When the time comes…

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He had shown up on our kitty cams years before he joined our family–usually when the ones who ‘had’ him decided to go out of town and he was left fending for himself. The first time I thought, because of his size, that ‘she’ was a very pregnant kitty and did ‘she’ belong to anyone? That was in 2020. He showed up again over the next few years seeking dinner, or lunch, or breakfast, or all of the above. He had a scraggly meow, buckshot in his left side and took up permanent residency the day we brought our dog, Lila, home from rescue. It was January 27, 2024.

He had been named Jerry by those people up the mountain, but we called him Jerry Garcia as he was so chill and acted like he didn’t have a care in the world. He had an affection for warding off raccoons from his area on the lower back deck, could chase a bear in a moment’s notice or find you the “prettiest” snake on the mountain. He made morning walks with Lila and taught her the importance of boundaries. He loved a good brushing and lived for belly rubs. We were not certain of his age exactly, but felt he was about 13 or 14. We were certain his life would have meaning.

When we made the decision to move to the coast, Jerry was with the other six kitties, with myself and MIL, looking towards a new adventure. The always outside Jerry became inside Jerry and with the exception of the rudeness of two, he fit right in the clowder. I would find him sunning in the dining room, stretched out as “tres” in the Three Amigos of himself, Sailor and Henry. He was a beautifully kind cat–never the troublemaker–but extremely thankful for his surroundings and staff–especially with his Grandma. Jerry took up residency on her lap daily with an ample supply of love and belly rubs.

A few months ago, Jerry was diagnosed with kidney disease. We made sure he had the best care, all of the love in the world and we took the responsibility of giving him sub-Q IVs to ensure his fluid levels were maintained. He didn’t miss a beat during his treatment. The girls at Lillian Vet always greeted him with an astounding “Hello, Jerry Garcia!”, and today they held my hand and hugged me through our last goodbye.

It is a very hard choice of knowing when to let go, but when Jerry was not watching the Alabama game with us on Saturday night and refused dinner, I knew he had declined. We were fighting a horrible game with time and kidney disease–neither which were being forgiving at this point. He wanted to find peace in the back of his Grandma’s closet, but I placed him on her bed. We doubled up on IVs to make sure he stayed hydrated, but his breath was becoming short and I just knew…

I hated that I knew.

I have heard it said that if love could have saved him, he would have lived forever. I know, in my heart, he is curled up in my Momma’s lap with Hannah, Kelty and Cassidy at her feet. Daddy is watching heaven’s ESPN and Jerry looks up to acknowledge there is a game to watch, even though it was not Alabama.

I prayed over him in the minutes before and after Dr. Beth sent him to them. I told him to run free, to finally catch that bear and to know we could not have loved him any more than we did.

But he knew that–

I loved that he knew.

Before he was ours…

The One Who Graduated First in the Class…

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For over nine months now I have been in a medical struggle, an abdominal pain that started in January that grew into a type of fatigue I had never known. You see, I am not a sit down kind of girl. My feet hit the floor running and I go like a perpetual two year old until I hit the bed like a brick. Well, that was before…

Now, I struggle to get through a day without pain and even worse, I struggle with the lack of knowledge, compassion and empathy that is left in our medical system. I go back to hearing my Momma say, “the one who graduated first in the class and the one who graduated last, both have M.D. behind their name”. She could not have been more right. We roll the dice when we choose a doctor especially when we are dealing with something they know little about. This has been my case.

That abdominal pain was my first inkling I had something going on so off to the doctor, in this case a nurse practitioner who ordered labs and an ultrasound and a CT. These labs did not dive deep enough and I was told the scans were “negative”. Pain persists, so do I. You find that if you are not advocating for yourself, you will be pushed to the wayside. It is more like a harrowing fight as it began to tire me more than what was rapidly taking over my body.

Doctor Number 2 is a Gastro that explains on Endoscopy might solve the mystery. This is February and I am told September. This is not Canada, so I am awestruck by the timing, but am told The Gulf Coast lacks the amount of doctors to handle the population. I go back to my former town in Georgia where over the following two months I receive an endoscopy and colonoscopy–both negative for everything except an abundance of scar tissue in my abdomen from the seven, yes, seven abdominal surgeries I have endured. We are now in the month of April.

