I love dogs. The thing I love most about them is their unconditional love. Growing up, our family never owned a dog. We did have a few cats - until word got out in the feline world that one of my younger brothers liked to carry them about by their tails. After that, they never stayed around too long, and my parents gave up on trying to keep them - especially after learning that my brother was actually allergic to them. Probably a good thing...
I was always intrigued by the dogs in the neighborhood, but I never quite got the attachment my friends had to their canine pets. That is, until I owned one of my own. My husband had a beautiful tri-color basset hound named Elly Mae when we met. She and I became fast friends, and remained as such until the day she died. There were two more dogs after her - a chocolate lab named Laurie who wasn't with us for long, and another basset named Wally, who was very sweet, but possibly the dumbest dog on the planet. But it was Gypsy who stole my heart and endeared me to canines forever.
Gypsy was a beautiful lab mix who we adopted as a puppy. I was very sick at the time, and not at all up to training a rambunctious puppy, but I wasn't about to tell our daughter, Carleigh, NO when she begged for this dog. Training her was no picnic, but we learned very quickly that she was sent to us for a reason. One day, I was standing at the top of the stairs in our house, when I felt a seizure coming on. Gypsy was in another room upstairs, but sensed that something was wrong when my husband yelled from the bedroom to ask me if I was ok. She was only six months old at the time, but she came bounding out of the room and jumped the railing to the stairs - landing in front of me on the stairs and breaking my fall as I fell. It was like something out of a tear-jerker pet movie. And from that day on, Gypsy never let me out of her sight. She would either go into the bathroom with me, or lay on the floor outside until I came out. She would have to be in the same room with me when I was at home, and would go nuts trying to greet me when I came home. She sulked when I left, attacked me with kisses when I returned and looked after our whole family with tender loving care - including our cats. She was a pain in the butt at times, but she taught me more about unconditional love than any human being could hope to. And she changed my mind about dogs. I am a forever fan of dogs because of Gypsy.
Fast forward to December of 2008. It was the week before Christmas and our family was in Charleston, SC, where our son, Zac, was playing in a holiday basketball tournament. Steve, Carleigh and I had time to kill before the championship game. The wind on Folly Beach was unbearably cold, so we decided to head over to the battery to photograph some of the incredible old homes there. Steve and Carleigh let me out and drove on down the street to find a parking place. I remember thinking how neat it was to see so many people out walking dogs that day. The majority of them were tourists, but you could definitely tell the ones who were not. Their dogs were mostly expensive pedigrees and the owners were dressed to the hilt - even for a dog walking excursion. As I snapped my last photo, I headed down the stairs from canal level to the street below, where Steve and Carleigh were still trying to find a place to park. As I took the first step down from the top of the stairs, I noticed a woman heading up the stairs with two large, perfectly groomed, pedigree dogs. I remember chuckling to myself because she was not walking them; THEY were walking HER. They seemed overjoyed to see me descending the stairs and rambunctiously ran towards me, tails wagging furiously. The problem is, they were a little over-exhuberant and their owner was more than a little aloof and passive. Before I knew what had happened, her crazy dogs had knocked me off my feet and I went tumbling down the concrete stairs. I slammed my left shin so hard into the edge of the bottom stair that I was certain I had broken my leg. My phone flew out of my hand onto the curb, and my brand new camera ended up in the road. I turned just in time to see the dogs' owner look down at me, turn up her nose and walk away. Nice.
Realizing immediately that I was in trouble, I crawled over to the street's edge, grabbed my phone and camera and called my husband. My leg was throbbing, and I remember pulling up the leg of my jeans and seeing a mild abrasion and HUGE hematoma. I was almost certain at that point that my leg was broken, but I wasn't about to go to the hospital and miss my son's championship game. So, I called my husband from my position on the pavement, had him help me to the car, and then we did what any respectable Parrothead (Jimmy Buffett fan) would do: We went to Margaritaville!
Seriously...I had my husband drive us to the Margaritaville store around the corner, where I hopped out of the care (literally...on one leg) and plopped myself into a giant adirondak chair inside that had a big, bright Parrot painted on it. (To this day, I seriously want one of those chairs). I then whipped out my credit card and began pointing to everything in the store that I wanted to purchase for Christmas gifts. I had the poor clerk jumping through hoops and longing for a margarita of her own in no time. Unfortunately, there is no restaurant attached to the store in Charleston, so that was out of the question. Too bad. The pain in my rapidly swelling leg was escalating, and I SO would have partaken of a pitcher of margaritas had it been readily available. Of course, there's no telling what I would have purchased afterwards, so maybe it was a blessing that I couldn't get my hands on a frozen concoction at that moment.
