Mike

I think that one of the numerous benefits of being raised by a woman who was fifty-three years older than me is that I am easily able to make friends in all age groups. I was often referred to in my youth as being wise beyond my years while at the same time being unafraid to act like a total goob in front of little kids. Aside from the obvious plus of being comfortable with people of all age groups, one great thing about this is that I have been able to develop great relationships with my friends and their parents, or even their children. One of the things that seems to strengthen my relationships with my friends' kids is that I don't let them get away with, for lack of a better way of putting it, any kind of crap. If you ask my friend Marie's son Nathaniel, he will tell you that this is true. He knows I love him, but he remembers me getting mad enough at him a few times to offer to break the part of his anatomy that already contained a vertical crack. Not that I have ever raised a hand to another person in anger. He knows that, I'm sure. I am not proud of making such a base threat. But it did catch his attention, and make him realize that the other things I said to him were sincere.

Among the many relatives of friends whom I've grown to love, a very special one was my friend's son Mike. I am sure that you have already noticed the past tense in the last sentence; Mike's life came to an end this April, just two months shy of his thirtieth birthday. I liked Mike the first moment I laid eyes on him. Even though I knew he had experienced what some people might consider a checkered past, I had no fear or nervousness about meeting him. After all, I dearly love his mother and his extended family. One of the first things I noticed about Mike was his gentle, sad eyes, followed by his warm, wide smile. "I'm really going to like this kid," I thought. I was wrong. I didn't just like him, I quickly grew to love him.

My friend adopted Mike when he was three months old. Even at that young age, he seemed to know that Julie was his mother. When she picked him up, he put his little arm around her neck. He was going home with his new mom and dad. Mike had the sort of trusting nature that is not a sign of naivety, but rather a pure and gentle heart. When combined with possible genetic tendencies toward emotional health problems and addictive behavior, it left him open to being manipulated by others and sometimes getting into trouble. Since it was not in his nature to willfully manipulate or hurt others, he was unable to recognize this tendency in others. Mike loved his family fiercely, and regretted anything he had ever done to hurt his mother. He missed his father, who had passed away long before I met any of his family.

Mike also loved and was loved by all kinds of animals. Kids thought he was the greatest person ever. He loved fishing, eating at one of the local buffet restaurants, pumpkin pie, and tattoos. On the day that I met him while on a trip to see Julie, we went to a restaurant that had cafeteria-style service. I saw a piece of chocolate cream pie on his tray and I remember thinking I wished I had gotten some too. Toward the end of the meal, someone mentioned the pie. Mike's face went from joyful to sad in seconds. "What? I thought it was pumpkin pie!" I knew right then I had to have Julie take me to the supermarket to buy him a pumpkin pie before I went back home.

A few days later, I asked Julie if I could cook Sunday dinner for her kids. They had conflicting schedules, so we ended up eating two Sunday dinners, but that was okay. While I was talking to Mike, he pushed up his sleeve to scratch his shoulder and I saw a tattoo on his upper arm of Dr. Hannibal Lecter from The Silence of the Lambs. I loved it. I think that is when Mike realized that I could easily be his friend, especially when he began to tell me a story about his tattoo. When it was new, he went on his break at work and put some lotion on it. "This girl I work with was right there and she said, it rubs..." "The lotion on it's skin," I interrupted, "It does this whenever it is told." It was obvious that I scored a few points that day!

A few days after Mike's funeral, I heard from his uncle, my friend Thayne, about a memory that Julie had shared about her son. He absolutely loved a chain of buffet-style restaurants in the area, and would gladly go there if given a chance. On one occasion, Julie saw him fill and eat one plate of food, and then a second and a third. The fun of getting to eat as much of whatever he wanted had captivated him. When he got up to get a fourth plate of food, Julie asked if he was sure he wanted more to eat, and he said that he did. She let him go, probably getting a chuckle out of it. A few minutes later, he came back with a plate that contained eight peas. He put it on the table, unable to eat another bite. Will you do something for Mike, Julie and me, dear readers? If you should find yourself at a buffet or salad bar restaurant, please get a plate and place only eight peas on it, and put it on the table for Mike, and all the people you know who have left us too soon. We love you Mikey...

