The other night as I was browsing Facebook, I noticed that one of my friends had stated that it had been three years since her disorder had first caused her tremendous pain. I wanted to reach out and hug her, knowing how much pain she is in and how brave she is to face it every day. She is a face of bravery, but every once in awhile the facade shows a crack. There have been many nights she and I, awake at ungodly hours with pain, have comforted one another with fond memories of when I lived near her and of our careers, before there was pain. Rarely do we speak about what may happen in the future. We don't know.
Her statement of a three year anniversary though, made me think about how long it has been since I was officially diagnosed with fibromyalgia. A year this month, February 2011.
I remember going in to see the rheumatologist. A young woman, she listened to me for three or four minutes before cutting me off. "I don't give narcotics," she said firmly, almost snappish. I had described how my former doctor had been treating me with muscle relaxants and a mild narcotic. My mother sat in a chair watching us, and I wonder if she knew that I would make a stand.
I did that day. I had to. "I'm not here for narcotics," I snapped back. "I'm here for a diagnosis. I'm here to get better. I'm here because I have fibromyalgia and I need a diagnosis if I'm wrong or if I'm right."
She had me stand up, then pressed a few trigger points, all of which I winced or cried out audibly. Three minutes later I had my diagnosis.
That was a year ago. In the past year I've suffered pain and I've survived it. I've fought to work jobs and lost them. I've fought to attend things when my body was screaming in pain. Sometimes I've been successful, and sometimes I've given up. I've felt sorry for myself, I've felt desperate. But I've also known the loving care of my friends, my family, and my God. And I've had a lot of time to think about solutions.
Today marks my first day of physical therapy. Soon I will start therapy again with my second therapist. I am working on quality sleep at night, and have a good psychiatrist who is helping with the depression and anxiety that often accompany fibro. So baby steps make it get better. Nobody learned to be a masterpiece in a day.
So originally I had vowed to write every day and have fallen woefully short. But this update is positive and good. And I'm sure there will be more.
Happy one year anniversary to my diagnosis, and to the strength in me that survives.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Good things come from fear
So today the kid lost it. I mean screaming, throwing things, kicking furniture, call the police lost it.
I got nominated to call the cops. Lucky me.
Three of them show up, looking at each other like they can't believe they're in the right place (they later confided in the kid that they normally spend their time in the projects with the cockroaches and he has it pretty good). They talked to him, to me, to everyone in the house (there were five of us) and determined he wasn't in danger of hurting himself or any of us. I couldn't honestly say "Yes, I fear he will come after me tonight," because I don't think verbal assault is what they're looking for.
In the end he went to my brother's for the night. Yeah, the same brother he had been screaming about going with in the beginning.
One of my biggest fears has always been calling the cops. Beyond the embarrassment of saying, "I can't handle my kid", there's the fear of having the police actually believe something this kid says. Our cops seemed to be on top of it, and one of them actually talked about fetal alcohol syndrome, and that the kid seemed to be suffering from it. Bingo. Could I hire you as his psychiatrist?
So all in all the kid goes with his uncle. The younger one and I get a nice long nap...longer than mine should be or I wouldn't be up at 3 a.m. writing this entry. But it's the calmest, least depressed I have felt in days. I actually feel like I can handle my life.
And hence, from the scary things can bloom something good.
I got nominated to call the cops. Lucky me.
Three of them show up, looking at each other like they can't believe they're in the right place (they later confided in the kid that they normally spend their time in the projects with the cockroaches and he has it pretty good). They talked to him, to me, to everyone in the house (there were five of us) and determined he wasn't in danger of hurting himself or any of us. I couldn't honestly say "Yes, I fear he will come after me tonight," because I don't think verbal assault is what they're looking for.
In the end he went to my brother's for the night. Yeah, the same brother he had been screaming about going with in the beginning.
One of my biggest fears has always been calling the cops. Beyond the embarrassment of saying, "I can't handle my kid", there's the fear of having the police actually believe something this kid says. Our cops seemed to be on top of it, and one of them actually talked about fetal alcohol syndrome, and that the kid seemed to be suffering from it. Bingo. Could I hire you as his psychiatrist?
So all in all the kid goes with his uncle. The younger one and I get a nice long nap...longer than mine should be or I wouldn't be up at 3 a.m. writing this entry. But it's the calmest, least depressed I have felt in days. I actually feel like I can handle my life.