I find out that NP is leaving the town practice and I am on the search for a new doctor. In May, I find an amazing GP in Pensacola. She is thorough, compassionate and not content with doors being left open. She meets me the first time and orders an abundance of bloodwork after our talking. (Yes, talking. She actually took the time to find out who I was and what my history was.) It is now the end of May. The initial abdominal pain has turned into a pain I can only describe as something inside of my rib cage trying to claw out. My days of popping out of bed and going, going, going have turned into going back to bed. I am exhausted.

My blood work comes back wonky, really wonky. I have had enlarged red blood cells for over 23 years along with high MCH. The enlarged cells are associate with what is a condition called macrocytosis where your red blood cells are larger than normal. It shows on a complete blood count and over 100 gets you the prize. Mean corpuscular hemoglobin (MCH) refers to the amount of hemoglobin in the red blood cells. Many times associated with anemia, liver, thyroid–mine has been elevated along with my MCV and has never come back normal although so many doctors in three states have said “NORMAL”. My previous doctor in Charleston was the first to say as I was moving to Alabama “you need to get this checked by a hematologist”.

Flash back to seven years under the care of a hematologist/oncologist in Birmingham who was alarmed by my numbers enough to do a bone marrow biopsy. Negative, but I remained under her care until I moved to Georgia. What was lurking beneath the surface was a high iron level and a ferritin level that began at 30–not my age, the scale. The doctors in both states never addressed it and one was even bold enough to say in print that there was nothing to substantiate the need for more testing. He never followed up on the tests where my iron was thirty points higher than the norm and that my ferritin was now triple the number from Alabama. Add to this a UIBC which showed a high overload of iron in my body. His notes said “at this time I would not further consider workup on this elevated iron level”.

I wish I knew then what I do now…

You see, the new GP ran the tests needed to see what was happening with my iron levels and was not satisfied with that open door as she knew the high iron could start affecting my organs. She ordered an ultrasound and CT, even though I said I had these ran in January. My tests came back with an enlarged liver and made me go back to the original practice in Alabama to find out what happened in six months. I found out I was lied to. That ultrasound was positive which led me to have the original CT reread and they amended it to say there was a single calcified granuloma in the right lobe of the liver. Genetic tests for hereditary hemochromatosis followed. I had all the symptoms, but I did not carry the gene. Now, off to a new hematologist…

Welcome to last of the class…My next two medical encounters had me in a constant state of anxiety. I am NOT an anxious person, but the level of ignorance and the lack of compassion & knowledge really threw me into one hell of a spin. The hematologist said there was zero wrong with me and suggested I go to a gastroenterologist. He was consumed with the previous reports from the Birmingham oncologist about my enlarged red blood cells and refused to talk to me about the iron levels. I was told since I tested negative to the gene, it was impossible for me t have iron overload. I never walked back into his doors again, but I did see the gastro NP who was a nightmare. She was intent on proving herself right and did not want to know my history. She just wanted to be right even though she was way past wrong on so many levels.

The tipping point was when I waited six weeks for a MRI with and without contrast. The results came in that iron was storing in my liver and in my spleen. This is where the scale tipped to not allowing idiots to control my life any longer. I got an emergency appointment with her only to have her NOT discuss the MRI which clearly, along with a high iron level, high saturation, low UIBC and ferritin that has gone from 30 to 230 (High should not be over 100.), but to have her say I now needed a liver biopsy to confirm iron overload. First of all, this is not true nor necessary. When I voiced concern about it being invasive and a bad history of bleeds she spoke is a horrible condescending tone of ” all biopsies are invasive, it uses a NEEDLE!” I bit the inside of my lip because I felt the tears coming.

I am not a crier.

I have cried more in the last nine months than I have in the last ten years.

I walked out knowing I was going to have another fight on my hands so I left a message in the portal to her. It contained all of the questions I had with me at the appointment that she brushed off. She never answered, but instead had the practice patient advocate call me. She was kind and patient which threw me for a loop. I had not experienced this outside of my new GP. She gave the NP’s answers (which were ignorant and incorrect) to my questions. To the question of what can I take for the pain since I cannot take Tylenol (liver) and I cannot take ibuprofen due to it being an NSAID (bleed history) I was told “there is no pain in iron overload”. I guess she missed the fact that people experiencing high levels of iron deal with horrible inflammation and pain. Even worse, the NP’s notes on the visit were not even reflected of the visit. I have come to get used to the lying. Fired her.