When my budget had been reached and exceeded (always a given if you let me loose at Margaritaville), my sweet husband helped me to the door and out to the car. He asked me one last time if I was sure I didn't need to go to the hospital. When I declined again, we sped off to the basketball tournament, where we located the tournament trainer, a large bag of ice and a cooler to prop my leg on. I situated myself in the corner of the stands, and watched my son's game. He and his teammates played their hearts out, but the home team won the game by a narrow margin. The fans were so rude and obnoxious and my let was so incredibly swollen and painful that I couldn't wait to get out of that gym. However, a quiet exit was not in the game plan. When a parent from the opposing team made the grave error of calling our team losers, a "Come to Jesus" meeting ensued in my little corner of the stands, with me officiating. I summoned over the tournament director and challenged the startled redneck woman to repeat her statement. She suddenly fell silent. Perhaps that had something to do with what I said to her before he arrived. I think I called her a her reality check via my frigid bag of melted ice, among other things. Even though I was injured, I'm sure I was quite intimidating. You don't want to mess with a 5'11", plus size angry mom. Trust me.
Eventually, the drama subsided and we were on our way back home - a nearly four hour drive. When we arrived at our house, it was obvious that I needed to get to the hospital. My left leg was nearly twice the size of the right one, had turned an awful shade of blue and was throbbing. So, off to the hospital I went. I was poked, prodded, x-rayed, scanned...you name it. When the emergency room physician finally came to my curtain with the results, I was pleasantly surprised: no break, bad contusion. I was given a pair of crutches and told to stay off of my leg for a few days. That was it. No prescription painkillers, but I was ok with that. I don't do particularly well with them, and I do have a rather high threshold for pain. Unfortunately, THAT would prove to work to my disadvantage in the coming days...
I made it through Christmas with my leg propped up, but returned to work immediately afterwards. I quickly got used to the pain and discovered that walking on my leg didn't even hurt - it just made it swell profusely. I begrudgingly continued to use the crutches, despite my aching underarms. I propped my leg on my desk, despite the unprofessionalism of that position. I did everything I was supposed to do, but the swelling wasn't going down. And two weeks after the accident, I noticed that there was fluid seeping from the abrasion where I had hit the stairs. I knew that wasn't good, so I went to the doctor. He immediately wrote me a prescription for an antibiotic, which I filled and took religiously. Nothing happened. Within a week, I was back in his office with a BB-sized hole in the middle of my shin. I was quickly referred to a wound-care specialist in a city nearby. When she stuck one of those long Q-tip things into the wound and it went all the way down to my bone, we were both surprised. When it didn't hurt at all, we were shocked. A wheelchair was ordered and I was whisked upstairs to be prepared for surgery.
I had no idea at the time just how dangerous the wound on my leg had become. All I could think about was missing work, my daughter's upcoming dance competition and our son's last high school basketball games. I thought I'd have a little surgery, recover quickly and be back about my business in no time. But that all changed, when I looked at my leg for the first time after surgery. There was a huge, gaping hole in it. I could see my femur. I'm not at all squeamish, but I must say...it was NASTY. And that was only the FIRST surgery! There were more to come...
I spent the better part of the next two months in the hospital, hooked up to a wound vac and IV antibiotics. One night, about two weeks into my stay, I woke up in extreme pain. I couldn't move any part of my body without it hurting. It took me forever to reach out for the call button to call a nurse into the room. Once I did, my room quickly became Grand Central Station. Within an hour, my entire care team was assembled in the hall outside my of my hospital room. And anyone who knows anything about emergencies knows that if your surgeon, infectious disease specialist and wound care specialist are all in the same place at the same time, and that time is somewhere around 1:00 AM - you are in some SERIOUS trouble. And so it was. I was whisked downstairs for an MRI, and then rushed back into surgery - my third surgery in two weeks. On the way in to be prepped, I asked the Infectious Disease Specialist to "lay it on the line" with me. And she did. Basically, they weren't trying to save my leg anymore. They were trying to save my life. I was forewarned that I could wake up without my leg. And though it was all so sudden, I was amazingly calm. I accepted the fact that we needed to do what we had to do to get me well.
