Lazy, Hypochondriac Old Brain Anyway!

I'm not sure how much I shared with you about my Independent Evaluation, so I'm just going to hit the highlights and then tell you about the results that came in the mail yesterday: 

1. The Doctor preforming my Independent Evaluation only talked to me for about five minutes.
2. He made a show of being personable for a moment, but then he developed a patronizing tone and asked me about four questions, and those were very leading questions. For example, when he asked me what symptoms I was still "claiming" to have, and when I started by saying, "I've improved a lot, but --" he cut me off before I could really tell him what lingering problems I'm actually still having. It was as if "I've improved a lot" was all he really wanted to hear.
3. He glanced over the shoulder of his testing guy to skim whatever notes they had on file for me and said he remembered me and something about my not having a significant injury at all. This troubles me because I have records from Urgent Care,the ER, my neuropsychologist, my primary care physician at the time, and the entire staff at the brian rehabilitation center. Surely all these people, who have certainly seen me more frequently and gotten to know me quite well, all these people can't all be wrong?
4. Another thing that Dr IME said that bothered me was that I'd had pre-existing anxiety, and that "people like me" can sometimes make something out to be a much bigger deal than it actually was, that "people like me" exaggerate their symptoms when they're "shaken up." I resent the implication that I'm just overreacting because I've got some kind of a mental issue instead of a very real physical injury that is temporarily holding me back. Even he in his earlier report had had to admit that I was experiencing some difficulties. Did he make that up? It is offensive and bigoted to use my past experiences and counseling as excuses not to help me get my life back in the wake of my car accident. That I went to counseling for anxiety in the past was a healthy decision on my part -- It eliminated the problem. That shouldn't be used against me now. 
5. I started to tell Dr IME that I can't spell as well as I used to be able to do, but he interrupted me and said that I had had high scores in spelling when I took the last test with him, over a year ago. I didn't care for the way he blew off my concerns and didn't let me finish my sentence, or even to tell him anything more. I had to take that spelling test again this time with his assistant, and it was pretty easy, but you must understand that I taught eighth grade spelling. I was an English Major and I read a lot. I had and have a huge vocabulary -- and that now when I'm writing I often stare at a word and no longer have any clear idea if it is correct or not. I'm glad that I passed his test, but that doesn't mean I can go back to teaching kids to spell. My ability to think on my feet is gone, and I could never keep track of an entire classroom of kids with the attention span I have now.
6. Dr. IME wasn't interested in getting to know me or in finding the truth about what's been going on. He got the information he wanted and he walked out without asking me if I had anything more to say. I know I should have been more assertive, but that's hard to do when someone is making unfair assumptions about you. It's very intimidating.
7. When they (whoever they are) sent me the letter telling me the date and time to be there for this IME, the note said that I could expect to be there for between four and eight hours, and to bring a snack. It took about three hours. I get kind of competitive about those tests, even though the only thing I'm actually competing against is how my brain was just after the accident -- because really it's what my brain was before the accident that I want to see again. I did the best job that I could do, and the result was that somewhere toward the end when I was doing the one with the shapes and colors on the computer screen, I was starting to have a really hard time keeping my eyes open and my head up. That's neuro-fatigue, which is one of my major problems, and I don't think Dr IME could see whether or not I have that problem when he was only there for five minutes, and I don't know if the guy testing me knew to look for it or not.
8. I guess my frustration with the doctor besides his unprofessional attitude is that he didn't seem to be testing me for any of the types of things that are actually still difficult for me. Spelling isn't such a big deal. We have spell correct these days.I can't teach the subject anymore if I mix up words like "Chores" and "Choirs" a lot now, because I wouldn't be able to tell on the spot or in the spur of the moment how to spell any given word. Or maybe one day I can. I spent $100,000 on a teaching degree -- I was two classes away from getting my Master's Degree. I resent that this stranger would accuse me of faking or psychosomatically exaggerating the seriousness of my problem. Why would I do that? I'm not getting any kind of settlement for what happened to me, and if I could go back to work full time I wouldn't need therapy or any money. I spent all that time and all that money on that career because I loved teaching English and I couldn't imagine doing anything else with my life. It's killing me that I can't teach anymore. It's discouraging, but I'm doing the very best I can to follow through on all my therapy so that I can hopefully one day still go back to teaching full time. That's what I want. That's the goal. 
9. What about balancing my check book or keeping my things organized and where I can find them? What about being able to cook without accidentally putting in too much of one ingredient, or burning something, because I get distracted and lose track of what I'm doing? How will I do at paying my bills? How can I find a place to live on my income with the few short hours I can work before I'm too fatigued to keep enough hours to pay rent? How can I drive when I'm so easily distracted? I'm waiting on the answers that the IME doctor either could not test, or did not to test, and all the while I'm aware that when people think of brain injury they are never picturing a woman like me who can still write beautiful, well-reasoned arguments and works as an office assistant. They don't realize all the little things that turn into big things.They aren't looking very closely because they don't know what it is that they're looking for. Well I can tell you, one of the things that they can look for is whether or not a shape and color test on a monitor should be exhausting after only three hours. Dr IME didn't stick around to see that. Are there tests that he could do that would test fatigue? Does he have tests about abstract reasoning or decision-making? Are there tests of how memory is affected when I do different mental tasks for different periods of time? Can he test how well I am organized at home, or how I stay on task and successfully complete tasks around the house when I'm distracted? It seems to me like a lot of my problems involve things that there are no standardized tests for, but I'm not a neuropsychologist and I  hope that I'm wrong, or that the insurance company can take into consideration what my family is seeing and what my therapists see.