Two weeks ago my blood showed my overactive thyroid had gone from .48 to .033. Add now brain fog, confusion and bigger fear to the mix, but my GP was not giving up. She got me into a new hematologist who I will see tomorrow in Pensacola.

I am tired of so many things at this point and although my faith in God is strong, my faith in the medical field is small. No one should have to fight so hard when there is a known issue, but when it is rare ego steps in from the doctor and they would rather brush you off than help find the bottom line issue.

My nights are consumed with finding answers. The book, The Iron Curse by Dr. Christy Sutton, has been a great navigator in what I need to know. I have been blessed to have a great GP, a family member who is a great doctor who reads my labs and tests and an old family friend from childhood who has eased my mind by being my ‘mental cane’ as I approach this appointment tomorrow. He went over my labs with me and the MRI. He is the top doctor in his field, but is states away although his phone call placed him directly next to me. He told me it is possible I have a mutated gene that they have not tested for and no matter what, I need to have ongoing phlebotomies to reduce this overload of iron. Letting this go without the taking of my blood will eventually lead to further organ damage especially my heart and my brain.

I have too much to give to let the last in the class take me down when I have been surrounded personally by the first in the class…

Too much.

Again it is Mary Alice stealing my sleep!

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I have been an avid reader for years. I prefer Southern based authors who can fluidly place me into the familiar world of my South Carolina Lowcountry through their words. I have always found this through Mary Alice Monroe. She can transport me to the beach, the Spanish moss covered Lowcountry or, in the case of Where The Rivers Merge , into decades of a strong Southern woman who is not without faults and sometimes, without limits.

My mistake for thinking I could pick this book up and continue with my ‘normal’ life. I literally rearranged my marketing and media schedule, as well as my sleep, in order to finish my obsession with Eliza and her life. Mary Alice Monroe’s depictions of the characters had me thinking, laughing and crying. They also had me comparing the centuries as sometimes it is not time that is the thief of things we love, but covetousness.

Where The Rivers Merge clearly brings forward the meaning of ‘you cannot know the present or future until you clearly understand the past’. You are immersed within the dysfunction of family on so many levels. Whether it is due to tradition, prejudice or greed, you are able to see and feel each level of trauma and drama in this multigenerational and multi year piece.

If you have never experienced her writing, I hope you will pick up this great work of historical fiction, even if you are not from the Lowcountry. Be prepared to immerse yourself in a war with the past, a struggle with the present and prayers for the future.

And speaking of prayers, you will need those when you close the last chapter and realize you will be needing the strength of Eliza in waiting for the second book in this two part series. I personally am hoping for a trilogy.

It cannot come too soon…I need rest!

(Where The Rivers Merge releases next week on May 13. I was blessed to receive a copy at the end of April.)

Completing the Cycle???

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The number ten.

Significant to some–their lucky number, the number of fingers and toes, the ten commandments, the ten plagues of the Book of Exodus, just hopefully not the number of marriages they have had, but I know a few who have gotten close! (Can you even imagine!?)

The number ten often represents the completion of a cycle–a time for your guardian angel to step beside you and provide you guidance for the next steps in your journey. It is said it symbolizes encouragement–a constant reminder that God is always there.

Ten, to me, represents the number of surgeries I have gone through since 1982. Crazy, right? Ten and that does not include any skin procedures, just big, under the knife, under anesthesia and hospital stay procedures.

I guess to look at me you would never think I have battled so much with my health, but it seems I inherited more than my Daddy’s blue eyes and Momma’s demeanor. I brought with me many of the same health issues they both had while my siblings have walked through unscathed from the family tree.

At 59, I have seen my share of freak medical moments, frightening after surgical scares and a few (now) funny moments including the ambulance which threw the axle at 65 mph on a dark country highway and my Mike Tyson experience coming out of anesthesia. In 1992, I lost a fallopian tube and appendix in what started out as a laparoscopic surgery that quickly moved to a Cesarean cut when both ruptured while I was on the operating table. I had a difficult time coming out from the cloudiness of the drugs and awoke to Mike Tyson three inches from my face. The nurse was actually reading a magazine while she was waiting for me to “come to” with the champ’s face on the cover. I screamed a blood curdling scream thinking he was about to knock me out…not so funny to the nurse who screamed louder than I did, but funny now.