And hence, from the scary things can bloom something good.
Monday, December 26, 2011
A Not-So-Friendly Reminder from your Hidden Disorder
Holy fucking jesus christ.
Sorry Jesus.
Sometimes, with as much work and medication we've gone through, that we can slide by and nearly forget the attachment disorder.
I was chatting with a friend yesterday who said, "What happened? Weren't you telling me he was doing well?"
Well, he was. Then three things have happened that have contributed to difficulty and stress for this child and our family as a whole.
First, I quit my job. I was so stressed I couldn't sleep at night. It was making my illness go crazy. So I quit. Maybe not the wisest, but I did it anyway. I'm not sure if the skipping school started before that or after, but the grade issues have been all year. He was taken out of regular classes and put in honors classes this year, and he seems to feel he's not smart enough. Ha.
Next, his biological family visited. His older half sister and maternal grandmother. A day later he tried smoking and he skipped school. His older sister has pictures on her Facebook page that would make a hooker blush. Arguing grew, and so did his disobedience and nastiness.
Finally, the decision was made for my husband to move back to our home state to try to find employment. It's been a hard decision, but this child has lost his mind. He's convinced everything is done TO him. That he's the only one who needs to be considered.
And that tormentor, attachment disorder, has reared its ugly head again at the reality of his dad leaving.
In the last week, I've been called everything from a child abuser to someone who should never have children. I'm stupid, hateful, a loser, incompetent...you get the point. And it doesn't come out nicely, either (would anyone expect it would?). It comes out in shrieks and screams and booming yells that only an wounded adolescent in pain can create. Every once in awhile I can see the fleeting panic and pain in his face. And I wonder if he can see the pain in mine.
We saw the psychiatrist again the other day. I don't think he knows what the hell he's talking about. He babbles on and on about ADHD and sleeping problems. His cure is a medication to help the child sleep. I think the child has a full blown sleep disorder. The psychiatrist says he isn't bipolar but his mood swings are massive and quick, and he spirals like crazy. ADHD is often a cross diagnosis or misdiagnosis for attachment disorder. My biggest concern is this child often talks about his depression and yet the psychiatrist refuses to treat it. So what to do? Get a new psychiatrist?
I often wonder if I'm one of those people who knows just enough about this to be dangerous. Probably. But I strongly believe that regardless of whatever else is going on, this child is struggling with depression, and I don't see how bipolar disorder can be ruled out, given how he cycles.
So where does this leave us? With a husband who's moving, a very angry teenager, an unemployed and sick mother, and an almost teen girl thrown in the mix. Stay tuned for our next adventure...but lest we forget, attachment disorder never really goes away. It lies below the surface, ready to grapple its hooks right into any shakeup.
Sorry Jesus.
Sometimes, with as much work and medication we've gone through, that we can slide by and nearly forget the attachment disorder.
I was chatting with a friend yesterday who said, "What happened? Weren't you telling me he was doing well?"
Well, he was. Then three things have happened that have contributed to difficulty and stress for this child and our family as a whole.
First, I quit my job. I was so stressed I couldn't sleep at night. It was making my illness go crazy. So I quit. Maybe not the wisest, but I did it anyway. I'm not sure if the skipping school started before that or after, but the grade issues have been all year. He was taken out of regular classes and put in honors classes this year, and he seems to feel he's not smart enough. Ha.
Next, his biological family visited. His older half sister and maternal grandmother. A day later he tried smoking and he skipped school. His older sister has pictures on her Facebook page that would make a hooker blush. Arguing grew, and so did his disobedience and nastiness.
Finally, the decision was made for my husband to move back to our home state to try to find employment. It's been a hard decision, but this child has lost his mind. He's convinced everything is done TO him. That he's the only one who needs to be considered.
And that tormentor, attachment disorder, has reared its ugly head again at the reality of his dad leaving.
In the last week, I've been called everything from a child abuser to someone who should never have children. I'm stupid, hateful, a loser, incompetent...you get the point. And it doesn't come out nicely, either (would anyone expect it would?). It comes out in shrieks and screams and booming yells that only an wounded adolescent in pain can create. Every once in awhile I can see the fleeting panic and pain in his face. And I wonder if he can see the pain in mine.