Building Bridges

The time during Gram's illness and decline, leading to her death, was one of the worst periods of my life. I wasn't simply in the process of losing my only parental figure. My whole existence was changing. I was losing my home, which added to the stress and sorrow I was feeling. But the worst of all was the treatment I was receiving from some of Gram's family. I know that sometimes people can lose their minds where their parents are concerned. For years, I had been the living peace of mind for Gram's children. They knew there was someone there, and that I would be their eyes and ears in case anything went wrong. If Gram fell down, she wasn't going to be lying on the floor for days because I would be there to pick her up. And if she got sick, I could nurse her back to health. I could help by getting groceries, making meals, and being a companion. Strangely enough, I think that my closeness to Gram made them feel two very different things. Yes, there was relief that someone was there, but on the other hand, I think there was some envy of the closeness of our relationship.

When Gram began a rapid decline in health at the age of ninety and a half, instead of being an asset to the family, I became a pariah. The same people I had overheard saying how old and frail she was getting suddenly blamed me for her decline. Gone was the knowledge that she was ninety and obviously entering the last stage of her life. Everything was my fault. I was openly accused of not giving her enough to eat or drink. Never mind that I made her breakfast every day before I went to work and often didn't have a meal myself. I had convinced her to use incontinence products so that she could drink whatever she wanted without worries about not getting to the bathroom on time. We did arm exercises and massage almost every night to make sure that she would have the strength to use her walker. But someone had to be blamed for her death, and especially since I wasn't born into the family, I was a natural target. There were other things I was accused of, but I don't want to get into them, since they are not ultimately what this story is about.

Gram died on Good Friday in 1997, two days after I told her that I had found an apartment. She had smiled and told me that she loved me, and then refused any further medication and oxygen. She knew that I was okay and that it was time for her to go. The day after she died, when I was still moving my things out of her house, two of Gram's grandsons showed up to change the locks on me. That spoke volumes to me, and became the moment I allowed myself to start releasing my anger and pain. There was no longer a reason to contain it, so I was willing to let the bridges burn. Aside from a call from one of Gram's granddaughters, Carole, who was horrified to find out how her father had treated me, and wanted to apologize for it, my contact with Gram's family ended. Part of my grieving process was for the entire family I had now lost, the people I began to refer to as my "former family."

Life went on, as it tends to do. I had some lovely but sporadic contact with a mother and daughter in the family, but that was pretty much the extent of it. But suddenly, in the spring of 2012, I had a friend request on Facebook from my cousin Carole. I was stunned and shaken. I had never really thought that she cared for or about me. My mind was flooded with all kinds of conflicting feelings. I was open to contact with Carole, but I didn't want my life laid bare for the rest of my former family members to see. I knew if I became her friend on social media, every one of them, especially those who bore me ill will, would have access to my life, and I didn't want my life to be an open book. What was I to do? I decided to send her a message straight from my heart, telling her how I felt about being "out there." But I was open to a reunion with her.

Seeing Carole again was amazing. In many ways, it was if we hadn't been out of touch for fifteen years. In others, it was like building a whole new relationship. I hope I have been able to make her understand that I never felt any hatred to her family. It was more of a love-but-not-like (okay, can't stand) type of feeling. We have learned so much from, and about, one another! All those years I thought she couldn't stand me, she was feeling for me so very deeply. And I was finally able to tell her that when she reached out to me immediately after Gram's death, it was a beautiful gift. I also learned that her relationship with her father was as difficult as the one I had with him. We were kept apart in so many ways when we were kids that we never had the opportunity to give one another the support we would have loved to provide. All those years wasted, not knowing that someone who loved us was firmly in our corner, ready to pick us up if we should fall.

As we go about building bridges, we continue to learn about what we both experienced, and how important we are to one another. And our love continues to grow, despite all of the blocks that were put in our paths in our youth. Carole, I look forward to many years of love for and from my cousin-by-choice. And I know we will build many beautiful bridges together.

Very Superstitious

When my sister and I, along with our friends, showed up at my cousin Mitzi's house in Hungary with no warning, she was completely unfazed. "I knew I was going to have company. I hit my left elbow earlier today. I was just waiting for someone to show up." Superstitions are funny that way. A simple bump of the elbow, and some relatives arrive unannounced from over five thousand miles away. It may have worked for Mitzi, but so far, it hasn't worked for me. I'll keep hoping, though. Or try to be more careful with my elbows.

