May 14, 2013
by Bobbi Kahler
0 comments

The Courage to Care for Myself

I had to learn an essential – and frightening – lesson in order to get well. It came about eighteen months into the journey, when my new doctor, Barbara, was explaining to me the steps I would need to take. Excited to have any sort of plan, I said, “Just tell me what I need to do and I can make it happen. I can push through anything.” She quickly replied, “That’s exactly what made you so sick. What made you sick, will not make you well.”

Doh! Yet, what did that mean for me? I could look at almost every achievement in my life and point to the hard work, persistence and raw determination as my success factors. If I couldn’t use those strengths, what did I have? Who was I without those strengths? They were a part of me.

Sadly, I wasn’t ready to – or maybe couldn’t? – let go of those strengths. Another six months passed and another major relapse occurred. Without any judgment, Dr. Barbara said to me, “Bobbi, you have a very clear choice to make: do you want to get well? If you do, you simply have to try a new approach. As it is, from this moment on, if you become really serious about taking care of yourself, you are probably facing two more years of recovery.”

It was a numbing moment. I had always believed that no matter what challenge was in front of me, I could force my way through it and overcome it. I was proud of that. Now, it was, quite literally, making me sicker. And, let’s be honest: did that mean I would simply sit around and wait for something to happen? Definitely NOT a strength of mine.

What I learned over the next two years is that taking care of yourself is hard work. For me, it was having the discipline to eat in such a way that I was intentionally nurturing my body. It was having the courage to listen to my body when it was begging me for sleep and rest. I say courage because there were plenty of people who were surprisingly judgmental when I said I needed to rest. I had to stay focused on what I knew I needed to do, instead of being distracted by trying to earn the approval of someone who really didn’t understand all that my body had been through. Winning the approval of others used to be important to me. It hurt when someone that I barely knew felt compelled to criticize me for resting. I didn’t know it at the time, but essentially what I was learning to do was to give myself permission to care for myself, even when that meant that I had to put myself first. Putting myself first is not something that I was taught to do or something that felt comfortable. If I was going to survive, however, it was essential. It is also at the heart of personal change. We often put ourselves last, which undermines our goals and efforts to change. I also learned that caring for ourselves is not selfish; caring for ourselves is absolutely necessary if we want to have the capacity to care for and help others.

As I got deeper into my recovery, I also learned how to gently challenge myself. I was afraid at first. How would I know when I was ready to try running again or biking? What if I tried it and I suffered a relapse? Fear. What a paralyzing emotion. Eventually, however, it became more painful not to try than the fear about a relapse. I found the quote by Anais Nin and let it inspire me:

“There came a time when the risk to remain tight in the bud was more painful
than the risk it took to blossom.”

April 21, 2013
by Bobbi Kahler
0 comments

Ten years ago, I didn’t know today was possible . . .

As the anniversary date of my collapse approached, I wondered how I would feel when it arrived. In addition to feeling joy and gratitude, I am also completely overwhelmed by the thought that ten years ago, I didn’t know today was possible.

We always hear people say, you are going to be ten years older either way, so you might as well get started working on your dreams, but what about when you can’t even see the possibilities? Or that you are told that possibilities don’t exist. Or when the clouds are so dark that all you have is faith and hope that things might be better?

I think one part of the answer comes down to the courage of the first step and then the discipline of every step after that one. I remember when we found Dr. Barbara (eighteen months into the process). She explained to me how I needed to alter how I was eating (for starters, I had to start eating breakfast and a high protein one at that). She then prescribed 18 different vitamins and supplements that I was supposed to take every day, multiple times a day. I cannot swallow pills, so this was quite daunting. As I looked at the list, I asked her, “And, you think this will help?” She replied, “It is your way forward today.”

The supplement bottles filled a 13×9 cake pan. But, if they were going to make me well, I was going to take them. Since I can’t swallow pills, we broke them open and mixed them with grape juice and called them my “vitamin cocktails;” they were the worst tasting cocktails that I’ve ever had, but I drank them.

It’s hard to believe that where I am today started with that cake pan of supplements and vitamins. To me, it underscores the importance of beginning, of getting started. I believe that if we have the courage and faith to start then we will end up being delighted, surprised and awed by what we can achieve and where we can go.

April 15, 2013
by Bobbi Kahler
0 comments

Brush with death . . .

