The good with the bad...and more Chemo.

It seems to me that's what this whole process is about--weighing the good news and the bad news you receive, and then deciding which "side" is "victorious" on a given day based on what you've learned. 

So rare is a day that everything I hear from doctors all "good," that I don't even consider it a possibility when I am on my way to see them. 

Not once have I had the thought "Man, I just gotta feeling...I think everything I hear in there is going to be awesome."

That, I understand, is a pretty standard defense mechanism. Can't be surprised by bad news if you're expecting it, right? It's useful. 

It softens blows. 

Still, as unlikely as they seem and as little hope I have for experiencing it: 

one of those "all good" days would be nice, eh?

Even on the day I'm told I'm in remission, which is coming, I'm sure I'll be lined up for appointments for the next 5 years of my life and told what to look for and what to expect and the likelihood of relapse and yada yada yada. 

Which brings me back to where I started, that it's all a balancing act. 

My whole little personal mantra this entire time has been "never too high, never too low." 

It's admittedly a throwback to my athletic days--a comfortable place that I go often--but it has translated well. 

If I let every little victory turn into a party, and every small defeat turn into a crushing blow--who the hell knows where I'd be at this point.

It wouldn't be pretty. 

Steady as she goes.  

I told my dad, even on relatively good days, that "I'll celebrate when this is done."

I realize that it might make it tougher on my family and friends. I've had some good days and some good news. While they're thrilled to hear it and excited for me, I usually temper expectations and sit stone faced. 

I'm not trying to be a downer. I just can't let myself get up too high. 

Or fall too low. 

I've experienced it, but more than that--I've seen it.

My mom had it "beat" for years. 

My amazing friend Becca Sernick beat long odds and fought it off for years--longer than any doctor gave her a chance to. 

 My "second father" Kevin Moody was sucker-punched by it. 

Everyone knows somebody who's had these experiences with cancer.

I'm not unique. 

This is an unrelenting, unpredictable, resourceful and stubborn monster that they dealt with, and that I'm dealing with.

It's purpose is singular. 

Just when you think you're ahead of the game, that you've got it on the ropes, comes an uppercut you didn't see coming. Back on the mat. Wondering what's next. 

It's not negativity. It's realism. 

I'm optimistic. 

An appointment yesterday showed that my blood counts look very strong and are rebounding well. Some are even into the "normal range" that a person who hadn't recently had a transplant could expect to be at. My ability to fight off infection is coming back. It has a ways to go, but it's returning. 

This is good news. 

I'm being transferred from the Transplant Team back to my Oncologist in the Cancer Center. This indicates a comfort level among the Transplant Doctors with my recovery and trajectory. 

This is good news. 

It was also confirmed that I'm not done with Chemotherapy. 

News I was not pleased to hear and was not expecting. 

Not good news. 

It's called "maintenance" Chemo, and it's a drug that really kicked my ass last time. 

But so be it. Whatever it takes.

I also learned that Flip Saunders, a longtime NBA coach and a guy well-respected in his profession passed away from Cancer. He was 60. I decided to check out what kind of cancer. Mistake.

Hodgkin's Lymphoma.

We won't share the same fate, but seeing that--seeing that this "good cancer" does kill people, wasn't great.

Not good news.

Still:

The "good" won yesterday. It definitely did. That's a victory, but a small one.

More chemo looms, as does a PET scan and the knowledge that these transplants are not 100% effective. 

That number is closer to 30-45%. 

Never too high. Never too low. 

Life is good. I'm feeling better. I'm getting stronger. I have people surrounding me who love me. 

I GET TO SEE GRISWOLD AGAIN (the doctors okay'd it). 

I'm in a good place. 

And I'll celebrate. 

When it's over. 

A fortunate man

I'm tired. Just constantly tired and usually nauseous. It's slowly improving, I think. 

So.

I don't have a lot to say here at the moment other than this: 

I've never been more aware of or invigorated by my obligation to be as generous and kind as you all have been to me--to pay it forward. 

I've spoken on here at length about how lucky I am to have great friends and family and support. Even how lucky I am to get to experience this in general. 

I get it, "lucky to have cancer" sounds like an insane thing to say. It probably is an insane thing to say. 

Still.

It makes sense to me.

I never could have known, without being sick, the true extent of it: Just how fortunate a person I am to have all the people, near and far, who care about me. Who are generous. Who are kind. 