When I awoke two hours later, I immediately glanced down at the foot of my bed and saw that I did, in fact, have two complete legs under the covers. I wiggled my toes and saw that they were both working. My leg hurt for the first time in two weeks, and I was extremely nauseous. But I was alive and my leg was attached to my body. The medical team made the decision to try one last antibiotic, and to drain the wound one last time. A second incision was made below the original wound and a larger area was cleaned out once again, down to the bone. In the next two weeks, the new antibiotic started doing the trick, and I started feeling much better. My leg started healing with the aid of the wound vac and drugs that were actually working. And I became very, very bored and restless. Anyone who knows me, knows that can be a HUGE problem. Trouble almost always ensues under those conditions. This time was no exception.
The nursing staff was just amazing during my stay; they'd often stop in just to talk to me when I was bored, had my fill of television and had no visitors. But there was one nurse at night who just rubbed me the wrong way. She was nice, but older and "by the book". She'd enter my room in the wee hours of the morning with a flashlight that she'd shine in my eyes, inevitably waking me every time she did it. And suffice it to say, I wasn't terribly thrilled about being awakened. One night during my "I'm bored as hell" phase, I decided to fix her. I told her that I needed more warm blankets. She scurried out to get them, leaving her flashlight on my bed. And, well...that flashlight made its way UNDER the bed. Nurse Dixie returned and immediately noticed that it was missing. I, of course, played the dumb, groggy, drugged-up patient and claimed innocence in knowing the flashlight's fate. Dixie was frantic. She looked everywhere, except under my bed. I even had her convinced that she may have left it in another patient's room. As soon as she left to investigate, three young nurses came in, laughing their butts off. They KNEW what I'd done. All they wanted to know is what I had done with it. I just shrugged and grinned.
In the next week, I continued to heal enough to earn a discharge to our home, with home nurse care. The next couple of months were spent hauling a portable wound vac wherever I went, and self-administering IV antibiotics. But I continued to heal, laugh and make the best of things. People would tell me that I was courageous and an inspiration to them. My Infectious Disease doctor told me at my first post-hospital visit that I never should have made it out of the hospital; she called me a miracle child. But I knew deep down inside that I was brought through that harrowing experience for a reason - something much bigger than me. A year and a half later, I was diagnosed with cancer. Our children were both home at the time. I calmly explained to them that there was nothing to worry about; I was going to be ok. I then called my husband and three closest friends to tell them all the same thing. And I truly believed what I was saying.
Now I'm two and half years into this journey. It has been a tough one, too. There have been surgeries, treatments, losses due to the cancer (jobs, insurance, our home, a car, our children's college funds and more). I've experienced physical and emotional pain that I could never imagine prior to this experience. But you know what? I've made it through every challenge thus far. In a funny way, I believe those two dogs did me a favor in Charleston. Because, even though that fall lead to a life-threatening situation that cost us so much, it prepared me for a bigger challenge. I believe that I'm handling this one better than most because of what I went through in 2009. And just like I felt in 2009, I believe that I'm making it through this because God has a bigger plan for me. I NEED to go through this in order to fulfill that plan. I already know what it is to. It started last year with the Facebook cancer support page I co-founded with my friend Mike last. We founded the group to help cancer fighters, survivors and caregivers. But I believe with all of my heart that I am destined to take this to the next level; to do more for these people. And I don't believe that I could be as successful at that task without knowing firsthand what it's like to go through a medical nightmare like I have. So, every time this hurts like hell, every time I cry myself to sleep or wake up in the middle of the night with those dreaded feeling of isolation and desperation, every time I have to scramble to find money to keep the lights on...I remind myself that this is ALL happening for a reason. I'm finding out what and who priorities need to be. I'm learning does and does not make me a priority. I'm learning, that despite the situation my family is in, we are immensely blessed. We have seen the best and the worst of human nature at work during the past few years, but one thing is crystal clear to us: we are LOVED. And I, because of what I've been through, have more love and compassion in my heart. I look at things with a whole new perspective. I am a better person for having experienced all of this. Not perfect, but better. I WILL use this experience to help people for the rest of my life. Life is about living...wide open, full throttle, helping each other along the way. Like those crazy-ass dogs who knocked me down the stairs a few years ago, I have to push forward with enthusiasm in order to reach my destiny. I'm not sure I would have seen that in the same light until I found myself crumpled at the bottom of a concrete staircase that December morning back in 2008. I know I didn't then. But that helped prepare me for this, and this is preparing me for more. So, I guess, in a weird way, I should say:
Thank you, Dogs. Thank you so very much.