April 15, 2003. The first doctor we consulted after my collapse thought that I had heavy metal poisoning. He prescribed a series of chelation therapy treatments. April 15th was my first treatment. Rick and I were excited; maybe this would help.

I arrived at the doctor’s office and I was hooked up to an IV. I sat there for four hours as the concoction entered my bloodstream. The chelation agents work to strip all heavy metals from your blood and system. I’m not a fan of needles, but I was reading my book, Lincoln’s Virtues, to pass the time. After about three hours, I began to feel sort of weak, but, of course, when wasn’t I weak at that time?

Finally, it was over and I was unhooked. By this time, it was lunchtime and the doctor had left. As the nurse, Rick and I walked down the hall towards the receptionist desk, I began to feel a little lightheaded. As Rick paid for the visit, I decided to step outside, thinking that maybe the fresh air would clear my head. Unfortunately, it got worse and I became very dizzy. I stepped back inside and tried to reach out and grab Rick’s arm. I couldn’t quite reach him. By now, everything was spinning, off balance, and going black. I whispered, “I feel dizzy.” And, then everything went black and I sunk to the floor.

Everything was still black, yet I was aware that someone was cradling me, elevating my upper body. I was also aware that I was completely drenched. I had the fleeting thought, “Who the hell threw hot water on me?” before sinking into the warm, welcoming darkness.

I became aware of someone taking my blood pressure. I have exceptionally good blood pressure. It’s so good that whenever I’ve had it taken, the nurse always comments about how good it is. As I was lying there, still curiously drenched and resting in the utter blackness, I was fully expecting the nurse to make the same type of comment. Instead, I heard her say, “Oh. That can’t be right.” The other nurse said, “Why? What is it?” The other nurse said, “It’s 50 over palp.” I didn’t know exactly what that meant, but I knew it wasn’t good. At that point, I could tell that Rick was holding my left hand. I heard him say, “She’s sweating so bad. She’s burning up.” I could hear how worried he was – and he’s never worried. That concerned me.

The nurse who was holding me said, “I think she’s coming to.” The blackness slowly cleared, my heart was racing and I was – in fact – burning up. They got me back to one of the patient rooms where I rested for a bit. The doctor was called back from his lunch and he checked my vitals. By this time, he pronounced they were “close to normal enough.”

We later found out that this doctor had been sued multiple times due to patient deaths during his chelation therapy. When subsequent doctors heard of this experience I had, each one said that I was incredibly lucky to be alive. It all could have ended that day.

I don’t think that either of us really wanted to face that reality immediately. Instead, we stayed focused on trying to find a doctor that we could trust and doing all we could to help me recover. It was a full two years later when we discussed how close I came to dying that day. I don’t think I will ever forget it. (And, I did not have heavy metal poisoning.)

It’s odd in some ways. The day that haunts me more is the following day, April 16, 2003. That was the day I went back to the doctor’s office for the vitamin I.V. The chelation drugs remove all heavy metals, including minerals and vitamins that your body needs, so you have to go back for replacement vitamins and minerals.

At the end of the treatment, I felt so good. I felt like I actually had life in my legs. I hadn’t felt that in so long that I was thrilled! Maybe this had worked! It lasted for about four hours and then slowly the feeling of life, of energy, began seeping away. I wanted so desperately to hold onto it. It seemed so cruel – this glimpse of feeling healthy and strong – and yet it was surely slipping away. And then my legs went back to feeling dead; every step I took I had to will my legs to move. It reminded me of the story that I read in Junior High, Flowers for Algernon. It was so frustrating and painful to know that the brief respite from the fatigue was ending and I was slipping back into the shell of my former self. Inside, I was crying out that I knew the real me was the one that had energy and life and strength. On the outside, I appeared calm and accepting so I could be brave and strong and not make it any worse for those around me.

That is the day that haunts me, that scares me the most. Not the day I almost died. When I am riding my bike or hiking or skiing and I feel strong, I often whisper a silent prayer that it won’t be taken away again. I silently promise that I will take care of this gift and honor it and cherish it forever.

This past Saturday I was traveling back home from Newark and I was going through security early on Saturday morning. The TSA agent was very friendly and he was attempting to be cheerful with some other passengers who were having none of it. He looked at me and he said, “Now you look like someone who is happy with life.” We had a nice little conversation and a laugh together. As I walked away, I thought he really has no way of knowing just how true that statement is. And as I continued walking, with legs full of life, I felt the deep gratitude that has become my constant companion.