I have been cut Cesarean three times with no children. I have had six nodules removed from my vocal cords with total voice rest for six weeks which many people would consider quite the blessing. I have parted ways with my gallbladder, have had tendons in both hands repaired from a nasty allergic bout with Ciproflaxin and have had cartilage removed from my jaw due to TMJ. I have fought a battle with diverticulitis for years which placed me with an eighteen-inch colon resection. I have experienced painful episodes from scar tissue which resulted in surgery earlier this year. Needless to say, I am the sum of my scars–each one with its own story and recovery.

Tomorrow I will face the number ten and it will be the longest recovery I have yet to experience, a period of six to eight weeks. Post-menopausal bleeding has placed a full hysterectomy on my plate. It seems with the high rate of cervical and uterine cancers these days, the answer is surgery.

I am packed for my surgical journey. I have my rosary, my husband and my bear. Yes, my bear. He found his way to me during my resection surgery in 2017 and has accompanied me to every overnight hospital stay since. In some ways, he represents the Pooh in me coupled with a bit of my childhood–a symbol of bravery and loss. I think I am now growing strong enough to be able to tell that story, but I first have to get through ten.

In the book of Genesis, it says “God said” ten times. I am reminded of my Creator as I prepare for tomorrow. As He created the universe, He also created me. I have learned through the journey and the scars to trust Him, for I am never alone.

I sit back, breathe and remember: Fear not. Just like my bear, a little comfort, a little safe, a little brave.

Something stinks about cancelling the skunk…

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The headline in the New York Times read:

“Pepe Le Pew Won’t Be Appearing In Warner Bros’ ‘Space Jam’ Sequel.”

I stopped and I read it again. And again.

Seriously?

Seems it was decided well before this cancel culture generation jumped on their latest bandwagon as far back as July 2019 when the black and white kitty who was the object of his affections for years filed a restraining order against him.

WHAT!??!!

Are they even serious???????

Speaking from my childhood and looking back on Looney Tunes as an adult, I remember how I could not wait to watch Saturday morning cartoons. I would lie across the floor in our wood paneled den after a quick breakfast of Lucky Charms (only ate the charms!) and a game of paper football with my brother to watch it with much delight!

The antics of all of the characters bring back so many wonderful memories to me! Pepe le Pew reminded me of the little boy in second grade who used to chase all of us girls around the playground for a kiss. Innocence.

Now we have scripts where Pepe is being hit with a restraining order?

Innocence lost.

Am I the only one who sees the issue here?

You start with something that is meant to be entertainment, but someone finds a way to make it something dark or dirty. How does someone wake up in the morning and try to change the world’s perspective on a cartoon character? Was it meant to be that way? Certainly not, but I am sure 007 will be next on the hit list as seduction is now being played up as supporting rape culture.

I am sure someone will now come back at me and say I am playing down a serious subject. Not at all. I am more concerned we are censoring a skunk while lyrics and shows that depict rape and crimes seem to be acceptable. Even more so, I look at it the way children are taught hate. You place children of all sizes, backgrounds and colors on a playground and they do not know divide until an adult tells them it is “wrong”. A child does not react nor attacks based upon another until told.

Seriously?

Is everything in our lives going to be replaced with the way “they” (whoever they is…) want us to view things? We played spin the bottle as kids and now it is viewed as forced touching? We played “Ding Dong Ditch” and it is now viewed as harassment? What’s next?

I seriously do not get it.

I am sure “they” are going to come back and explain it to me. Tell me why I am wrong and why I need to see it their way. Tell me I am blinded by my own generation’s sight. Tell me I am hurting others by not asking for all of the things that stood for entertainment in my childhood be taken away.

“They” can tell me just about anything, but it will not cancel my view or my childhood.

Looney Tunes

There’s Somethin’ to Be Said About Skinny Jeans and Side Parts…

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I feel sorry for this generation.

They want to yell from the rooftops about freedoms, but they also want to restrict personal choices by determining who should do what, wear what, see what.

They want to shame those who don’t want to follow their plan.

Really? 

I can’t imagine a world without choices on what side my hair is parted on, just as I cannot imagine a world where we are all one color or one faith or one political party.