Before this happened to me, I would never have realized that a person with a high IQ could be in a car accident, suffer a brain injury, and then only have some small part of their brain damaged in such a way that they can still walk and talk as they always had.I always kind of assumed that brain damage meant the entire brain. I wouldn't understand how a person with an IQ of 145 could possibly also struggle with every day decisions, understanding conversations, recalling things in the right order, and various other little changes that only those who know me could notice are missing -- or everyone who talks to me, when I happen to be overtired.  My boyfriend met me after the accident, and it's nice because he doesn't miss how I used to be, doesn't know how I used to be. But even he can see that mental exercise tires me out, and that when I'm overtired I stop thinking clearly, stop remembering words that I'm trying to get out, and start saying things that I didn't intend to say, like chairs instead of choirs. But then that's brain injury -- It makes sense. The part of my brain that's injured makes logical reasoning difficult for me, especially if I'm trying to solve something mathematical in my head, or faced with something new that I don't know how to approach. But the part of my brain that is not injured is still well above average, and gets ideas on a page faster and more clearly than most people. So I'm very fortunate in that, so I've been using that part of my brain, using my strengths, to explain to Mr Insurance Adjuster why I believe I still need to complete my therapy despite Dr IME's assumptions. I can only tell him the truth and hope that he is willing to see it proven.

The results of the Independent Examination were mailed to me by the Insurance Adjuster who sounds like a stuffy-nosed high school kid. What he wrote serves as sort of a cover letter for IME Report from the Dark Side. In it, the insurance adjuster states that my doctor's nemesis has determined that I should be completely done with brain therapy by the end of the year. He advises that I "should continue with my 'psychotherapy' at Community Mental Health for the same time period. However, any further treatment beyond two months" would likely be related to my "pre-existing conditions of both anxiety and depression."

Mr Insurance Adjuster advises that I share this report with all of my doctors and therapists, so that they can form rebuttals to these statements "if they happen to disagree with the medical opinion of Dr IME."

Oh, it only gets better from here.

First of all, in his opening summary of my case, Dr IME states that I am "well acquainted" with him, having previously seen him for all of five minutes almost two years ago.

I guess the extra five minutes he spent on me this time really clinched the deal. 

He points out that I was released on the same day of my accident and eventually referred to the neuropsychologist for testing and follow-up treatment. Once again, Dr IME stated that my doctor's "claim that there were two collisions and therefore two TBI's within that one accident" are merely guesswork, because there's no way my doctor could know that without having been on the scene at the time of the accident. 

This is bullshit, because it's right in my police report that I was hit by two different vehicles, which Dr IME would know if he'd bothered to do any research, or to remember my own description of the accident. He says that I probably suffered a little bit of amnesia for about two hours following the accident, and then went home with a mild injury to my brain. 