We saw the psychiatrist again the other day. I don't think he knows what the hell he's talking about. He babbles on and on about ADHD and sleeping problems. His cure is a medication to help the child sleep. I think the child has a full blown sleep disorder. The psychiatrist says he isn't bipolar but his mood swings are massive and quick, and he spirals like crazy. ADHD is often a cross diagnosis or misdiagnosis for attachment disorder. My biggest concern is this child often talks about his depression and yet the psychiatrist refuses to treat it. So what to do? Get a new psychiatrist?
I often wonder if I'm one of those people who knows just enough about this to be dangerous. Probably. But I strongly believe that regardless of whatever else is going on, this child is struggling with depression, and I don't see how bipolar disorder can be ruled out, given how he cycles.
So where does this leave us? With a husband who's moving, a very angry teenager, an unemployed and sick mother, and an almost teen girl thrown in the mix. Stay tuned for our next adventure...but lest we forget, attachment disorder never really goes away. It lies below the surface, ready to grapple its hooks right into any shakeup.
Monday, October 31, 2011
When It Hits Hard
Ugh.
I was sick all last week and basically did very little. Now it's Monday evening and I'm facing a ton of work and it feels like it's all due by tomorrow morning.
Tonight is Halloween. I felt like crap earlier, but had planned to take my kid out trick ortreating (yes, I have two but one's too old). Anyway, I shower, change, get ready to take her, and boom! she hasn't done anything she was supposed to do. It's ten til six and she's done no studying and no chores. She's still in her school clothes. For what seems like every day for the last two weeks I've been after both kids to be more responsible. And I burst into tears, telling her she'd blown it—there was no way we'd make Halloween now. Trick or treat here ends at 8 p.m. Even I can do math. And she can too—she's tested two grades ahead of the 7th grade math class she's in.
She sighed and said guiltily, "You're right. I won't go this year."
And I wanted to scream, "What about ME? What about the costume I bought you that was beautiful? What about the fact that this is the last year you're allowed to trick or treat in this city? Did you think about any of THAT?" But I was crying too much.
So I'm spending Halloween night crying, lying in my bed, feeling sick and staring at all my work that I have about fifteen hours to complete. And sleep.
Right now I want to bury myself somewhere and never come out.
I was sick all last week and basically did very little. Now it's Monday evening and I'm facing a ton of work and it feels like it's all due by tomorrow morning.
Tonight is Halloween. I felt like crap earlier, but had planned to take my kid out trick ortreating (yes, I have two but one's too old). Anyway, I shower, change, get ready to take her, and boom! she hasn't done anything she was supposed to do. It's ten til six and she's done no studying and no chores. She's still in her school clothes. For what seems like every day for the last two weeks I've been after both kids to be more responsible. And I burst into tears, telling her she'd blown it—there was no way we'd make Halloween now. Trick or treat here ends at 8 p.m. Even I can do math. And she can too—she's tested two grades ahead of the 7th grade math class she's in.
She sighed and said guiltily, "You're right. I won't go this year."
And I wanted to scream, "What about ME? What about the costume I bought you that was beautiful? What about the fact that this is the last year you're allowed to trick or treat in this city? Did you think about any of THAT?" But I was crying too much.
So I'm spending Halloween night crying, lying in my bed, feeling sick and staring at all my work that I have about fifteen hours to complete. And sleep.
Right now I want to bury myself somewhere and never come out.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Gratitude
Today I'm going to write differently than I have in the last 160 days. I'm going to move away from recording fibromyalgia symptoms and focus on gratitude.
Several weeks ago I planned to begin noting once a day on Facebook something that i was grateful for. I remembered for about two days, then life happened, and I moved on to other things. It wasn't until a friend said a week or so later, "What number are we on?" that I realized I had completely forgotten about my commitment.
So today I started thinking of what I'm grateful for, and I noted a few things on Facebook. Sharing my life with my kids. Having the family i have that catches me when I fall. The safety net that has provided for me over the last several months as my life has fallen apart and come back together several times. The fact that my kids won't starve tonight.
One of my friends was telling me today how much her family has lost since the economy crashed three years ago. In some ways I feel more fortunate. I didn't have a house and a huge amount of savings to lose. I didn't have a lot at all. Granted, we owe the shirts on our backs to somebody, probably Sallie Mae or the government, but we aren't losing a house. We aren't in foreclosure. We haven't been fired and lost benefits that we had counted on.