I celebrate individuality.  I love the spark that sets some people apart from others.  I like when someone just chooses to not “go with the flow” of the general consensus. I remember one girl in high school that everyone felt was weird because she wore a velvet, full length cape. To me, she looked like SuperWoman because she had the strength to be herself. She walked into our high school, head held high and towering above everyone else in her selected garb.

Different, yes.

Bold, yes.

But, it was her and I applauded her choices.

Growing up I was not one to follow what the trends were and that has remained true as I have gotten older.  I have had every hair color imaginable with the exception of pastels.  I have worn vintage, Goodwill and hand me downs.  I wore outfits and styles that were my own.  I have had no problem in living out loud throughout my years! 

Needless to say, I have clothes and shoes in my closet which are older than the sirens of ‘you can no longer wear that society’.

It is nearly laughable.

You should wear the look that is best for you, not some social media clown.

You do not need to be a different version of yourself.

You need to be you, the best you possible.

Do you think, for any reason besides their need for followers, they are boasting their ‘don’ts’?

We need leaders.

We need to stand to our truth of self.

We need different parts, different styles, different paths.

Be you, side part, skinny jeans or not!

Just choose you, because at the end of the day YOU is a wonderful place to be!

There’s somethin’ to be said about freshly ironed sheets and house dresses…

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granny and granddaddy

I miss my Granny Kinne.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I miss my Granny Baylor, my Momma’s mother, but I do not have the memories or the smiles imbedded in my soul of her the way I do of Granny Kinne.  Maybe it is the redheaded Irish tie that binds us or the love of the written word, but I see so much of her here in my everyday life.

Mary Ann Connelly Kinne was a spitfire little Irish lady, only 4 foot 11 inches tall, but every inch, every area of her amplified a life of love and a life of giving.  She was born in 1899 in Roxbury, Massachusetts after her father, Michael and her mother, Bridget, left Galway, Ireland to come to the United States. The States proved to be a lonely place for Bridget. She left May (as she was called)  & her brother, Bill,  with Michael. She took their brothers, Michael  & John,  back to Ireland. 

I cannot imagine a mother leaving her children 

I cannot imagine the effects it had on all involved. 

I can only think it made Granny the strong woman she became later in life.

She met my Grandfather in Miami in 1925, married him there and moved to Springfield, Massachusetts where my father was born in 1927. She had a very close life with my Grandfather and Daddy.  She diligently documented their lives in multiple scrapbooks and photographs. She stood by her husband as he drove as an Indy relief driver, worked as the Southeastern parts manager for Rolls Royce during the great depression and as he lost everything due to his alcoholism . His drinking affected their lives in many ways including never being able to lay down roots long enough to be settled.  They spent their lives in Atlanta, Georgia, Columbia, South Carolina and multiple small towns in South Carolina until he found his sobriety.  They found their way to Charleston in 1940 where they both became involved with AA. She spent her days volunteering at Stark General Hospital where she would script articles and send them to  the families of the wounded soldiers.  These were the things I read about in the Post and Courier and were handed down to me through Momma and Daddy, not the things I remembered. 

Those were all of their memories. 

Mine affected me so much more.

Mine were walking with my Mother to the front of Ashley Hall Manor each Thursday where we would wait with smiles and laughter for Granny to step off the steps of the Charleston city bus.  She came every week in her freshly pressed housedress, pocketbook in hand and spent the day with us.  I remember the smells of the iron hitting the line dried sheets and how she sang songs and told little Irish quips.  I remember going to Sunday School at the Baptist church and being reprimanded for asking about Jesus, Mary and Joseph and the 15 cops! 

I remember every word to Freckles, a very distinct Irish song about a mischievous little boy:

Freckles was his name. He always used to get the blame. For every broken window pane, oh, how they told him they’d scold him. And when he’d tease the girls, when in school, he’d pull their curls. He wasn’t much of a scholar, but fight, oh, buddy! The other fellows nose was always bloody. People used to coax, young Freckles to not to play his jokes, but how he teased the village folks, it was a shame.  But when the cat had kittens up in the hay, one was black and seven were grey. Everybody yelled FRECKLES! He always got the blame.

I remember her joke about Don’t make love by the garden gate. Love may be blind, but the neighbor’s ain’t. I remember how she would take us, along with the neighborhood kids, downtown to the Riviera Theatre to see the latest Disney film release by city bus, of course.  Not just once, but whenever there was something new.  She made my favorite dolls their clothes, carefully pressed each and every pillow case and crocheted beautiful doilies for my Momma’s tables.