Gram was a wealth of superstitions, mostly from her Irish/English background. Strangely, though, some of them were very Asian. For example, Gram always said that it was very unlucky to kill a cricket that found its way into the house. Almost every fall, there was a cricket in my bedroom, serenading me to sleep. I never tried to hurt one, although I did relocate a few to the back yard. Like many people in China, Gram was happy to have them inside the house because they were supposed to bring good luck. Which is why, on a chilly spring morning, I woke up because I felt something tickling my arm. Yes, there was a cricket in my bed. He had found the warmest spot in the room to settle down for the night. I got a good laugh out of it, and so did Gram. After she confirmed that I did not kill the cricket!

Another Chinese superstition that Gram had revolved around New Year's Day. Most of her practices related to the celebration were Irish in origin, but one was very Chinese. The one thing you could never do on New Year's Day was to sweep anything out the door or take out any garbage. This would be equivalent to throwing away your good luck. Her other rituals for the day were very Irish. If you were awake at midnight, you drank a sip of water before indulging in a tot of good whiskey. Also, after the last person who might be out for the evening arrived home, as the head of the household, she would hide a little bit of money outside the front door. Before anyone left the house that day, she would bring in the coins and distribute them to the members of the family. It was lucky money, not to be spent, but kept to ensure good fortune for the coming year. Although there were foods that one was supposed to eat for good luck and fortune, the most important was the first bite of food for the day. It had to be something sweet, preferably cake, to ensure sweetness in the coming year.

I did tell Gram more than once that I thought a lot of superstitions were created by mothers to encourage better behavior from their kids. Think about it for a few minutes and maybe you will agree. One of her long-standing beliefs was that shoes on a table were bad luck, as were hats on the bed. What better way to discourage your kids from laying down in their beds fully clothed? Make it unlucky! And how do you keep them from putting their big feet on the coffee table? Ditto. Make certain items unlucky, and you end the behaviors that result in those items being where you don't want them. Aha! There was another unusual bad-luck behavior that grew to make sense to me. Some people, she said, thought it was bad luck to cut a baby's fingernails with something sharp during their first year, so the mothers bit them off instead. The more babies I know, the more practical this seems. The way babies fling their hands around makes it hard to trim their nails without cutting their tiny fingers. So maybe it is unlucky to cut their nails!

There were numerous others as well. Never cut your hair or fingernails on a Sunday. Never come in one door and out the other. In other words, if you came in the front door, you needed to exit the same way. It was unlucky to take a first look at a New Moon through glass. If you were walking with someone and walked on opposite sides of a pole or column you had to say bread and butter to prevent a fight. If you gave someone a purse or wallet you had to put a coin inside to ensure that their purse would always be full of money. And if someone gave you something sharp, like a knife or scissors, you had to give them a coin to pay for it so that it wouldn't cut your friendship. Proving that much like her numerous sayings, Gram had a superstition suitable for almost every occasion! 

Memorable

Saturday of Memorial Day weekend last year was a busy and fun day. We were picked up by our friends Marie and Thayne, and headed to a small local restaurant for some delicious breakfast burritos. Then we hit the highway to spend the day in Boulder, CO for the Boulder Creek Fest.  We like to call it the Freak Fest, because it makes a little joke out of what people think about Boulder. The Creek Fest is held every Memorial Day weekend. There are all sorts of merchants and providers of services from massage to spiritual cleansing to sports gear. And tons of yummy food. There are samples of all sorts of things, and it isn't unusual to come home with a few bags and t-shirts and energy bars. The star attraction of the weekend is the running on Monday of the BolderBOULDER 10K race, along with variations in length and mobility.

We spent much of the day wandering around various booths and getting samples and pens and numerous tote bags. We sampled delicious organic foods, as well as beverages, yogurts, and energy bars. When we crossed the creek we saw happy dogs swimming and playing games of fetch with tennis balls that danced enticingly due to the whims of the water flow. Then, more food! There were foods of all nationalities, cooked over open flames. There's something about the combination of fresh air and flame-cooking that makes even the simplest foods taste like a magnificent feast. We went home, feeling what we like to call "good tired," and acted like kids, going through our haul.