I'll stop rambling, but to say I'm overwhelmed by everything I've felt and experienced in the last year, and this last week, is an enormous understatement. 

Every message, letter, call, text, donation, hug, high five...you get the picture...has filled me up with love, confidence, and pride--I'm proud that I know all of you. 

I didn't need another reason(s) to want to get trough all this. Self preservation is strong enough. 

You guys gave me more, though. 

I have work to do to repay the kindness I've been shown. 

I better get started now. This is going to take a while.

Thank you. 

Gris says thanks, too. 

What A Day

Yesterday was a pretty surreal day. 

I don't know if it's because of my affinity for self deprecation, my distaste for arrogance, or the shyness that I can generally hide pretty well, but the attention and recognition I received yesterday still doesn't make sense to me. 

Kind of. 

It's starting to. 

I'm not sure I'll ever be able to believe people when they talk about the way I write, and I'm positive I'll never understand it when they call me an inspiration (who, me?), but I suppose it's time I start listening to people when they say this blog has turned into something pretty cool. 

Still, we'll disagree as to why it's special, or how it became special. 

Newsflash: it ain't me. 

It would be nothing without the people who read it. That's you. That's why it's important. 

Without you, this would be a collection of thoughts and words that I would hang onto for reference when this whole ordeal is over. It would likely be dull, negative, full of complaints. Also likely to be eventually lost in the bowels of the internet.

It wouldn't have the views. 

It wouldn't have kept my attention on tough days when I needed something to focus on.

It wouldn't have challenged me to be honest with myself about all of this. To look it in the eye. 

It wouldn't have allowed me to begin this blog by writing an version of events and projecting an attitude that I wanted my friends and family to read and believe, in the hopes of putting people at ease--but the more I wrote that way, the more that attitude became a reality for me. I adopted it as my own. A "realistic optimism" in me created by the readership. 

It wouldn't have allowed me to face this with a smile, with sarcasm and humor. It let's me poke holes in the big scary monster that is Cancer and reduce it to something manageable. It let's me piss and moan and swear (be myself). 

It wouldn't have led to me being recognized and flattered by stories in the LSJ and Thrive. 

It needs you. 

I need you, for any of this to have happened. 

So thank you. Thank you thank you thank you.

Yesterday was wild. 

In all honesty, I had no idea when the Thrive article would be published. I had no idea that the LSJ story would be on the front page. Zero clue. 

But as my brother said, "If your athletic ability can't get you on the cover, just get cancer." 

He caught me. This was all part of my master plan. 

The articles essentially being published on the same day created a flurry of attention and an outpouring of support that I cannot believe. 

Old friends, old coaches, total strangers all reaching out to wish me well. Donations from people I know and have never met. 

There was a clear contrast yesterday between how I felt, and how I felt. 

How I felt, was like shit. 

Stomach issues all day, fatigue but unable to sleep, appetite fleeting. Small fever for most of the day. Nothing urgent, but a generally feeling of: blah. 

How I felt, was on top of the world. 

Embarrassed to a certain extent by the attention, yes, but: 

How I felt, was cared for. Loved. Like things I have to say or thoughts I have matter. 

Like there are people I'll probably never meet who are thinking of me, pulling for me. 

Like I'm the damn luckiest guy I know. 

How I felt, was if a person has this kind of support, these kind of people around him, how can he lose? 

He can't. I can't. I won't. 

Neither can the Spartans today.

MSU 27 - UM 13

The green is out today. 

Gotta feel bad for Jim.

Thank you all again. Love you guys.

Michigan Week, two very different anniversaries, and a game.

This is a special week.

There is something happening at 3:30 in Ann Arbor on Saturday that I won't pretend I haven't had circled on my calendar for a while.

I won't claim I'm not excited or that I won't be glued to the TV. 

I can't say I won't be ecstatic or furious around 7pm Saturday depending on the result. 

It means something to me and to my family to be a Spartan. It's how I grew up. It's part of my identity. This game matters. 

I could talk about all the Harbaugh hype and the disrespect Michigan State is being hit with all over the country from national media. The arrogance of many UofM fans. 

I could write many blog posts about the game. 

But, and I almost can't believe I'm saying this:

This year, it's just a game. 

I'll still care. I can't ignore it or not be effected by it, but there are some other things going on here. 

The Michigan game, for the rest of my life, will be linked to the loss of one of my best friends, Marc Simon. 