Dr IME details my doctor's recent observational evaluations of me from the TBI Group, particularly the time that my brother-in-law came in with me and we talked about all the issues I was having at home in relation to my TBI -- and then said that, according to his findings, these claims are not valid. Previously when he tested me, Dr IME says, I "had a full-scale IQ of 117 (87th Percentile)" placing my "overall intellectual abilities at the high-average range." This, he says, even exceeds his "premorbid baseline estimates," which just means how smart he imagines I might have been before the accident. Thank you very much for that vote of confidence, Doctor. I really appreciate it.

Continuing further, he says that I'm solidly average in almost all aspects, if mildly depressed, including executive functioning. He mentions that I taught reading for thirteen years, and I have no idea why he thinks that. I wish he'd asked me about it in person. It must have been from something I said the last time, because he certainly didn't ask me anything about my past this go-round. He notes that I was "well-kept and dressed appropriately," that my "conversational speech was spontaneous, fluent, and articulate." I did not appear to be depressed or anxious, and my "mood and demeanor were quite pleasant."

I wish his had been a little more pleasant.

The IME test results say that I've got a Verbal IQ of 120 (within the 97th Percentile), that my perceptional reasoning index is 105 (within the 63rd Percentile), which places my "overall intellectual abilities within the average range." 

Of note was the fact that in my auditory, attention and concentration, I show "a sizable drop from previous test results," in that my Working Memory Index score was only in the 13th Percentile. He says that previously I scored higher than that, and in the low average range for mental arithmetic. 

Test Break Downs:

1. Verbal Intelligence: For detecting similarities, I scored at the range of a thirteen year old, in the 81st percentile, and in Verbal Comprehension of Information Processed I scored at fourteen, in the 91st Percentile.
2. I Perceptional Reasoning, I scored in the 84th Percentile, too, and in Matrix Reasoning I scored... A nine. Thirty-seventh Percentile.
3. My Working Memory was at an 8, the 25th percentile, and my Arithmetic's age-scaled score was 6, in the ninth percentile.
4. My Processing Speed was that of an 11yr old, in the 63rd Percentile, and for "coding" I got a ten, in the 50th Percentile. 
5. I got a high average in "fund" knowledge and abstract verbal reasoning, which basically corroborates my own doctor's recent findings that so long as I'm drawing from previous, predictable, information, I am very smart.  
6. I was high average in spatial perception and average performance in nonverbal reasoning and visual-motor processing speed. 
7. Mental arithmetic tested at the mild range of impairment "indicating the only isolated area of difficulty. Otherwise, intellectual test scores are solidly normal and often well above average, particularly areas of verbal concept formation." 
8. My memory is in the 45th Percentile, 
9. Visual memory's in the 84th percentile, resulting in a Delayed Memory Index of 108 (70th Percentile), which places my overall memory and new learning capacity at the high-average range." Yay! Hence my job success. :-)
10. He claims my fine moter is "fine" (LOL), which directly goes against the findings of my own doctor, the doctor who administered my original neurological testing, and my current Occupational Therapist. And besides all this, the man only spoke with and observed me for five minutes. His young intern did the testing.
11. Then he had me do a "set of academic achievement tests. I scored at a twelfth grade level in reading and spelling, and an 8th grade level in math (25th Percentile).

Oh, how the mighty have fallen!

Kidding.

I never was very good with math, and it involves an area of reasoning that is now damaged, to boot. 

Now, as my boyfriend, being a social security disability attorney, pointed out, is that I can't score in the high average for verbal intelligence and then have a 15 Point drop in Perceptual Reasoning unless I've got an actual brain injury, just as my other doctors and therapists have said. 

I can't process verbal information within the 91st Percentile and then score only in the 77th Percentile in spelling. For one thing, verbal intelligence isn't in the same part of the brain as spelling. Spelling involves sequencing, which takes place in the temporal lobe and, based on all my symptoms, my temporal lobe is damaged. Last week my doctor told me that, by his recent tests, expressing things verbally is easy for me, aloud or in writing, too, but that I don't remember what is said to me out loud in the correct sequence, and that it's this that is adversely affecting my communication with close friends and family members.