I was always intrigued by the dogs in the neighborhood, but I never quite got the attachment my friends had to their canine pets. That is, until I owned one of my own. My husband had a beautiful tri-color basset hound named Elly Mae when we met. She and I became fast friends, and remained as such until the day she died. There were two more dogs after her - a chocolate lab named Laurie who wasn't with us for long, and another basset named Wally, who was very sweet, but possibly the dumbest dog on the planet. But it was Gypsy who stole my heart and endeared me to canines forever.
Gypsy was a beautiful lab mix who we adopted as a puppy. I was very sick at the time, and not at all up to training a rambunctious puppy, but I wasn't about to tell our daughter, Carleigh, NO when she begged for this dog. Training her was no picnic, but we learned very quickly that she was sent to us for a reason. One day, I was standing at the top of the stairs in our house, when I felt a seizure coming on. Gypsy was in another room upstairs, but sensed that something was wrong when my husband yelled from the bedroom to ask me if I was ok. She was only six months old at the time, but she came bounding out of the room and jumped the railing to the stairs - landing in front of me on the stairs and breaking my fall as I fell. It was like something out of a tear-jerker pet movie. And from that day on, Gypsy never let me out of her sight. She would either go into the bathroom with me, or lay on the floor outside until I came out. She would have to be in the same room with me when I was at home, and would go nuts trying to greet me when I came home. She sulked when I left, attacked me with kisses when I returned and looked after our whole family with tender loving care - including our cats. She was a pain in the butt at times, but she taught me more about unconditional love than any human being could hope to. And she changed my mind about dogs. I am a forever fan of dogs because of Gypsy.
Fast forward to December of 2008. It was the week before Christmas and our family was in Charleston, SC, where our son, Zac, was playing in a holiday basketball tournament. Steve, Carleigh and I had time to kill before the championship game. The wind on Folly Beach was unbearably cold, so we decided to head over to the battery to photograph some of the incredible old homes there. Steve and Carleigh let me out and drove on down the street to find a parking place. I remember thinking how neat it was to see so many people out walking dogs that day. The majority of them were tourists, but you could definitely tell the ones who were not. Their dogs were mostly expensive pedigrees and the owners were dressed to the hilt - even for a dog walking excursion. As I snapped my last photo, I headed down the stairs from canal level to the street below, where Steve and Carleigh were still trying to find a place to park. As I took the first step down from the top of the stairs, I noticed a woman heading up the stairs with two large, perfectly groomed, pedigree dogs. I remember chuckling to myself because she was not walking them; THEY were walking HER. They seemed overjoyed to see me descending the stairs and rambunctiously ran towards me, tails wagging furiously. The problem is, they were a little over-exhuberant and their owner was more than a little aloof and passive. Before I knew what had happened, her crazy dogs had knocked me off my feet and I went tumbling down the concrete stairs. I slammed my left shin so hard into the edge of the bottom stair that I was certain I had broken my leg. My phone flew out of my hand onto the curb, and my brand new camera ended up in the road. I turned just in time to see the dogs' owner look down at me, turn up her nose and walk away. Nice.
Realizing immediately that I was in trouble, I crawled over to the street's edge, grabbed my phone and camera and called my husband. My leg was throbbing, and I remember pulling up the leg of my jeans and seeing a mild abrasion and HUGE hematoma. I was almost certain at that point that my leg was broken, but I wasn't about to go to the hospital and miss my son's championship game. So, I called my husband from my position on the pavement, had him help me to the car, and then we did what any respectable Parrothead (Jimmy Buffett fan) would do: We went to Margaritaville!
Seriously...I had my husband drive us to the Margaritaville store around the corner, where I hopped out of the care (literally...on one leg) and plopped myself into a giant adirondak chair inside that had a big, bright Parrot painted on it. (To this day, I seriously want one of those chairs). I then whipped out my credit card and began pointing to everything in the store that I wanted to purchase for Christmas gifts. I had the poor clerk jumping through hoops and longing for a margarita of her own in no time. Unfortunately, there is no restaurant attached to the store in Charleston, so that was out of the question. Too bad. The pain in my rapidly swelling leg was escalating, and I SO would have partaken of a pitcher of margaritas had it been readily available. Of course, there's no telling what I would have purchased afterwards, so maybe it was a blessing that I couldn't get my hands on a frozen concoction at that moment.