My Dad and Marc at a friends wedding

It's not the date. It's the game.

He passed the Friday night before a home game against Michigan. We were all together. I was with him less than an hour before it happened. 

I've written about that night and about Marc on here before. A similar post before last years game is actually the most viewed post I've ever written.  

Marc was as full of life as anyone I've ever met. 

He was loud and opinionated and loud and animated. And loud. 

I loved the guy. We all did. We all do. 

Us together after the 2012 MSU/UM game, Marc in the middle. 

I wrote a year ago that on days like this coming Saturday, I miss him the most. For many reasons, but none more so than this:

Those days are far too quiet. It's when I notice the lack of his presence most. 

Death is so final. Abrupt. 

The contrast between life, surviving, and death is wild. One year can feel like ten. One is gone in an instant. 

There's another anniversary on Saturday. 

October 17th is a year since I started Chemotherapy in Ann Arbor and started this blog. 196 posts in 365 days. 

That's a lot of blowing up your newsfeeds, so, sorry about that. 

The past year has felt like ten. 

I don't know if I can put how I feel about this past year into words, let alone any kind of organized thought. It's been full of small triumphs. Big setbacks. 

It's been full of great friends. My amazing family. Fell in love with a girl. 

It's been easy at times. I've played a lot of golf. Done some amazing things. 

Started something (this blog) that took off in a way I never could have imagined. 

It's been hard at times. I've never felt as sick. Never had a mental challenge like this. Never felt, at times, as angry and frustrated and, admittedly, hopeless as I have in the past year.

It's been scary. Not a lot to add here--Cancer and the threat of what it can delivery is scary. 

It's been exhilarating. On good days, and on days when I allow myself to step back and understand what's really happening--that I am surviving cancer--how can I not be thrilled?

How lucky am I?

It's been everything. And nothing. 

Everything, because I've run the gamut of every possible thought and emotion a person can have in the span of a year. So have my friends and family and the woman who loves me, I'm sure. 

Everything, because I'm still here. 

Nothing, because I'm not done yet. It's still not over. 

Many trips to Ann Arbor remain for me. 

I'll wear my green and white every time--but it's a little harder to hate a place when they are saving your life and treating you like the most important person in the world. 

For a few hours on Saturday afternoon, I'll hate the guys in Maize and Blue. It's a game. 

It's fun. 

Before 3:30 and after 7, I'll be loving the people who work in their health system who have made it their job to make sure I enjoy many of these gamedays to come. 

I'll be missing my friend Marc Simon and Becca Sernick.

I'll be thankful for all that's happened in the last year that delivered me to now. 

I'll have an eye on what lays ahead of me in the years to come. 

Many, many years. 

Still, between 3:30 and 7...

pound green pound. 

LET'S GO. 

Beneath is the first blog post I wrote after my first day of Chemo, a year ago this coming Saturday. I enjoy reading it from time to time. I had no idea what I was getting into, but I had an attitude then that I think is useful to find again when I let myself slip up. 

Chemo, Day #1, Cycle #1

Tuesday, October 17, 2014

12:30 PM

University of Michigan Cancer Center, Ann Arbor, MI. 

Today was wild. Not sure I can find a more effective way to describe it.

 I woke up, tried to turn myself into the same weird, antisocial, pretending-to-be-focused-to-compensate-for-being-terrified zombie that I tried to before I went in for surgery, and went along for the ride. It was an incredibly unique experience.

When focused on specifically what is happening to yourself, it's difficult to get a handle on the gravity of the situation. I tried to stay locked in to my little world. The infusion atrium, the noises and smells, the room I can carry my IV to for coffee and snacks, my chair, my tv and my computer playing the newest episode of Homeland, which I didn't hear a single word of. I spent time Thinking of the kind of day my Dad is having--his second loved one, starting this journey, and him knowing the worst details of how the last one ended. The meds, waiting to be infused, looking more like Kool-Aid than a toxic killing machine of both good and bad cells.

But while semi-enjoying life in my semi-comfortable, insulated bubble, I took a look over my left shoulder, and part of me wishes I hadn't.

The man in the chair to my left was at least 70, had a large portion of his jaw missing, and a handful of visible lesions all over his body. I took my headphones off to listen to him speak to the doctor. Long story short, this was less about treating his ailments, than preserving life.