Going back to the IME report, the doctor does recommend that I should continue keeping a written daily schedule in a planner, but that otherwise the "subjective complaints voiced not only by [me], but [by my] healthcare professionals, seem to be more within the realm of attentional. I (the independent evaluator) would recommend continuing with the use of structured daily schedules, daily to-do lists, and other strategies to help her organize and centralize information." 

Duh.

The only test given to me regarding executive functioning was the "Trails Test," which is the same old dot-to-dot test that I scored badly on the first and second time I took it. It involved alternate attention in connecting some numbered and lettered dots in order -- from "1" to "A" and then from "2" to "B," and so forth. I've done that same test five times in the past year and a half. I now know exactly where to look. Hardly watching what I was doing with the pencil they provided, I was explaining that to the intern as I did it. All that made it into Dr IME's report was that I scored at a high average in that test as well.

But what the doctor did to me that I find most offensive of all is that, just as I had feared, he used my previous depression and anxiety as marks against me to confirm his findings. Thankfully it could not be denied that I "approached the test items in an open and honest manner," but his head-shrink test revealed that I have "The 'classic' Conversion V' often observed with individuals who do show a preoccupation with physical malfunctioning and a propensity to convert psychological and emotional distress into physical and medical complaints. They are often observed by others to be somewhat dependent.They do show little limited insight as it relates to the behavioral and psychological dynamics." 

All that said, he also found that my depression has had a "slight improvement" since the last time I took his test. 

He claims that I reported "moderate" problems with concentration and fatigue and mild problems with irritability," but that's from the last time I took the test, when I was still having difficulty even expressing myself discernibly, let alone relating well to my environment or anyone else who happened to be in it. 

Then he wrote that "I then administered two tasks of symptom exaggeration or dissimulation."

The man didn't administer shit -- All he did was asked me his four or five very leading questions about my current symptoms, interrupted me after I said I have improved and then tried to tell him what problems I was still having, and then he cut me off completely and walked out of the room. His aide administered the tests, and  I never saw him again, that day or since.

On the bright side, his head shrink test indicated "no objective evidence of feigning psychiatric or neurological disability," and that's in my favor. 

In conclusion, the IME Doctor gives his recommendations, which are as follows:

1. Because I (he means me!) have only "very slight residual effects related to initial traumatic brain injury, which I (Dr IME) would categorize as being mild to moderate in nature. She is showing a very good recovery." 
2. "There was also some exacerbation of her pre-existing history of depression and anxiety, and as such, I do believe that she does require perhaps two more months of rehabilitation with the Brain Rehabilitation Center to achieve maximum medical improvement."
3. "Otherwise, I believe she will be then rapidly approaching her premorbid baseline level of functioning, which unfortunately included pre-existing history of both depression and anxiety. She is an appropriate candidate to continue with her psychotherapy at the Counseling Center."
4. "I believe in two months she will be achieve maximum medical improvement and the counseling will then be related solely to her pre-existing conditions."
5. "I see no need for household services or attendant care."
6. "I believe Ms Hockin is capable of driving independently."
7. "I do believe she requires some degree of offset as it relates to her disability, wage loss replacement as she is not yet capable of completing full-time employment."
8. "However, I do believe there would be an advantage towards assignment of a vocational rehabilitation specialist to perhaps pursue in a more aggressive fashion, direct job placement as I believe she is capable of returning to full employment capacity in the next two months."

Meanwhile,the brain rehab has me waiting on Disability through the Social Security Administration, because none of them feel I would ever be able to preform full-time work again.

Even my optimistic neuropsychologist seems to be leaning toward my finding something else to do part-time within the realm of work that is already familiar to me -- just not teaching in a classroom full of students. He feels all too quickly I'd see the error of assuming that possibility. I still can't stop thinking that someday, some way...

It's confusing to be told that I'll be completely recovered in two months when in fact that's exactly what I want to hear -- especially since it just isn't true.

Basically what the IME Doctor is saying is (If I'm reading this correctly): "You're fine. Get over it, suck it up, get off your ass and get back to work!"