We were just lolling around when Trent's cell phone rang a little after eleven p.m. What the heck? We didn't recognize the number, so he didn't answer. Then my phone rang. Knowing it must be important, I picked up the call. One of the nurse coordinators from the University of Colorado Hospital's Kidney Transplant Clinic was on the line. She told Trent that there was a kidney that was a match for him and to be ready to come in the next day. The transplant surgeon, Dr. Igal Kam, would examine the kidney the next day to see if it was viable for transplant. We called Marie and Thayne to let them know what was going on, but we were actually feeling pretty calm about it and didn't get all worked up or excited. When we got a call on Sunday afternoon saying that the kidney had bad blood vessels and was not viable for transplant, we didn't get all crushed - we seemed to know all along it wasn't going to happen.

On Monday evening, our friends took us out for dinner. They had been on a day trip and didn't feel like cooking, so we went out for Italian food. A couple of hours later, we got another telephone call from another coordinator, Susie. She said they had another possible kidney, and to wait for her call on Tuesday. We felt a little bit of anticipation this time around. When we answered the phone call on Tuesday, we heard Susie laughing. You see, several months before, I had told one of the clinic doctors, Dr. James Cooper (whom we call Coop), that I wanted a notation made on Trent's chart. If a kidney became available, I said, call us and tell us to haul @$$ down to the hospital. When Susie called, she said that she had been informed to tell us to haul @$$ down to the hospital! We checked Trent into the hospital on Tuesday night, and early Wednesday morning, May 30th, he received the beautiful gift of life from the family of a man in his thirties. Trent was pretty amusing the afternoon of his surgery due to all of the delicious drug cocktails running through his system. He doesn't remember much of what happened, but that isn't the most important thing. He has a healthy kidney with better-than-average function. The doctors often tell him that he has better kidney function than they do.

So for us, the Memorial Day Weekend is doubly special. It is a time to honor the memory of the many men and women of the military who have served this country. Now, it is also a time for us to honor the family who served so many people by sharing their beloved family member through organ donation. I have no doubt that it was an incredibly difficult time in their lives, and I hope they realize that their selfless generosity improved so many lives. It is because of them that this isn't just Memorial Day weekend, but Memorable Day weekend. Thanks to all who serve!

Is It Something About My Face?

I made a quick trip through the supermarket the other day because we needed a few things for the upcoming holiday weekend. We decided we'll probably stay close to home and let all of the vacationers have the roads for themselves, so we wanted to make sure that we had everything we needed. Trent sat in the car while I jetted through the store, snagging this and that off the store shelves. As I exited an aisle, I thought for certain I had accidentally cut off some oncoming grocery cart traffic. When I apologized to the lady I thought I had made slam on her cart-brakes, she assured me that I hadn't. Then it began. 

In just a few minutes, without any promptings or probings on my part, I had learned the story of her life, as it is at this moment. Seriously! All I did was show some good manners, and the floodgates opened.  I learned that their family's only car had broken down, and that she just hated having to ride the bus to do her grocery shopping. Her husband says that he thinks they can do just fine without a car, but that's easy for him to say, since he doesn't drive. This is also a problem because her daughter is graduating from high school and is concerned about how much stuff she has to bring home from her locker. Mom remembers that when she was in school, she had a lot of stuff to bring home, too. There was a car advertised on sale for x dollars, and no matter what her husband says, she is going to find a way for them to get it, because she just can't be worrying about having to do everything on the bus, which she really hates doing. And she needs a car to get all of her daughter's accumulated high-school stuff home. She's not going to try and carry all of that stuff on the bus.

I smiled and nodded politely and murmured sympathetic words when it seemed appropriate. I wished her luck, and a happy day, and went on my way. This stuff happens to us all of the time. A few months ago, Trent and I went out to lunch at a burgers, wings, and everything but the kitchen sink sort of place. In the short time that we were there, we learned that our server was on her last day working at the restaurant. She had graduated from high school early and was going to hit the road the very next day to a college in Kansas that was giving her a full-ride academic scholarship. She also told us her planned majors and career path. Her mom had battled breast cancer, so she was going to do cancer research and cure breast cancer for her mom.