I look further past him to the left. There's a man no younger than 80 on his chair, fully reclined, sleeping while his wife was gently rubbing his arm. I don't know any details of his diagnosis, but common sense, and the look on his wife's face told me it looked as if his time here was short as well.

Fuck.

Headphones back on. Go back to homeland. Maybe change it to something more upbeat. Just don't look to the right.

Looked to the right at a 40-45 year old woman, with her teenage daughter with her. The woman had a double mastectomy. She was incredibly thin. Her lips were very chapped and it looked like a handful of fingernails had fallen off. Her kid typed away on her cell phone, but I watched as the woman kept shifting positions in the recliner, trying to find a pain-free position.

She looked a ton like I remember my mom when I was 18. A forced, faint smile to her daughter. She must've told a corny joke, because the girl smirked and rolled her eyes. I suppose that's when it hit me; that in my insulated little world, I could tell myself I didn't really belong here. This is a blip, and it may very well turn out to be that for me, but that I needed to stop pretending.

I grabbed my portable IV and walked to the bathroom labeled "For Chemo Patient's Only." Had a long look in the mirror, couple deep breaths, a brief moment of "why me," a couple tears, a "stop crying, you punk," one last deep breath, and back out we go.

Decided to take a long walk around.

This room is full of dying people. People in pain. People trying just to extend their life. Loved ones with them. Optimism. Flowers.

My treatment began, it went relatively smoothly, and I felt/feel like shit. I've been injected with a toxic time bomb, and now I'm just along for the ride. That's an unsettling feeling. But I couldn't really focus on that while in that infusion atrium.

 I spent the rest of the time struggling with what I had learned today in Ann Arbor.

My treatment had begun, and this wasn't some mistake. The people around me in there may be at different stages, different cancers, different treatments, different ages…but I'm not special.

I belong there too.

That's enough for day one. Probably reads as a bit overly dramatic. But I'll never forget today.

I needed today, for obvious health reasons. I think I needed it for something else as well. I think, now, I'm ready to go.

Time will tell.

This just in

This is not fun. 

I hate whining. It's not my style and not what I want this blog to be. 

But man. 

Past few days have been tough. Just can't seem to get the nausea and puking under control.

Wake up. Puke.

Eat breakfast. Puke. 

Go to Ann Arbor for appointment. Puke puke puke.

Do anything. Puke.

Relatively good news at the appointment, between wretches. Numbers holding steady, except for the neutrophil count--had to take another shot when I got home to boost it. 

So on paper, things are progressing as they should.

Elsewhere, they're tough. I'm learning that it's a constant mental battle, much more so than physical. It's avoiding the thought or feeling that this will never end. That's been harder than I thought it would be.

Still:

Was never told it would be easy, so forward we go.

I know how lucky I am. I know how good I have it. Just have to get through this patch. 

I know one thing that could cheer me up. 

It happens Saturday in Ann Arbor.

At 3:30.

Can't wait.

I'm okay. Just bored. And beardless.

Not much to say here y'all.

I'm feeling okay, some days better than others, but I'm getting by. 

The biggest hurdle right now is the boredom of being a shut-in. 

I miss work. Miss golfing. Miss being outside. 

All small prices to pay, I know. 

I know how lucky I am--the days are just long right now. 

Just wanted to let you all know I'm doing well, recovering, and hoping that continues without incident. 

In other news, my beard was falling out, leaving only spots of hair.

My hand was forced.

I had to shave for the first time in years. A sad day indeed. Beardless is my least favorite state. 

Thank goodness I lost some weight in the hospital. Reduced the fat 12 year old baby face effect.

 Yayyyy cancer diet.

Now I look like Mr. Clean. With eyebrows.

Onward. 

If you all have any busy work/writing projects you want some help with, let me know. ANYTHING TO PASS THE TIME.

Before I leave, a Thank You(s)

I was terrified of this procedure, leading up to it. I remained scared through most of it. 

It was tough, trying. It made me weak. Afraid. Sick. I wouldn't want to do it again. 

But the people at this place:

Bone Marrow Transplant

Are as good as they come. From the janitors to the attending physicians, everyone treated me so well--better than I'm sure they are required to. 

To say I wouldn't have made it through this without them, especially my nurses, is the understatement of the year. 

The people here are the best at what they do, and I consider myself incredibly lucky to have been and remain under their care. I didn't feel so much a patient here as I did a welcome guest, a friend. Someone who's well-being was an absolute priority--not as a job, but from some place else. 