March 27, 2013
by Bobbi Kahler
0 comments

Truly Alive, Fully Awake

In February of this year, I began a new habit of working out on the bike trainer, which is down in our sun room. It was late afternoon on a Sunday and I was in the midst of my second workout on the bike. It was brutal. I felt sluggish. I decided that I might not be able to maintain the speed and cadence that I wanted, but I was going to finish the hour, as I’d planned.

Because I was feeling sluggish, I was a little down. Maybe I hadn’t really re-gained my inner athlete; the athlete that I knew myself to be but still felt like I had somewhat lost because of the illness. As I pedaled, my I-Tunes playlist cued up Eye of the Tiger. I began to pedal a little harder. Images of lying in bed for months flashed in my mind. The playlist clicked to Gonna Fly Now, the theme song to Rocky. A new image replaced the old ones: the image of me pedaling my way up the final stretch of Vail Pass. My eyes began to blur with the emotion I felt.

I kept pedaling. Hard. The next song started, Daughtry’s, What About Now? As I listened to the lyrics, “What about now? What about today? What if you are making me all that I was meant to be?” I had a clear flash of what was immensely important to me: reclaiming that inner athlete, the athlete that I know myself to be. Becoming stronger than I’ve ever been. Becoming my best self. It was more important than all of the little distractions and the petty worries that I had. The next song was Kelly Clarkson’s, Stronger, and then, as I realized I was past my hour and had worked harder than I had in years, it was Beyonce’s, Halo, that ended my ride. I sat on my bike slumped over the handlebars, spent but energized, and cried. I looked up and saw the sun setting behind the mountains, dazzling in its beauty, and I felt like I was truly alive, fully awake.

I knew that something important had shifted for me. The days following that ride, my energy continued to build and things started happening: new opportunities came my way, my writing for this blog (and my other one on coaching for managers) began to flow. I had more ideas than I could keep up with. My workouts were strong. I saw more beauty in my surroundings. I felt more connected. And . . . happy.

That day on the bike, when I had such a clear vision of what was immensely important to me, I tapped into a core value that became an intrinsic motivator, which is a building block of change.

What speaks to you so deeply and strongly that you have to answer?

March 23, 2013
by Bobbi Kahler
0 comments

Exposing the illusion of barriers.

“Fears, like barriers, are often an illusion.” — Michael Jordan, Hall-of-Fame Acceptance Speech

A clip from Facing the Giants (on Youtube here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zHPhVTw3YgM), beautifully illustrates how when we remove — or are forced to remove — a self-limiting barrier, we can do far more than we imagined. This clip also illustrates the value of having a coach there with you! I hope you check it out!

I find it thrilling when I break through some self-imposed barrier. Not only is that rewarding, but it almost always opens up a new possibility. I was out cross-country skiing today and it was a bit brutal! We are in the midst of a winter storm, so it was cold, windy, snowy and visibility was poor. I skied out to a hill, it’s called Brick Hill. The front side of it contains switchbacks and skiing up it will definitely get your heart rate up! But, I like the challenge. What I don’t like so much is the back side of Brick Hill; it is straight down and is steep in places. Skiing down steep hills has been scary for me (probably because too often in the past I’ve ended up in a heap in a snowbank!). So, what I’ve done this year is that I’ll ski up the front side of Brick Hill and then turn around and ski back down it. I’ve gotten pretty good at going down the front side. Today, for whatever reason, I thought maybe I could use my newly honed skills and success with the front of the hill and ski down the back side of the hill. So, I skied to the crest of the back side of the hill and without giving myself time to reconsider, I started down. It was fun!

As soon as I reached the bottom, I started thinking about the other hills on the course and how easy those would likely be by comparison. In fact, I started skiing up and down hills, having a blast! The one slight problem is that I was having so much fun I forgot that I had to ski — into the very stiff wind — all the way back to the Nordic Center! By the time I made it back, my legs were trembling, I was frozen — and thinking about next time and where I can go next!