We have had numerous brief encounters with complete strangers that would have bystanders thinking we are old friends. Most of the time, we don't poke our noses into the lives of folks we don't know. Somehow or other, a conversation starts. It may be full of laughter or tears, or, like my supermarket saga, a very one-sided affair. When it happens, we're usually rather puzzled. What is it about us that makes people open up to us and share so much of their lives with us even though we are strangers? Is it something about our faces? We haven't figured it out. But we always have the hope that our brief encounters somehow help the ones we meet. Perhaps they are on edge, or suffering some deep stress. Maybe they have no one else to talk to. Maybe the eye contact we give them validates them as a human being and shows them that they are worth a few minutes of somebody's time. I'd like to think so. Perhaps, in this hurried, harried world, taking just a moment to make contact with another person helps us to retain our humanity. 

If you're ever in a supermarket in the North Denver Metro area, and you see someone who looks like me or Trent, feel free to look us in the eye and say hello. If you're troubled and need to say it aloud, tell us. Listening to your worries may take our minds off our own. And if you're feeling happy, the same drill works. Stop for a moment and share a smile. We'll all feel better. And maybe you can be honest and tell me the answer. Is it something about my face?


The faces that launched thousands of conversations...

Is That In Code?

I have written before about my sister Liz, and how we have joked for years that she's "the pretty one", meaning I'm "the smart one." Hey, don't get mad, it works for us, especially because it seems to be true. Several years ago I came to realize that she didn't really understand all of the capabilities of her cell phone. It was not a smart phone, just a phone of average intelligence, but it was clear that she needed some help. As a seasoned user of an average-intelligence phone, and her sister, I took it upon myself to help her. Hey, I have ended up being a trainer at almost every job I've had. If I can train people to do telephone customer service, for example, I can teach my sister to make better use of her phone, right?

We started off by making sure that she was comfortable with text messaging. She caught on pretty well, and then I asked her about assigning ringtones to her contacts. She had no clue. So we did a tutorial on how she could know that it was her boss or her husband calling simply by the ringtone the phone was playing. This was pretty exciting for her, but she needed to get more ringtones. And since she didn't have a computer at home, I became the go-to person for her to acquire ringtones. Sometimes she would ask for a specific song, or something that would be appropriate for whomever she wanted to have their own specific tone.

So I started texting her different ringtones. At first, I had to walk her through saving and/or assigning each one, but she got better with practice. One day I was happy to have found her what I thought was a perfect ringtone. I texted it to her and waited for her happy response. Instead of a reply of thanks or expression of how clever it was, I got this answer: What? My mental reply was, "Huh?" So I replied by asking what she meant. I got a blank email from you. Uh-huh. I told her that I hadn't sent her any emails, blank or otherwise. She responded by calling me from work, and sounding completely disgusted at her too-stupid-to-live little sister. She informed me that I had sent an email to her phone and that there was nothing in it. Of course, the first thing I had to do was explain, for the umpteenth time, the difference between emails and texts, and that using the words interchangeably would confuse anyone, especially dumb younger sisters.

Liz huffed that I had sent her a blank text. I told her that I was sending her a ringtone; perhaps there was some mistake on my part, so I'd just send it again. I sent it again, and Liz called me back, more disgusted than ever. Still nothing. Then a light bulb went off in this little sister's brain. "Um, is the volume turned off on your phone? Maybe that's why you can't hear it?" She asked if she had to have the sound turned up to hear the text, and we got it straightened out. She had gotten the ringtone, and she liked it a lot. I walked her through saving it to her phone, and noticed Trent out of the corner of my eye, shaking his head. He praised my patience and my quick realization of what had gone wrong. And it never happened again...until the next time!

Something challenging about my sister and her texts - she makes up her own uses for symbols, or her own abbreviations for things. The big problem with this is that they have nothing to do with the way everybody, and I stress everybody, uses these symbols or abbreviations. And I am not a cryptographer! Here's an example of a Liz-text. Hey I hv to tlk to u @ work. Cl u ltr. This mystifies me. Does she want me to get in the car and come downtown to where she works so that she can talk to me about something? I show it to Trent, and he agrees that it seems she wants me to do just that. So I text her back. Do you want us to come down to your work so you can talk to us about something? She answers almost immediately. NO!!! It's wrk I need to talk to you @. Again, the lights go on and my detective mode kicks in. Oh! so you need to talk about your job? Her response barely contains her disgust at my stupidity. Yes, she wants to talk to me @ work. In Liz-text, apparently the symbol the entire English/American English-speaking world uses for "at" means "about."  And that's not even the worst of it.