I could see it in the look on their faces when I was feeling my worst. 

They wanted to make me better, make me comfortable, let me rest. 

So yes, I am thrilled to be leaving the hospital. Doesn't mean I'm not a little misty about leaving the people who cared for me. 

I know I'll leave out a few people who's names I've forgotten, please forgive me:

Zeke, the floors personal trainer--thank you for your daily morning dose of positive energy and encouragement--even when I wasn't very responsive to it. What a guy. Good luck to your son at CMU. 

Marisa, thank you for your patience with me when I was feeling my worst and for being so attentive. You often knew what I wanted or needed without me telling you. 

Tiffany, thank you for your lighthearted nature. As an anxious person, you had a calming effect on me that made a huge difference. Good luck with fantasy football. 

Jackie, thank you for your understanding nature. You took care of me during my last few days here (my most anxious), and put me at ease. 

All of the techs, who have a thankless job. They work long hours, late nights, handling things most people wouldn't want to handle, and they do it with a smile. You're my heroes. 

All of the nurses who's names I've forgotten, I'm sorry. We shared jabs about MSU/UM, made fun of the Lions, and you took care of me when I was at my absolute worst. 

All the attending physicians and PAs, you guys are unique. You march into my room during rounds and I expected to be referred to and treated as "Patient # blah blah," but instead was attended to like a friend. You were straight with me, honest, and optimistic. You are the best at what you do, which is why I came here. Thank you. 

And lastly, Annie. If there is a nomination process for nurse of the year, I'd like to formally submit her for consideration. She's loud, funny, in your face, and suffers no fools. She was fierce in her determination to get my nausea under control and checked on me constantly. She was a face and a personality that I was always happy to have in my room. She asked questions--not about my condition or about anything medical--but about me. She wanted to know my story. She shared endless words of encouragement and positive energy and made me feel like I was doing so well, even if at times I wasn't. Annie is one of a kind, and I'll miss her. Thank you Annie, I feel very lucky to have been under your care. 

And the care of everyone on the 7th floor at Mott Children's Hospital. 

None of the above is hyperbole. These people are amazing. 

I'll miss all of them.

That is, until I see you all again when my 100 days is up. Beers are on me. 

I'm serious. 

I'd like to finish with this, 

Go Green baby. 

Love you guys. 

Splendiferous stupendous stem cell transplantationexplosion

So. 

Two days ago my ANC (Actual Neutrophil Count), the measurement of white blood cells capable of combating infection:

Was 0. 

Zip. Zilch. Nada. 

It was that way for the preceding 6 days as well. 

Yesterday: 1.7

An impressive one-day jump, I was told. 

Today: 9.7

A pretty unheard of jump, I was told. 

Tomorrow: I get to go home.  

NINE POINT FUCKING SEVEN. I'M AN UNSTOPPABLE WHITE BLOOD CELL MACHINE. ALL POSSIBLE INFECTIONS MUST BOW BEFORE ME. 

I am Captain 'Murika, haver of neutrophils. 

Back to what matters: 

I go home tomorrow. I know the road is long and this is all just starting. I know there are risks and I have to be careful. I know there are unique challenges, frustration with missing work and other issues, but this is good news. 

Maybe sometime I'll get serious on here about how difficult this was. I like to use humor here to lighten the load and I don't like to complain or to be seen as dramatic. Still, this was one of the toughest things I've ever had to do. The mental, physical and emotional challenges a stay like this presented were heavy at times.

I thought I would breeze through it. Arrogance. 

Instead.

A lot of quiet time, just me and my thoughts.

Many thoughts of her.

And the fate she met that I refuse to.

Much time for self reflection. 

Unfamiliar surroundings. 

Sleepless nights, creeping doubt. Get wrenching nausea and exhaustion I can't describe. 

I often thought of my favorite movie to get me through rough times. 

"Why are you doing this?"

"I just felt like running." 

He just felt like running. Pay no mind to anything else. 

Just don't stop. 

The race doesn't last forever. 

I'm going home tomorrow. 

With the same immune system the guy above had. And less style. 

The kindness and generosity you've all shown me is beyond my comprehension. 

Day (morning) +10, on optimism, and what matters to me. Spoiler alert: It's you.

Last night was my first night here that I slept, not as a result of total exhaustion but by choice, throughout the night. Other than the usual interruptions for vital signs and such, it was a very calm, pleasant evening. 