When my budget had been reached and exceeded (always a given if you let me loose at Margaritaville), my sweet husband helped me to the door and out to the car. He asked me one last time if I was sure I didn't need to go to the hospital. When I declined again, we sped off to the basketball tournament, where we located the tournament trainer, a large bag of ice and a cooler to prop my leg on. I situated myself in the corner of the stands, and watched my son's game. He and his teammates played their hearts out, but the home team won the game by a narrow margin. The fans were so rude and obnoxious and my let was so incredibly swollen and painful that I couldn't wait to get out of that gym. However, a quiet exit was not in the game plan. When a parent from the opposing team made the grave error of calling our team losers, a "Come to Jesus" meeting ensued in my little corner of the stands, with me officiating. I summoned over the tournament director and challenged the startled redneck woman to repeat her statement. She suddenly fell silent. Perhaps that had something to do with what I said to her before he arrived. I think I called her a her reality check via my frigid bag of melted ice, among other things. Even though I was injured, I'm sure I was quite intimidating. You don't want to mess with a 5'11", plus size angry mom. Trust me.
Eventually, the drama subsided and we were on our way back home - a nearly four hour drive. When we arrived at our house, it was obvious that I needed to get to the hospital. My left leg was nearly twice the size of the right one, had turned an awful shade of blue and was throbbing. So, off to the hospital I went. I was poked, prodded, x-rayed, scanned...you name it. When the emergency room physician finally came to my curtain with the results, I was pleasantly surprised: no break, bad contusion. I was given a pair of crutches and told to stay off of my leg for a few days. That was it. No prescription painkillers, but I was ok with that. I don't do particularly well with them, and I do have a rather high threshold for pain. Unfortunately, THAT would prove to work to my disadvantage in the coming days...
I made it through Christmas with my leg propped up, but returned to work immediately afterwards. I quickly got used to the pain and discovered that walking on my leg didn't even hurt - it just made it swell profusely. I begrudgingly continued to use the crutches, despite my aching underarms. I propped my leg on my desk, despite the unprofessionalism of that position. I did everything I was supposed to do, but the swelling wasn't going down. And two weeks after the accident, I noticed that there was fluid seeping from the abrasion where I had hit the stairs. I knew that wasn't good, so I went to the doctor. He immediately wrote me a prescription for an antibiotic, which I filled and took religiously. Nothing happened. Within a week, I was back in his office with a BB-sized hole in the middle of my shin. I was quickly referred to a wound-care specialist in a city nearby. When she stuck one of those long Q-tip things into the wound and it went all the way down to my bone, we were both surprised. When it didn't hurt at all, we were shocked. A wheelchair was ordered and I was whisked upstairs to be prepared for surgery.
I had no idea at the time just how dangerous the wound on my leg had become. All I could think about was missing work, my daughter's upcoming dance competition and our son's last high school basketball games. I thought I'd have a little surgery, recover quickly and be back about my business in no time. But that all changed, when I looked at my leg for the first time after surgery. There was a huge, gaping hole in it. I could see my femur. I'm not at all squeamish, but I must say...it was NASTY. And that was only the FIRST surgery! There were more to come...
I spent the better part of the next two months in the hospital, hooked up to a wound vac and IV antibiotics. One night, about two weeks into my stay, I woke up in extreme pain. I couldn't move any part of my body without it hurting. It took me forever to reach out for the call button to call a nurse into the room. Once I did, my room quickly became Grand Central Station. Within an hour, my entire care team was assembled in the hall outside my of my hospital room. And anyone who knows anything about emergencies knows that if your surgeon, infectious disease specialist and wound care specialist are all in the same place at the same time, and that time is somewhere around 1:00 AM - you are in some SERIOUS trouble. And so it was. I was whisked downstairs for an MRI, and then rushed back into surgery - my third surgery in two weeks. On the way in to be prepped, I asked the Infectious Disease Specialist to "lay it on the line" with me. And she did. Basically, they weren't trying to save my leg anymore. They were trying to save my life. I was forewarned that I could wake up without my leg. And though it was all so sudden, I was amazingly calm. I accepted the fact that we needed to do what we had to do to get me well.