I have a beautiful puppy dog that makes me smile every day. I have a father who makes me laugh on occasion, usually daily. I have a mom who would do anything to help me, and has. I have two beautiful, bright children that I adore. I have a husband who tries to help out. I have friends that I love both here and in Oklahoma. I'm lucky.
clothes on my back. Food in my belly and a roof over my head. Gratitude.
Several weeks ago I planned to begin noting once a day on Facebook something that i was grateful for. I remembered for about two days, then life happened, and I moved on to other things. It wasn't until a friend said a week or so later, "What number are we on?" that I realized I had completely forgotten about my commitment.
So today I started thinking of what I'm grateful for, and I noted a few things on Facebook. Sharing my life with my kids. Having the family i have that catches me when I fall. The safety net that has provided for me over the last several months as my life has fallen apart and come back together several times. The fact that my kids won't starve tonight.
One of my friends was telling me today how much her family has lost since the economy crashed three years ago. In some ways I feel more fortunate. I didn't have a house and a huge amount of savings to lose. I didn't have a lot at all. Granted, we owe the shirts on our backs to somebody, probably Sallie Mae or the government, but we aren't losing a house. We aren't in foreclosure. We haven't been fired and lost benefits that we had counted on.
I have a beautiful puppy dog that makes me smile every day. I have a father who makes me laugh on occasion, usually daily. I have a mom who would do anything to help me, and has. I have two beautiful, bright children that I adore. I have a husband who tries to help out. I have friends that I love both here and in Oklahoma. I'm lucky.
clothes on my back. Food in my belly and a roof over my head. Gratitude.
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Day who the hell knows?
Pain-4
Anxiety-5
Exhaustion-5
So it's twelve thirty a.m. and I'm up watching Storage Wars and debating about watching old episodes of Criminal Intent.
About a month or so ago I came to the realization that I am going through a midlife crisis. One of my friends posted as a response on Facebook that she was so sorry. For me, I didn't necessarily feel sorry. I didn't feel happy about it either. It just was.
But in the last month, I've come to realize what that means for me. It means that I'm 42 years old and I'm suddenly looking at my life with a new perspective. I have a lot left to do. I have a lot of people left to meet. This is my life here, folks. And it didn't end when I stopped being mommy to little kids and we all moved into new roles.
Monday I'm going to a hookah lounge with a new friend. And he's male. How about that? I have a man friend who's just a friend and is taking me to smoke from a hookah pipe. Because why, you ask? Because I'm curious and I've never done it! Good enough for me! I'm working my job and it's a new job and I'm learning new things. I'm drinking salted caramel mochas. I'm interviewing for babysitting jobs with kids that may be interesting to me. And I love my kids.
So I don't know why I'm writing tonight other than to say that a year ago I thought my life just hurt. I cried and lay in bed and was depressed and didn't think I'd be able to do anything, ever. And now I'm better. I'm happier. And I'm happy to be alive to try the things I'm getting to try.
Who knew that there really was a woman under the mommy suit, someone who likes certain things and dislikes others?
Pain-4
Anxiety-5
Exhaustion-5
So it's twelve thirty a.m. and I'm up watching Storage Wars and debating about watching old episodes of Criminal Intent.
About a month or so ago I came to the realization that I am going through a midlife crisis. One of my friends posted as a response on Facebook that she was so sorry. For me, I didn't necessarily feel sorry. I didn't feel happy about it either. It just was.
But in the last month, I've come to realize what that means for me. It means that I'm 42 years old and I'm suddenly looking at my life with a new perspective. I have a lot left to do. I have a lot of people left to meet. This is my life here, folks. And it didn't end when I stopped being mommy to little kids and we all moved into new roles.
Monday I'm going to a hookah lounge with a new friend. And he's male. How about that? I have a man friend who's just a friend and is taking me to smoke from a hookah pipe. Because why, you ask? Because I'm curious and I've never done it! Good enough for me! I'm working my job and it's a new job and I'm learning new things. I'm drinking salted caramel mochas. I'm interviewing for babysitting jobs with kids that may be interesting to me. And I love my kids.