I woke up and rolled over at 7am to see what is probably a very average looking morning sky:

The view, combined with how I'm feeling currently, made for a brief moment where for the first time in a long time, I really felt optimistic. Not necessarily about big picture stuff relating to cancer or the chances of this working or anything like that (even though I am optimistic about those things as well). 

Today's optimism was much more simple. 

Optimism that I'm going to have a good day today. That I won't spend half the day with my head in the toilet. That my appetite is creeping back in and that my semi-staggering weight loss will slow down (not that I didn't have a few to lose...who am I kidding). 

Optimism that, while I've said it during the hard days, I really am one day closer to getting home. It isn't just an acknowledgement of a passing day, but is a feeling that I can believe. I really am closer to getting back to the people I love and who love me.

Back to the people who have the very serious responsibility to care for me when I do get home. Leaving the hospital isn't the end of this road for me. It's just the beginning. I'm at risk for all kinds of very serious complications that have to be closely monitored, controlled, and taken care of. Takes a special person to fill those roles. 

Like this special guy: 

my hero

Or this special girl:

Hero #2

I'm one lucky SOB. I know that. I've been repeatedly dropped on by a dump truck full of perspective in this last year. I'd like to say I have a better grasp on what matters, and what doesn't. I know who and what I'll never take for granted. I know where I want to see my life, post-all-this, go. I know who matters. Whose opinion matters. 

I know how much fun it was to say "E.T. Phone Home" to and giggle to myself (while heavily drugged) the other night:

I'm the furthest thing from an expert on perspective and I hate to sound preachy. I don't have all my shit together and there are things I need to figure out. I've got a long way to go and a ton to learn. I said it before though: 

Cancer, all this, has made me better. 

I have a long way to go, but considerably less far than when this all began. It's empowering, to steal a persons or an organizations or a diseases original intent--to harm, damage, kill---and flip it on it's head. 

I'm a better person today than I was on August 14th, 2014.

 So thank you, Cancer. You get 5% of the credit. 

The rest of the 95% goes to all of the incredible people in my life. People who have known me forever. People who just met me. People who found me through this blog. Families who have accepted me as their own and people who I've fallen in love with. 

Ultimate Schmoop

I also would like to bring up something that I've struggled with how to approach. My incredible Aunt Luanne started a GoFundMe page for me a few months back. She knew the bills were coming in and that with this extended break from work, money would be tight. She was right, and I couldn't be more thankful. 

Honestly, though, for some time, it was difficult. It's a lame thing to say, but I'm a proud person. Not too proud to ask for help necessarily, but this fight though, I envisioned as mine alone. That it needed to be me who defeated big bad Cancer. That asking for help was an opening for some kind of weakness.

So my reluctance to acknowledge the campaign she started on this blog was for a couple of reasons: 

1. I never wanted it to be seen as an appeal for money from the people I love and care about who read this. That certainly is not what this is. The support I feel from your readership alone is more than any donation could render, and that isn't hyperbole. The fact that I can sit and write things that I know will have an audience is incredibly empowering. It gives me something to constantly look forward to. So PLEASE understand this is NOT a request for donations. 

2. I never wanted to make the blog it about the fundraiser. I wanted to keep this place "pure" of it. Keep it light, full of bad writing, and just tell the day to day story.  I hate money. I don't want it to have a place here. 

Yet, as time went on and some incredibly generous donations started rolling in, allowing me to handle some expenses I otherwise couldn't have, it became clear to me that sending small little thank you notes to the individuals who donated wasn't enough, and that I wanted to thank them on here. More publicly. So:

To anyone who has sent me a prayer, or wished me well, or .50, $1, or anything more--to say it has "touched me" is such an understatements it's almost ridiculous. I can't believe it every time a donation comes in. It has almost nothing to do with the amount. Has everything to do with the people. Names I don't know--people I've never met--people who heard my story and wanted to do something to help--and of course loved ones who would do anything for me. You people...are damn heroes. And I thank all of you, sincerely.

And I give all of you my word, it will be paid forward in full. 

“There is no exercise better for the heart than reaching down and lifting people up.” 
― John Holmes

You've all lifted me up. 

Like I said...today is an optimistic day. I'm feeling good. I'm eating. I'm up and moving. I'm a day closer to going home. 

And I feel loved. 

Thank you.