursday, I went to be disconnected from my pump. I told Phyllis about a dull-but-definite headache I'd had for 30 or so hours post-chemo. No amount of Tylenol or Motrin knocked it back. "That's the steroids," she said. STEROIDS???? (There goes my chance of making it into the Baseball Hall of Fame.) Turns out steroids are part of the anti-nausea medication included in the chemo cocktail. Next time, they'll cut the steroids in half and I'll get to figure out whether I'd rather be more queasy or take my chances with the headache.

Thursday afternoon, the fatigue side-effect kicked in with a vengeance; I could have slept 24-7. By Saturday, I was perking back up.

My "week off" has been good (aside from a lingering side effect that has made Imodium my new best friend). I've heard conflicting reports: One, that chemo gets worse as it goes along; two, that your first experience is pretty typical of how you'll tolerate it. Personally, I'm hoping for the latter.

Thanks to all of you who've inquired how it's going. Didn't mean to keep you in the dark for so long, but I've spent the better part of my "week off" rounding up tax papers. To paraphrase Ben Franklin: "Nothing is certain except chemo and taxes."

I was supposed to be in England!

I was planning to spend late February visiting Amanda in England, from where we would launch a side trip to Paris. Instead I am sitting in a recliner in a dimly lighted room waiting while radioactive material meanders through my veins in preparation for a PET/CT scan. This scan is supposed to pinpoint any remaining cancer hotspots so they can be monitored for changes down the road. (Details: http://www.wcrc.com/pet_ct.shtml.)

With England out of the picture, at least for now, cancer treatment is full -speed ahead: The Feb. 18 PET/CT scan, surgery to get a chemo port put in on Feb. 24 and chemo starting March 1.

On Jan. 28, I met my oncologist, Dr. George Miranda. (When you can use the phrase "my oncologist," it's official, you have cancer.) He spent an hour explaining what my future would hold: Various tests, six months of chemo,  possible and likely side effects, procedure, prognosis and everything in between. I'd arrived for my visit with a long list of questions. When Dr. Miranda was done talking, he'd covered them all without my having to ask. Never once did he glance at his watch. I took an immediate liking to him.


My treatment will involve a 3-4 hour office visit where chemo will be dispensed. I will go home with a pump that continues circulating chemo in my system for 48 hours. The procedure will repeat every two weeks. According to Dr. Miranda, I'm likely to feel fatigued during the week of the actual chemo, but should bounce back the next week.

I met Phyllis, the chemo assistant. She showed me the chemo room — a dozen or so recliners, all occupied, with people undergoing treatment. Some were reading, some knitting, some eating, some sleeping. Some had a friend or family member keeping them company. All had blankets.

The good news: chemotherapy for colon cancer is well tolerated compared to the chemo for other cancers. I shouldn't lose my hair, though it may thin. The dreaded nausea is headed off at the pass by anti-nausea medication that is given with the chemo. My body will likely become hyper-sensitive to cold: keep gloves handy for reaching into the freezer, skip ice in beverages, wear slippers on tile floors. Food may have a metallic taste. I remember having that reaction to food while on some heavy-duty antibiotics while hospitalized some years back. It was a total appetite killer. (This could be a positive!)

In the past 5-10 years, a new drug has been added to the colon-cancer chemo cocktail. The chemo is preventative, rather than "treatment." The expectation is that surgery got all of the cancer. But typically, patients like me with Stage 3B colon cancer have a 40 percent rate of recurrence if they skip any post-surgical treatment. Chemo cuts the recurrence rate in half. I'm willing to give up six months of my immediate future for an improved chance at a long-term future.

Back to the PET/CT scan: Once my radio active material was well-disbursed, the actual scan was a piece of cake. I slipped into a hospital gown and lay down on the bed that would slide through the scanner. The scan would take 16 minutes (who decides this?). I felt like a hot dog in a bun. (What is it with the food metaphors? Could be the fasting I have to do before these procedures.) The scan went by in a jumble of whirring, sliding, lights and a disembodied voice: "Beginning now," "Don't move," "One more minute."

Two hours out of my life and another step down the road in cancer treatment. Europe will be there when I'm ready.

Opening Day here I come!

BC (before cancer) I was planning to spend lots of time in Longview, Texas, watching Nate, 20, play for the LeTourneau University Yellow Jackets. He'd had a magical season in 2010, but I'd seen very few games. For 2011, I'd planned to see alot more.