So I don't know why I'm writing tonight other than to say that a year ago I thought my life just hurt. I cried and lay in bed and was depressed and didn't think I'd be able to do anything, ever. And now I'm better. I'm happier. And I'm happy to be alive to try the things I'm getting to try.
Who knew that there really was a woman under the mommy suit, someone who likes certain things and dislikes others?
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Day 205—Loss
Pain- 5
Anxiety-3
Exhaustion-7
Today one of my friend's daughters lost her companion, a cat named Dusty that she had had for over ten years. Dusty was twelve years old and died of kidney and liver failure, to the best of the vet's knowledge. I remember losing a cat I loved tremendously at the same age—nineteen—and being devastated for quite awhile. I had found this cat when I was around sixteen at the mall parking lot and taken her in. She honestly thought she was like me. She met me halfway home from school every day and walked me home. She followed me to friends' houses until I told her to go. She snuggled with me and we both believed she was special. She died during—or after—a chilly storm during my first semester in college. I remember asking my dad as I left home that Sunday where she was, and he hesitated before telling me she had died. He had found her curled up in some bushes outside, and I wondered if she wondered where I had been when she needed me.
The loss of Dusty has brought back painful reminders of losing pets, but particularly my Amanda, who was my dog for seventeen wonderful years. She saw me through two graduations, a marriage, a cross-country move, custody of two children, and right before her passing, a custody battle over those children. I used to pray Amanda would survive through that custody battle, because, as I would pray, I couldn't stand to lose the kids and Amanda at the same time. In the end, the kids stayed right where they should, and Amanda continued to plug along, despite the growing pain in her body. Multiple doctor visits to the same vet told us to give her more medicine and she would be just fine. My gut said otherwise. In June, she began vomiting, and i finally took her to another vet. The vet concurred she was very sick and her kidney functions were poor, but suggested that we try rehydrating her to get rid of the toxins and see if she could get over this hump. We did just that and she was okay—for about six weeks. When I returned from my regular summer trip to Virginia to see my family, it was clear Amanda was dying. She had trouble standing, she couldn't stand being touched, and she was vomiting again.
I took her back to the second vet's office but saw a different vet this time. This vet assured me that putting her down was not only reasonable, but kind. He told me how he had a dog in the same shape before, and he had tried to keep the dog alive, and his biggest regret was not honoring her by putting her down. Those were the words I so desperately needed to hear, and I called my husband to bring the children up to say goodbye to Amanda. Both kids kissed and hugged her, cried a bit, and went home with their father while I stayed and held her in my arms as the vet talked me through the very simple procedure. When she died in my arms, I burst into tears and buried my face in her neck. He left us and told me to take my time with her. I did, but not knowing what was left to do or say, I left after about fifteen minutes.
I have never been treated so kindly by a vet's office and will forever be grateful for the gentle kindness they showed me that day, and the days following. They sent me a sympathy card, which I kept along with her collar. I gathered all the pictures I could find of her and kept them close to me. I cried every day. Every night I called a friend or my mom and cried about losing Amanda. It wasn't until a month later when I decided I needed to focus on another pet that I was able to begin to heal.
I've written many times on here about Gabi and how she came into our lives, but being able to focus on healing a sick, needy puppy fixed things for me better than anything else could. I took joy in watching her leaping around the yard, and found I could laugh at her innocent excitement. And even though it took a long time to get used to a tiny dog curled in my bed versus the thirty-five pound mutt I had been used to, we adjusted.
I strongly believe that Gabi was aware of Amanda's energy in the house, and that her energy stayed behind for several weeks. Many times in the first few months I would catch Gabi staring at one of two places Amanda would lay in the bedroom, and she would begin barking madly. I wondered if Gabi could see things I couldn't. I still don't know the answer to that, but I do believe she could feel things in those places, and knew they had been home to another animal.
For my sweet nineteen-year old friend, I don't have any great words of wisdom. Losing a pet is hard, and for some of us, it's harder than it is for others. I have always treated my animals with the same love and respect I would treat a family member, and I grieve them similarly as well. The family of Dusty is planning a ceremony this evening for her, which is a lovely way to remember her. After Amanda died, my daughter and I bought two helium balloons and wrote messages from each of us before letting them go "to heaven". That helped all of us heal a bit.