If I am fast approaching the full extent of my capacity for recovery, then I should be happy, right? He's put me into a position where I can't protest his findings without sounding like a hypochondriac who is too lazy to use Spell Check.

All I want is to teach, live in my own home, and be able to pay all my bills on time.

The IME Doctor seems to be saying that there's absolutely nothing stopping me from doing that within the next couple of months.

I hope he turns out to be right.

I think.

​

The Feel Better Box

Depression.

Anger.

Guilt.

Hopelessness.

Grief. 

Hurt.

Melancholy.

Misery.

Sadness.

Agitation.

Rejection.

Suffering.

Hysteria.

Overwhelmed

Agony.

Shame.

Apprehension.

Regret.

Anxiety.

Worthlessness.

Alienation.

We all have all of these feelings at some point. The majority of people struggle to keep them hidden, because no one likes a "Negative Nelly." (Puh-lease! This is a social network, a public forum. How can you be so crass as to express such negative emotions for me to stumble upon in the midst of my cute kitty pictures and inspiring quotations?!) 

To be clear, the Feel Better Box was not my idea.

It originated in therapy for PTSD and Borderline Personality Disorder, and I'm sure they got it from some other place as well-- possibly Marsha Linehan, creator of Dialectical Behavioral Therapy.

( https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marsha_M._Linehan ) There's both good and bad in this model -- one of the bad things being that group therapy can sometimes have a detrimental effect for people who are shy or severely damaged, and because in the hands of the wrong therapists the model seems to me to undermine all progress some people who are brain atypical have made. But that's all a subject for another blog entry -- Tonight I'm simply telling you how and why the idea of a "Self-Soothe" kit appealed to me, and also that it works.
The process of creating your own Feel Better Box (My daughter named it that) involves learning how to be kinder toward yourself and to make healthy choices when experiencing powerful emotions or a personal crisis.

A personal example: I ask someone for the 5,000000th time if they can please help me get to an appointment (I haven't been able to drive since my car accident almost two years ago now). They turn me down rather sharply. Doesn't sound like much of a crisis compared to the Twin Towers, does it?  But I'm feeling as if the sharp end of this rejection has punctured my composure, releasing the all of the emotions listed at the beginning of this topic in a hiss of steam, and I'm feeling them all at once, like a punch in the face. These feelings have been building up for nearly two years now, and this one additional crush of shame and helplessness breaks my composure. I've been toughing things out for a long time now, pushing back anything that might be misconceived as weakness or drama queen material by others. I know that this moment won't last forever, but in the moment I feel helpless and dependent, and all the shame society places on that state of being. What should I do? Well, Marsha Linehan says this: 

A more serious example: A couple of years ago I lost my fifth apartment since my divorce and had nowhere to go. At one point I had spent all morning looking for a new place to live, a better job to afford living there, transportation, food, and help moving my things as well as figuring out where I was going to store them this time. Five o'clock rolled around and I still hadn't solved anything. I was alone in my apartment with no heat or electric, one stick of butter in my fridge and one random of watercress in my cupboard. I couldn't do anything else that night to solve my problem -- I just had to wait it out and survive it. My primary instinct was to to curl up in a ball under my quilt and sob. I tend to want to suffer somewhat, tend to believe my circumstances are my own fault and I should be ashamed of myself for not having it all together like everyone else seems to. But really what I needed to do was simply get through that moment, move through those negative feelings and embrace a more positive outlook on myself and my life. I read Number 3 in the blue text box above as: "You could fall into a deep depression and never leave your room again!" but different people might express their fear in different ways -- You might scream at someone who is trying to help you, you might consider doing drugs or drinking if you have an addictive personality, you might be a cutter, you might be suicidal, you might isolate yourself from all your friends instead of reaching out and asking for help because, like me, you aren't so sure that you deserve any help." I have been depressed before. Although I've never abused alcohol and never tried drugs for fear of my addictive personality getting the better of me, I do know what it is to be so depressed that you don't know how you're going to get through each day. For a long time the only way I could cope with my feelings of worthlessness ultimately was to isolate myself so no one would have to see me that way, to ignore the problem and power through, or to try snapping myself out of it by being stern with myself. All of these approaches seemed only to make things worse. I was emotionally distraught, overwhelmed, and I just couldn't think anymore.