AC, and knowing that chemo was looming, I jumped at the chance to travel to Longview for the Jackets opening weekend, Feb. 11-12. Amanda and I lucked out with some decent airfares right into Longview, eliminating the need to rent a car in Dallas and make the 2+-hour haul back and forth to East Texas.

Our first day there, we awoke to freezing sleet and weather that didn't look promising for baseball. Fortunately, each day after warmed up a few degrees and by Friday's first pitch, it was nearing 50. Not to brag, but Nathan had an amazing opening day. (Details for the sports fans: http://www.letuathletics.com/sports/bsb/2010-11/releases/2011021134i4w6.) He had the team's first homer of the season (That's my boy!). It was puzzling to see him playing left field this year when he owned first base last year, but the intricacies of coaching baseball are beyond me.

We got to see a doubleheader on Friday and another on Saturday and Nate ended the four games with a batting average over .500. Not too shabby. But I felt an overwhelming sadness at the end of Saturday's games when I realized I may have seen my only games of his season.

The night before we left, Nate shared some more good baseball news: He's been offered a position to play this summer for the Lorain County (OH) Ironmen, based in his dad's hometown. It's a wood bat league, which is what baseball scouts like to see potential players wield. Maybe I'll be breezing through chemo and able to travel to Ohio this summer for a game or two during an off-chemo week.

Whether I'm in the stands or following the games online, I hope Nate knows I'm in his cheering section.

Life Goes On ...

Cancer diagnoses were for other people. I never gave a thought to how I would react to such a diagnosis. If I had, I would have guessed my world would grind to a halt and life would center on cancer.

But it doesn't.

Funny, but on the scariest day of my life, I managed to work in a great breakfast, a nap (one of my chief coping methods), a trip to my primary care physician and an urgent trip to the vet for my on-again, off-again blind dog. (Blind again!)

Referrals for a CAT Scan and surgeon's visit came through the next morning, as promised. Appointments were easy to schedule and the race was on. Cancer seemed to be a blip on the radar that periodically flashed into focus and drifted off again.

CAT Scan Dec. 2: The case of the disappearing veins
Prep for a CAT Scan would have been distasteful if I hadn't just prepped for a colonoscopy. CAT Scan prep, by comparison, was a frozen daiquiri. Finding a vein was another story. For the colonoscopy, it took two nurses and three sticks to start an IV. I thought that was bad. The CAT Scan folks required three people — including one who seemed near tears over my plight — lots of vein "thumping," hot compresses and five sticks. There were so many holes in me, I'm surprised the radioactive gunk I had to drink didn't leak out all over the scan bed.

Surgeon Meet & Greet Dec. 3
When I met with Dr. Shaver, I wanted this cancer out of me so I could move forward with my Christmas visit to Ohio. Could he could squeeze me in next week so I could take my scheduled Dec. 14 flight to Cleveland? The medical gods were having another chuckle at my expense. If I wanted surgery next week, Dr. Shaver — already overbooked — would make it happen. But ... I wouldn't be flying anywhere for three weeks due to the risk of blood clots. Plan B, at his suggestion, was to take my planned holiday trip and schedule surgery for the new year. "A few weeks will not make any difference in your outcome," he advised. Another surgeon concurred. Furthermore, she actually had the CAT Scan results and said it looked to her like it would be a "surgical cure" (no further treatment needed). Reassured, I put cancer on the back burner and planned to enjoy the holidays.

How to tell the family
Mark and I had been humming along toward finalizing our divorce. How does cancer fit into that picture? Somehow, I couldn't or wouldn't call to tell him. Finally, hours later, he texted me and said   since he hadn't heard anything about the colonoscopy, he assumed everything went OK. So I gave him the info and he immediately came home. It was strange, awkward, comforting. Pick your adjective.

Next up: Amanda, who'd been living outside London for four months now and was eagerly looking forward to three weeks stateside for the holidays. I'd get to burst her bubble. Thank heavens for Skype. I told her before the surgeon's visit. Both of us staved off the waterworks, and I promised to Skype again after the doctor's appointment. In the interim, reality set in for her: I was sick and she was 5000 miles away; neither of us was in a good place.

Nathan had a week's worth of finals looming in Texas. I hated "withholding" news, but "Surprise, I have cancer!" didn't seem conducive to studying. It was news that could wait to be delivered with hugs.