March 16, 2013
by Bobbi Kahler
0 comments

The fuel for persistence

In the recent post, Biking Through the Gate, I mentioned that Rick had asked me what made me keep going, despite all of the uncertainty. As I wrote, I didn’t have a clear vision of what might happen. What I did have, however, were pieces of identity that I just couldn’t give up. One piece of my identity, that was fostered by my mom, is that I NEVER give up; I can achieve whatever I set my mind to. And the other piece is that I had always been an athlete. On the darkest of days, lying in bed barely able to walk to the bathroom, the memory of playing tennis, of running, of weightlifting haunted me. I would have dreams where I was playing tennis only to wake up and realize that the body I was inhabiting wasn’t capable of that.

The distance between where I was and where I had been — and wanted to be — was so massive. At first, this distance was so discouraging that it was almost heartbreaking. One day in October of 2004, I was out for a walk. I had worked up to walking six blocks where there was a church with wide steps leading up to the doors. I could sit on the steps and recover before turning around and heading home. I was sitting on the steps of the church, exhausted and debating whether or not I needed to call Rick on my cell to have him come and get me. I was deeply sad. By this point, I had gained some weight and some “friends” had taken it upon themselves to let me know that my clothes were too tight and that I was unprofessional. As I sat on the steps, thinking about that criticism and how exhausted I was after walking a mere six blocks, I felt frustrated, angry and hopeless. As soon as I identified the emotion of hopelessness, which was almost instantly, I became angry at myself. Yes, things looked bleak. But, was this really who I was? Did I give up? Was this how I would face this challenge? I was ashamed at myself in that moment. It then occurred to me that I had increased the distance I could walk from room-to-room to six blocks. How did I know how far I could eventually walk? The answer, if I gave up, wasn’t going to be satisfying.

The situation I was facing was simply the situation. It sucked. I couldn’t wave a magic wand and change it. I had to work through it. What I realized, sitting on those steps, is that I had to change the way I was viewing the situation. I could either continue to mourn what I couldn’t do or I could learn to celebrate every step more that I could take today that I couldn’t take yesterday. From that point on, every time I went for a walk — no matter how short it was — I viewed it as a victory. At least I wasn’t in bed. (And, on those days when I couldn’t get out of bed, I thought of it as giving my body the rest it needed so I could be stronger the next day.) Every time I was able to walk a little farther, even if it was only a half block farther, I celebrated it as a victory. At some point shortly after this epiphany, I started repeating to myself as I was walking, “I am an athlete and I never give up.”

I believe that that mantra and what it represented to me, my very identity, is what kept me going. There was no challenge that was more important to me than my identity. Of course, I had no idea then how long the road would be — and that’s probably a good thing! I recently saw a quote by Henry Ford that sums it up quite well:

” I am looking for a lot of men who have an infinite capacity to not know what can’t be done.”

I had a choice that day on the steps of that church: I could focus on what I couldn’t do or I could focus on what I could do. By focusing on what I could do, I have not only removed the limitations that I faced that day back in 2004, but I have become more of an athlete than I have ever been before. The picture of what is possible has forever changed.

March 12, 2013
by Bobbi Kahler
0 comments

Learning to cherish what I have

It’s amazing how we don’t always truly cherish – not just appreciate – what we have.

Two years into my illness, having spent most of those days in bed, I had gained weight and lost a lot of strength. This was difficult for me. I was accustomed to being a nice size 4 (never mind that I essentially had to starve myself to maintain that!). One day while at my doctor’s I was complaining to her that I had gained weight and how much I hated that and how my body had really let me down. She allowed me to rant and then she paused, looked me squarely in the eyes, and said, “Have you ever once considered being grateful to your body for doing what it had to do in order to keep you alive? That’s a miracle because with what your body went through, you should no longer be here.”

What an amazing way to look at ourselves and our bodies. Not as something to be embarrassed about or ashamed of or critical of, but as something to be grateful for. Beyond that, our bodies and ourselves are something to be cared for. What do I need to feel strong? To feel healthy? To be fit? To be happy? To feel joy?

I’m still working to fill in more of those answers. What are your answers?

March 8, 2013
by Bobbi Kahler
1 Comment

Biking through the gate

When we first moved to Colorado in 2010, I was no longer sick, but I had not recovered any of my strength. Colorado is an easy place to be active! Everything, however, was hard. Walking along the bike path left me out of breath (of course, we were living at 8000 feet). The first time I took my bike out, I made it less than a mile before I had to turn around, and, worse than that, the first significant hill I faced kicked my butt. I had to get off the bike and push it up. It seemed that while I was no longer sick, I was also no longer an athlete. That hurt. A lot.