Granny Kinne has been gone now for 33 years. 

She spent the last eight years of her life in an Alzheimer’s hold. 

She didn’t know me or my siblings.

She didn’t know her own son.

In her head, she was a young girl on the arm of a handsome race care driver sitting on the steps of an antebellum home. 

She was a shell of the woman I knew. 

Gone the city bus, the singing,  the spry little Irish lady.

I don’t think I ever really grieved her loss until I was in my forties. Maybe because when she died we had already lost her years before, maybe it was my own selfishness of youth. It has taken my own years to begin to catch up with me to see how much of her resides in my soul. 

I have an affinity for freshly ironed sheets. 

I sing Freckles whenever I have a child on my lap and hope that song lives on with them and is passed along. 

I will occasionally wear a hat that will have my sister shout out “love your Granny Kinne hat!” I know my sister knows I picked that hat purely out of love and memories. 

I guess my black yoga pants are my Granny’s housedress. I always carry a pocketbook –never a purse. I hold close the lovely works she crocheted close to heart and in my home. Her Apostleship of Prayer tag which is pasted on felt resides in my camera bag.  Her Saint Anne laminated card stays in my wallet reminding me that my Granny is in heaven watching over me daily.  

I know she is smiling that I have become the Catholic she always prayed I would be.

I can still get a rise from her little Irish ways! 

She gave me so much more than I ever realized.

I can only hope I leave the same impression on someone’s soul.

I have hesitated to discuss this, but…

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It is seems there is such a stigma attached to anything “Covid”.

If you wear a mask, you are losing your rights or you are doing your part. If you socially distance, you are being a victim of the hype or you are trying to help the spread. If you get tested…well…

“It’s all a conspiracy.”

“My friends got tired of waiting in line and left. Their results came back positive.”

“The numbers are going up because of the numbers of people who are testing.”

You name it and you will get an opinion.

Well, here is mine. I decided to get tested a few weeks ago. Not as much for myself, but for the health of an older family member who lives with me. I called and scheduled an appointment a week and a half out..

Appointment day rolled around and I drove into the next town with my husband where a policeman waited to give me entry based upon the number I was given during my appointment call. I had brought my husband along for the ride and we both looked around at what the scene was in a strange amazement.

It looked like a weird scene out of a bizarre science fiction movie. People outfitted in hazmat gear. A line of cars streaming around a little country church like we were in a funeral procession. It was odd.

They checked my info and we waited for the testing tent where you drove up with an orange cone placed in the front and behind your vehicle. (I still do not know exactly what that was for–again, very odd.)

The persons capturing your specimen then appeared at the driver’s side window. I double checked my info and then was given instructions on how the test would be performed. The lady suggested I grab my steering wheel with my left hand and then use the right to squeeze mu husband’s hand.

Ten seconds, she said.

Longest damn ten seconds I have ever experienced.

I squeezed the steering wheel, cut off my husband’s circulation and my feet came off the floorboard as she scraped up my nose somewhere near my brain.

No fun.

None.

She handed me a tissue and gave me the instructions on how to pull my results online.

And I waited…

I pulled the site up, solely out of curiosity 5 days later.

To my surprise, the results were in:

  1. Human RNA was not detected on initial and repeat analysis. This is likely due to insufficient acquisition of RNA during collection. Reliable results could
    not be obtained. Recommend recollection.

WHAT? Inconclusive.

Less than an hour later I received a call from someone with the state of Georgia explaining that about 20 percent of what was taken in my county during that day came back as inconclusive. She explained that “not sure if was operator or lab error, but we got a bunch of them back like this. You will have to test again.”

Two days later the county called to explain that my results were inconclusive.

Really? I told them what the state said.

Crickets.

So, they scraped the lower quadrant of my brain and they knew nothing.

I knew I was over it and there was no way I was having this done a second time. I would not go back through that, no, uh uh, nada, not happening…

A month has gone by now and as I type to close this out I wonder how many more people had the same experience? I wonder if they felt the same way I had and walked away with the “I’ll take my chances” attitude? I wonder, quite honestly, what is the real truth?

Truth.

Now, there is a subject I would like to hear more about…

Wouldn’t you?