My Feel Better Box: Everything 
You Ever Wanted to Know About 
Helping Yourself Feel Better 

The idea behind The Box is a simple one -- To have some good things available with which to distract and/or help yourself in times of emotional distress until things start getting better again -- And hopefully to feel better about yourself regardless of your circumstances. The goal is peace

To put together a Feel Better Box admittedly poses some potential challenges:  

1. Lack of creative ideas or imagination might make it difficult to put together, but you could always just use my ideas, or simply Google "Self-Soothe Kit" and use the best ideas you can find that way.
2. Creativity can often come of as seeming very childish and self-indulgent -- but pay no attention to that and everything will not only turn out fine; It might even turn out to be a lot of fun. The sillier you get with it, the better. Most importantly (from an amateur psychiatrist standpoint), consider the wounded child from within, or at least picture yourself as a child. Remember all the things that once made you happy, and revisit those things. It's only a visit, after all. There's no harm in that. In fact, it's a beautiful feeling.
3. It's easy to get hung up on the idea that you have to have money to buy fancy stuff for the box, but really you could make one that doesn't cost you more than paper, pen, and maybe a Ziploc bag for easy storage. 
4. Probably the hardest part of making a Feel Better Box is making yourself use it. You will come up with all kinds of excuses, including that it's actually easier to be upset than to get up and do anything about it. Or maybe you are so depressed that you can't act in your best interests. 






5. You have to make something in that box worth getting up for, worth going to when times are tough. And it's kind of like getting up and going to the gym -- If you have everything set up in advance and get up and go first thing in the morning without thinking twice about it, the momentum can help you get it done.

Here are some examples from my own personal box, and also some items I'd like to add eventually. Because of these things, one break-through idea for me was to create tickets to cover the items I couldn't fit in the box. Because I really didn't have a lot of extra income at the time I put together the box  that I've got now, I created some tickets for free things that had the 

potential to cheer me up. With these tickets, I was 

giving myself permission to take care of myself. 
I highly recommend it -- You can really get used to this taking care of yourself business after a bit, and not know why on earth you haven't been doing this all along in the first place -- but be kind to yourself about it.
That's the whole point.

Lilac-Scented Wax to Warm

SMELL

In Dialectical Behavioral Therapy, they suggest that you try to fill your box with things that soothe all five of the senses. Not that you have to be soothing them all at once or anything, but I like the idea anyway. Who knows in any given moment of anxiety or depression if you might be uplifted by something as simple as the smell of the lilac bush in the yard of your childhood?

We can't all go to Ireland,
but you can purchase things
 that make you think of
someplace pleasant that you'd
like to escape to for awhile.

I've got a sachet of sweet-smelling heather plucked from the purple and yellow hills of Ireland that I bought while I was there. This eternally fresh odor brings back happy memories and a sense of being part of a world too beautiful to be overcome by misery or fear -- memories of standing on the top of the hills out on the moors with the wind blowing in my face and rolling hills of bright green, yellow with the gorse and purple with all the heather. It was such a strange and wonderful feeling to stand there on that spot and think of how ancient were the castles and outposts -- older than the oldest of stone buildings at home in the States. Along with the sachet I have a little ornament that depicts the Celtic letter "H," and some Euros that I brought home in my pockets. Do you own anything that always reminds you of something that was absolutely perfect from your past, from moments in time when you felt as if you should live forever and ever because you were strong and beautiful and full of hope and promise? Keep those things. Tell yourself that you will have even more adventures in time, for you will, one day. And if nothing else, you had those moments that no one else can take away from you. Be proud of that person that you were, be proud of  who you have become. The rocks and the rolling hills and the heather have survived so many years -- and so can you. You'll always have ground underfoot.

Bubbles! How about a little plastic container of bubbles, smelling like summer in the backyards of my childhood? For for some reason I find the smell also bring to mind those little plastic, water-filled bird whistles -- I should find one of those and put that into my box, too.