I kept working at it: the walking, hiking and biking. Everyday getting a little stronger and going a little farther. One day, I decided to start my way up the mountain. I knew I wouldn’t make it to the top of Vail Pass, but how far could I go?

As it turns out, I made it eight miles, which took me to the campground. Right after the campground, the road gets really steep. There’s a short stretch – maybe a quarter of a mile – where it looks like the road goes straight up! It was daunting. What made it more daunting were the cyclists who were either pushing their bikes up or who had simply collapsed on the side of the road. I decided to save that challenge for another day.

A week later, I thought I would try it. I made if half way until I literally couldn’t make the pedals move any more. I, too, collapsed on the side of the road, gasping for air.

Three days later, I was up for more torture. I thought: why not today? I rounded the curve at the campground and dug with everything that I had for the gate. I think that I passed others who were lying on the ground, but I can’t be sure; I was too busy gasping for air! But, I kept pedaling. Every rotation of the pedals hurt: my lungs were burning, my legs were on fire, and I was becoming afraid that I might throw up. But I kept the pedals moving. I reached the gate! In one fluid motion, I threw my bike down, walked a few steps away from the other folks who had stopped there and dropped to my knees, struggling to breath. I wanted to act all cool but the lack of oxygen not to mention the lack of ability to hold myself upright and the acute fear I was going to throw up all over everyone sort of got in the way. Instead, I sat there on my knees. Once my breathing became manageable, I looked around at the view and at how high I had climbed and I began to cry. Not out of pain, but out of accomplishment and all the miles traveled since the original diagnosis seven years earlier.

Unfortunately, my climb to the gate didn’t leave a lot left in the tank! While my spirits were soaring on the ride home, my body was spent. Ironically, even though I made it to the gate, what stuck in my memory was the extreme effort that it took and the pain and fear that went with it. For the next year and a half that gate became my wall. I didn’t even try to make that climb again; instead, I turned around at the campground every time. It became a symbol for what I couldn’t breach, so I didn’t try. I just accepted the limitation.

Until one day last summer. I was out for a ride and I made it to the campground more easily and a bit faster than I had been. (I should mention that the ride to the campground itself is a climb.) I was getting ready to turn my bike around and head back down, when I thought, “I hate that damn gate!” and instead of turning around, I kept pedaling. And pedaling. Past the others who were walking their bikes, past those who – and I knew their pain – were sitting on the ground, gasping, and finally, past the gate itself! I didn’t have to stop to gasp and recover. I was still pedaling. And, I felt strong and I was picking up speed. I rode a mile past that gate before stopping to look around and enjoy the view. And, once again, cry. The gate was no longer my limitation. It was simply a short stretch of the ride that was difficult.

I have now made it to the cul-de-sac (at right), which is four miles past the gate and which contains a lot of climbing (gains in elevation). I can’t say that it is easy, but I can do it. There are stretches that seem so steep and long that I can’t look at the whole stretch at once. It’s too daunting. Instead I find some rock or bush or tree about 20 yards away and I tell myself, “Just make it to that rock,” and once I make that rock, I find the next landmark. And, I keep pedaling.

My next goal is the top of the pass. I have another five miles to go. Rick (who is a veteran of the pass) tells me that the next three miles are no worse than anything that I’ve done and then I’ll face about a mile that is really tough – about the same as the campground just longer – and then the last mile isn’t bad. He’s supremely confident that I can do it. As I’ve been using my bike trainer and working on my cadence (rate of pedaling), when I am near the end of my workout, and I start to get tired, I imagine myself finishing that last mile and stopping at the top of the summit. How will that feel? What will it feel like to stand on the top of a mountain and know that I rode my bike up it? What will the view be like?

What makes it a remarkably motivating thought is that for the first eighteen months after the collapse, my only view was what I could see from my bedroom windows in Portland: my neighbor, Andy’s roof line. No disrespect to Andy or his roof line, but it wasn’t inspiring. I watched seasons come and go and come again. I remember thinking at one point: Will this be all I ever see? There was no way for me to know it then, but there were so many more vistas for me to see. Rick asked me recently why, with so much uncertainty, did I keep going. As I reflected on that question, I knew that I didn’t have a specific vision during that time but I had something more important to fuel my resolve, which I’ll share in an upcoming post.