As I wrote this, I cried quite a bit. I don't know that there will ever be a time that I won't miss my Amanda. She was lovely and perfect and my companion for half of my life. But I do know now that God has good things in store for us, even after the loss of those we love. Life is full of love, loss, and more love. And that's important to remember.
Anxiety-3
Exhaustion-7
Today one of my friend's daughters lost her companion, a cat named Dusty that she had had for over ten years. Dusty was twelve years old and died of kidney and liver failure, to the best of the vet's knowledge. I remember losing a cat I loved tremendously at the same age—nineteen—and being devastated for quite awhile. I had found this cat when I was around sixteen at the mall parking lot and taken her in. She honestly thought she was like me. She met me halfway home from school every day and walked me home. She followed me to friends' houses until I told her to go. She snuggled with me and we both believed she was special. She died during—or after—a chilly storm during my first semester in college. I remember asking my dad as I left home that Sunday where she was, and he hesitated before telling me she had died. He had found her curled up in some bushes outside, and I wondered if she wondered where I had been when she needed me.
The loss of Dusty has brought back painful reminders of losing pets, but particularly my Amanda, who was my dog for seventeen wonderful years. She saw me through two graduations, a marriage, a cross-country move, custody of two children, and right before her passing, a custody battle over those children. I used to pray Amanda would survive through that custody battle, because, as I would pray, I couldn't stand to lose the kids and Amanda at the same time. In the end, the kids stayed right where they should, and Amanda continued to plug along, despite the growing pain in her body. Multiple doctor visits to the same vet told us to give her more medicine and she would be just fine. My gut said otherwise. In June, she began vomiting, and i finally took her to another vet. The vet concurred she was very sick and her kidney functions were poor, but suggested that we try rehydrating her to get rid of the toxins and see if she could get over this hump. We did just that and she was okay—for about six weeks. When I returned from my regular summer trip to Virginia to see my family, it was clear Amanda was dying. She had trouble standing, she couldn't stand being touched, and she was vomiting again.
I took her back to the second vet's office but saw a different vet this time. This vet assured me that putting her down was not only reasonable, but kind. He told me how he had a dog in the same shape before, and he had tried to keep the dog alive, and his biggest regret was not honoring her by putting her down. Those were the words I so desperately needed to hear, and I called my husband to bring the children up to say goodbye to Amanda. Both kids kissed and hugged her, cried a bit, and went home with their father while I stayed and held her in my arms as the vet talked me through the very simple procedure. When she died in my arms, I burst into tears and buried my face in her neck. He left us and told me to take my time with her. I did, but not knowing what was left to do or say, I left after about fifteen minutes.
I have never been treated so kindly by a vet's office and will forever be grateful for the gentle kindness they showed me that day, and the days following. They sent me a sympathy card, which I kept along with her collar. I gathered all the pictures I could find of her and kept them close to me. I cried every day. Every night I called a friend or my mom and cried about losing Amanda. It wasn't until a month later when I decided I needed to focus on another pet that I was able to begin to heal.
I've written many times on here about Gabi and how she came into our lives, but being able to focus on healing a sick, needy puppy fixed things for me better than anything else could. I took joy in watching her leaping around the yard, and found I could laugh at her innocent excitement. And even though it took a long time to get used to a tiny dog curled in my bed versus the thirty-five pound mutt I had been used to, we adjusted.
I strongly believe that Gabi was aware of Amanda's energy in the house, and that her energy stayed behind for several weeks. Many times in the first few months I would catch Gabi staring at one of two places Amanda would lay in the bedroom, and she would begin barking madly. I wondered if Gabi could see things I couldn't. I still don't know the answer to that, but I do believe she could feel things in those places, and knew they had been home to another animal.
For my sweet nineteen-year old friend, I don't have any great words of wisdom. Losing a pet is hard, and for some of us, it's harder than it is for others. I have always treated my animals with the same love and respect I would treat a family member, and I grieve them similarly as well. The family of Dusty is planning a ceremony this evening for her, which is a lovely way to remember her. After Amanda died, my daughter and I bought two helium balloons and wrote messages from each of us before letting them go "to heaven". That helped all of us heal a bit.
As I wrote this, I cried quite a bit. I don't know that there will ever be a time that I won't miss my Amanda. She was lovely and perfect and my companion for half of my life. But I do know now that God has good things in store for us, even after the loss of those we love. Life is full of love, loss, and more love. And that's important to remember.
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