I could go on, but I've forgotten most of her weird texting foibles. It's probably for two reasons. One is that they simply made no sense by any stretch of my (or Trent's) brains and imagination. And it can be pretty stressful when "the pretty one" thinks you you're a complete idiot and a pain in the behind because you can't break the code! 

We Don't Need No Stinking Badges

We don't need no stinking badges. Nor do we need bracelets, pins, or t-shirts. Or posts on social media. And I'm okay with not wearing shorts. What am I raving about this time?  Well, dear friends, pull up a chair and we'll chat a little.

Between the two of us, Trent and I have a veritable laundry list of ailments, diseases, afflictions...whatever you want to call them. I have even written some blog posts about them. But as a general rule, we try to keep these things low-key. Yes, we genuinely have some things wrong with our bodies and/or minds, and they are very serious. But we do not want these things to be the sum total of our existence. Yes, there are times when we have to tell people who don't know us really well that we have these problems. For example, I might have someone tell me, "Oh, honey, you should put down that umbrella and get some sun on your face." After politely declining several times, I might need to tell them that I have lupus and sunbathing and lupus just aren't a good combination. 

This sort of admission will often lead to an uncomfortable conversation in which the other person feels compelled to call you a poor, poor thing and then ask you to relate various aspects of your illness. While I love and appreciate people who are genuinely caring and sympathetic, these conversations or moments can be unpleasant or even become unbearable. You see, I am more than my diseases. As I was told by someone else with lupus just after I was diagnosed, "Lupus isn't who I am. They're not going to put 'she had lupus' on my gravestone." And Trent feels the same way. We don't want people to find us interesting because we are the ailment of the month. We want to be interesting because of the things we have learned, or our experiences, or our brilliant sense of humor.

That's why I don't wear shorts. In the most intense summer weather, you'll see me sweating my guts out and complaining about how terribly hot it is. Why don't I wear shorts? Because I don't want to talk about why my legs look the way they do, discolored and unattractive. I don't want someone to come up to me and say, "OMG! What happened to your legs?" I sometimes have to count to ten to avoid saying "OMG! What happened to your manners?" Because I do have good manners, I will briefly explain that I have chronic blood clots secondary to my lupus. But I'd much rather talk about a book I just read, or a favorite movie, or just about anything. That is why I don't wear shorts. And I have never owned a button or t-shirt having to do with any of my afflictions.

I am not saying that it is wrong to wear something that raises awareness of a disease or condition that you or someone you care about is experiencing. I may be a raving lunatic, but in spite of my assertions to the contrary, I am NOT the meanest person in the world. But don't we all know at least one person who wears an illness, either real or imagined, like a badge? Someone who makes a point of going out in public, or perhaps family gatherings, wearing something that points out that they have X Syndrome? Some people seek to use their ailments to position themselves in the center of everyone's attention, seeking the sympathy they seem to need to feel complete. Oh, I'm so worried that I sound like an insensitive cow right now! 

Perhaps recounting something that once happened to me will help clarify my point. When I was hired in the banking call center I have mentioned in other blog posts, one of my coworkers heard that I had lupus. Her approach to her illness was the polar opposite of my own. One day, she came over to my desk and began talking to me about my experience with the disease. "Do you have headaches?" I told her that yes, I had had headaches literally every day since late 1988. "Do you ever have pain in your chest?" As a matter of fact, I was experiencing pain in my chest that very day, and had been for several days. "Well, how do you handle it? Sometimes I just want to stay in bed all day." I told her that I had days like that too, but I just ignored them and kept on living. She went back to her desk, and within moments my manager showed up, grinning from ear to ear. She explained that this staff member was infamous for using her illness to try and get sympathy from anyone who would listen. She was thrilled that I had given an example of not just submitting and letting it overrun me, but fighting back. 

And no, I don't think my approach is better than anyone else's. I have had to spend a lifetime not giving up, and it has become ingrained in me. It fits in rather well with these lines from Dylan Thomas: 

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

My ailments, like Trent's, may have the power to destroy my body or end my life, but they had better be ready for one heck of a fight. Which may be why I identify with this quote from the movie Shawshank Redmption:

"Get busy living, or get busy dying. Damn right!"

Postscript: I know many of us have diseases which are beyond our control. The only thing we can control is how we react to them. May your will to fight be fierce!