March 6, 2013
by Bobbi Kahler
4 Comments

Close call that changes it all . . .

Ten years ago today, I woke up, tired. Again. With my usual self-recriminations I told myself to quit being such a baby. Lots of people get tired. I made it into the master bathroom and pulled the kitchen stool that I had commandeered months earlier, over to the bathroom sink to begin the process of brushing my teeth. A few months earlier, it had become too much effort to stand up long enough to brush my teeth. Then it had become too difficult to raise my entire arm to brush my teeth, so, in my efforts not to be a baby, I had come with an ingenious process of sitting on the kitchen stool and supporting my weight with my elbows on the edge of the vanity. Now, all I had to do was raise my forearm to my mouth to be able to brush my teeth. Brilliant! Until this day ten years ago. I sat on my kitchen stool, rested a bit from the strenuous walk from the bedroom, and stared at my right forearm, commanding it to move. Nothing happened. As hard as I tried, I could no longer raise my forearm up off of the counter.

That began our odyssey. It was a journey that would take about eight years in its entirety. It began with the first eighteen months where most days I couldn’t make it out of bed. Rick would bring me all of my meals so that I could preserve the precious little energy I had; saving that for trips to the bathroom that covered less than twenty feet but which felt like twenty miles.

In the first six months, we consulted many doctors. One of the many that we consulted was very compassionate. He was the only one that was remotely helpful. Unfortunately, he didn’t think there was a lot that Western medicine could do for me. He told me that based upon his research and consulting with other doctors, he believed that I probably had less than a 3% chance of ever really recovering. And, as far as being an athlete again and running or playing tennis, I was gently encouraged not to dream that big. Those wouldn’t be options for me in the future.

A year after that prognosis, and with the help of an amazing naturopath and an even more amazing massage therapist (thank you Kim Payne!), I began walking outdoors again. My first “walk” was to the end of our driveway, which was maybe thirty feet long. My second trip was to the end of our block (three houses away), where I had to sit on the curb to rest before returning home. I was grateful to be outside walking again, but it felt so discouraging when I compared it to the runner I once was (eight miles, every other day, in under an hour). Which is when it occurred to me that it didn’t really matter what I could – or couldn’t do – in the past, all that mattered were the next steps that I could take.

Ironically, in all this time, I never missed a single speaking engagement. I would rest for the entire day and Rick would drive me to the event so that I could preserve whatever strength I had. I remember standing in front of an audience talking about “Pursuing our Passion” and loving every minute of the experience, yet I was also aware of the sweat that was pouring down my back with the effort it took me to stand. As soon as the event was over, Rick would help me to the car, where I would collapse onto the seat, unable to raise my head from neck rest. I didn’t want to let anyone who had hired me down. It never occurred to me that maybe I was letting myself down. Or, as I re-read this paragraph, maybe I simply loved what I was doing and I believed so much in what I was saying that it would have felt like I was letting myself down by not speaking?

Forward to today. Ten years later, I hike almost daily here in the Rockies, I am a road cyclist, I cross-country ski, and I’m a pretty good Disc Golfer. I have learned a valuable lesson: last October, I had a brief scare where I was feeling some unusual fatigue. Instead of thinking, “How can I push through this and ignore it?” I asked myself, “What do I need to do to care for myself and protect my health?” That question led to some tough decisions, but I learned that nothing is really more important than health.

This summer I will bike to the top of Vail Pass. It’s a tough climb, but last summer I did the majority of it; I only have about five miles left to go. I will take a picture from the top – once I can stop crying from joy.

As this anniversary approached, I started to feel energy about resuming my writing and starting a blog. Without dwelling on the illness and the journey back to health, I do want to explore it to some extent. My sincere hope is that others who have faced or are facing a similar experience will find hope in the stories. Like my previous writing, I plan to explore things like hope, resiliency, strength, self-leadership and persistence (and whatever else shows up!).

The other word that came to mind as I was writing this posting is love. I have always known that the love that Rick gave me during this time was priceless. We weren’t yet married and I know that many people in his position would have left. Instead he was the gentle, strong, loving man that I fell in love with. Together, we found ways to have fun and enjoy our time. We also experienced love from all of our very dear friends in Portland who were there for us with kindness, support and true caring.

I hope that you’ll check out the blog and tell others about it.