When I awoke two hours later, I immediately glanced down at the foot of my bed and saw that I did, in fact, have two complete legs under the covers. I wiggled my toes and saw that they were both working. My leg hurt for the first time in two weeks, and I was extremely nauseous. But I was alive and my leg was attached to my body. The medical team made the decision to try one last antibiotic, and to drain the wound one last time. A second incision was made below the original wound and a larger area was cleaned out once again, down to the bone. In the next two weeks, the new antibiotic started doing the trick, and I started feeling much better. My leg started healing with the aid of the wound vac and drugs that were actually working. And I became very, very bored and restless. Anyone who knows me, knows that can be a HUGE problem. Trouble almost always ensues under those conditions. This time was no exception.
The nursing staff was just amazing during my stay; they'd often stop in just to talk to me when I was bored, had my fill of television and had no visitors. But there was one nurse at night who just rubbed me the wrong way. She was nice, but older and "by the book". She'd enter my room in the wee hours of the morning with a flashlight that she'd shine in my eyes, inevitably waking me every time she did it. And suffice it to say, I wasn't terribly thrilled about being awakened. One night during my "I'm bored as hell" phase, I decided to fix her. I told her that I needed more warm blankets. She scurried out to get them, leaving her flashlight on my bed. And, well...that flashlight made its way UNDER the bed. Nurse Dixie returned and immediately noticed that it was missing. I, of course, played the dumb, groggy, drugged-up patient and claimed innocence in knowing the flashlight's fate. Dixie was frantic. She looked everywhere, except under my bed. I even had her convinced that she may have left it in another patient's room. As soon as she left to investigate, three young nurses came in, laughing their butts off. They KNEW what I'd done. All they wanted to know is what I had done with it. I just shrugged and grinned.
In the next week, I continued to heal enough to earn a discharge to our home, with home nurse care. The next couple of months were spent hauling a portable wound vac wherever I went, and self-administering IV antibiotics. But I continued to heal, laugh and make the best of things. People would tell me that I was courageous and an inspiration to them. My Infectious Disease doctor told me at my first post-hospital visit that I never should have made it out of the hospital; she called me a miracle child. But I knew deep down inside that I was brought through that harrowing experience for a reason - something much bigger than me. A year and a half later, I was diagnosed with cancer. Our children were both home at the time. I calmly explained to them that there was nothing to worry about; I was going to be ok. I then called my husband and three closest friends to tell them all the same thing. And I truly believed what I was saying.
Now I'm two and half years into this journey. It has been a tough one, too. There have been surgeries, treatments, losses due to the cancer (jobs, insurance, our home, a car, our children's college funds and more). I've experienced physical and emotional pain that I could never imagine prior to this experience. But you know what? I've made it through every challenge thus far. In a funny way, I believe those two dogs did me a favor in Charleston. Because, even though that fall lead to a life-threatening situation that cost us so much, it prepared me for a bigger challenge. I believe that I'm handling this one better than most because of what I went through in 2009. And just like I felt in 2009, I believe that I'm making it through this because God has a bigger plan for me. I NEED to go through this in order to fulfill that plan. I already know what it is to. It started last year with the Facebook cancer support page I co-founded with my friend Mike last. We founded the group to help cancer fighters, survivors and caregivers. But I believe with all of my heart that I am destined to take this to the next level; to do more for these people. And I don't believe that I could be as successful at that task without knowing firsthand what it's like to go through a medical nightmare like I have. So, every time this hurts like hell, every time I cry myself to sleep or wake up in the middle of the night with those dreaded feeling of isolation and desperation, every time I have to scramble to find money to keep the lights on...I remind myself that this is ALL happening for a reason. I'm finding out what and who priorities need to be. I'm learning does and does not make me a priority. I'm learning, that despite the situation my family is in, we are immensely blessed. We have seen the best and the worst of human nature at work during the past few years, but one thing is crystal clear to us: we are LOVED. And I, because of what I've been through, have more love and compassion in my heart. I look at things with a whole new perspective. I am a better person for having experienced all of this. Not perfect, but better. I WILL use this experience to help people for the rest of my life. Life is about living...wide open, full throttle, helping each other along the way. Like those crazy-ass dogs who knocked me down the stairs a few years ago, I have to push forward with enthusiasm in order to reach my destiny. I'm not sure I would have seen that in the same light until I found myself crumpled at the bottom of a concrete staircase that December morning back in 2008. I know I didn't then. But that helped prepare me for this, and this is preparing me for more. So, I guess, in a weird way, I should say:
Thank you, Dogs. Thank you so very much.
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