My sister, my rock of Gibraltar during the divorce process, was stunned with the news. We shared a few choice words — the kinds mothers would prefer to think you didn't know, much less use! — about the latest bad twist in my life.

My brother and sister-in-law would be visiting for a week at the tail end of a Panama Canal cruise. BC — before cancer — I was planning to take them to Vegas for a couple days, maybe up to LA. Instead, I got to tell them the kid sister had cancer.


Ohio, and the Midwest in general, treated us pretty well considering the season. There was snow when we go there and every few days a fresh dusting — just enough to keep it looking pretty and white. Got to see lots of family — the permanent members who are stuck with me and the soon-to-be exes (who will still be family in my book). But I cut the trip a week short when I started thinking of all that needed done before surgery.

Ironically, it felt good to be back "home" — even if the house is for sale, the spouse is bailing and surgery is on the horizon.

“It's malignant and it needs to come out.”

Those words, bluntly spoken by a gastroenterologist on the morning of Nov. 30, twisted my perspective on life. I was just coming off the worst year of my life (impending divorce — friendly, but unwanted by me). Note to self: time to redefine "worst."

I had grand plans for the future:

• Lots of time in Longview, Texas, watching Nate, 20, play first base for the LeTourneau University Yellow Jackets. He'd had a magical season the spring before, but I'd seen very few games. This year, he was out of the dorms and with a couch available in his living room, the cost of visiting dropped dramatically. And maybe I could work a little magic on his dumpy but cheap apartment.
• Couple trips to Europe to visit Amanda, 22, who was living abroad for a year as an au pair for a family just outside London. I hadn't seen her since August and was planning a February visit where we'd make a trip to Paris. Then in June, when she finished her tour of duty, we were going to spend a few weeks traveling Europe. I'd expected her to do some traveling while she was abroad; I expected her to do it was some new-found friends. I was touched that she wanted to see the world with me. Nate had been invited to play baseball for a week in Holland; maybe we could meet there.
  
• And the immediate future included a holiday trip to Cleveland to visit family and make a couple side trips (weather permitting) to DC and NY. Baby Girl was coming back to the US for three weeks.
• Sell the family home and start my new life in my own place.
  

John Lennon said: “Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans.” Who knew he could so succinctly sum up my life in a line from "Beautiful Boy" http://videosift.com/video/John-Lennon-Beautiful-Boy. (The line is toward the end for anyone who cares to listen.) The song was written about his son Sean as Lennon reflected on the child's life thus far and contemplated their future. Lennon's life, of course, was tragically cut short while he was busy making other plans. What a prophecy; I hope it won't be mine.

Back to the morning of Nov. 30. I had just undergone a "routine" colonoscopy. I was signing release papers and salivating over my first solid food in 30-plus hours. The gastroenterologist asked me to step into a side room. It was dimly lit, cramped, filled with assorted computers, desks and office materials ... there may have even been a worker at one of the computers. The doctor motioned to a monitor where in wonderous full color were assorted pictures of the inside of my colon (not my best side, but it was squeaky clean!). He pointed to a photo: "It's malignant and it needs to come out." No, "Please sit down ..." No, "Sorry to have to tell you this ..." Just, "It's malignant and it needs to come out."

I sank uninvited into a chair and scrounged around for my voice, "You can tell that from a picture?" He replied, "Well, even if it's not, it needs to come out." Go home. Rest up. Go see your primary care doctor tomorrow. Dismissed!

My poor friend Denise, whom I'd bribed into taking me to my colonoscopy appointment with the promise of breakfast afterward. (For decades, my soon-to-be ex had been my go-to guy for medical/dental anesthesia-involved "chauffeur" needs. With this appointment I'd taken a step in breaking that reliance.) Refusing a wheel chair, I walked to Denise's car and got in. My mind was racing: Tell her? Wait until I'd told "family"? The moment she spoke, my decision was made: "I have colon cancer," I blurted, redefining "family" to include new-found friends. We mourned, we cursed, we had breakfast. What we didn't have were tears.

A former neighbor and dear long-distance friend Kristy had given me a self-help book for my birthday titled: "Me Five Years From Now." At the time, the upheaval I was dealing with was divorce. With the latest wrinkle in my life, I think I'll start calling it: "Be Five Years From Now."

Stay tuned!