Cinnamon sticks. That's for Christmas and French Toast and multiple other delightful things -- apple pie, apple crisp... I just have to be careful not to go running for too much to eat when I smell them. I had some cinnamon sticks in my box, but I think they were hijacked by my daughter. I fully intend to keep after that child to create a box of her own for days when things don't seem likely to go right for her. I think passing along this one important concept could make a huge difference in the lives of my children -- The sensation that bad things do happen, but you can get through them without self-abuse or shame. In fact, you get through the mood created by trying times just that much more quickly, and in the space it leaves behind you can find peace.
How about a really good, soothing lotion with a fresh, clean smell -- or something flowery if you like instead? Other things I mean to pick up and add to the box over time: More scented candles and candle warmers, scented bath oils or salts, and room spritzes with pleasant odors. Maybe one of those misters.
How about good old-fashioned scented markers to color with? Coloring is very soothing if you can get past the fear of appearing childish (If I troubled myself to worry about that my life would be very dull indeed, and I fear I could never paint again. Not worth the loss!) I imagine a visit to Bath & Body Works just might possibly be in order.

SIGHT

So many lovely things to see! I've been creating an illustrated dream journal, which is really just a fancy way of saying that I cut and paste things out of magazines into a book. There's this theory that if you visualize something often enough and with enough concentration, you can manifest that thing in your life. With that in mind, I'm cutting out pictures of my dream house, my favorite writers, and various works of art in random forms.


One year I created 100 Positive Self-Affirmations and then strung 100 pretty beads into a bracelet for myself. When I'm feeling especially crushed and miserable, I lay my hands on these and feel their smooth surfaces as I tick off each happy thought like a rosary bead. Another spin on that would be to use the beads as a tactile gratitude list. "I'm grateful for the love and support of my family, I'm grateful for my friends, and for the sunshine..."
I can always go back to the bubbles, blow only one or two at a time, and then just do some deep breathing as I watch them float effortlessly away and pop, imagining each one to be a fear or worry that has now disappeared right before my eyes.

A book of my favorite photos of my children and family, and optimistic pictures for me to color  and then use as stationary for my letters to my kids

Decorated stationary that I use to write "Thinking of You" notes, letters of encouragement or gratitude for my friends and family, and letters to my children. I've actually got an entire box of stationary and stickers to send love letters to the kids. When I focus on them, my problems fade a little, too.
Pictures of my children and my family -- all my favorites.

I go to my book of family photos, but only the ones that make me feel happy instead of bittersweet.

I can put on nail polish of several different shades. I could buy one small jar a week and have all kinds of colors to play with. Anything can really be soothing if you focus solely on that simple act.
I wrote myself a love letter one day. Or here's a thought --- Write yourself an encouraging letter and -Mail it to yourself. Silly waste of money? Or you could see it for what it is, which is deciding that your happiness and well-being are well worth the price of a postage stamp? I hope it's worth much more!!!
--

Positive or encouraging little notes and quotes. You may have noticed that I've got an obsession, Each quote connects us to both the wisdom and the folly of the past, lest we "forget and live to repeat it."
A mandala coloring book -- very soothing. You'd be surprised. You can turn on some peaceful music and get right to work coloring an intricate picture with some colored pencils. Don't let yourself get so hung up on being an adult that you forget what made coloring fun for you as a child. Hum to yourself as you work.

Be sure to keep and save every special card or letter you ever get from a friend, or any other memento from when someone did something special that made you feel loved. Write down every single compliment you ever hear and stick that in the box, too. You never know when you might find yourself needing to see it and be reminded to believe it for yourself again.
If I could add anything else to my sight collection, it would be pretty little postcards, illustrations of pretty places, pretty colored pens, a fun activity book, and a magazine on a favorite topic.

TASTE

You could store some of these ideas right in the box. I'd go with dark chocolate, Jelly Bellies in all my favorite flavors, mint chocolate, raspberry chocolate, dark chocolate orange, minty gum, packs of hot cocoa or tea, a snack bar -- or maybe some Pop Rocks!
Because I have some self-control with food issues, I generally use my tickets in the box in place of actual edible items. If I grab one of those things from the box, it would say"Eat one square of chocolate, mindfully."

"Make yourself some homemade chocolate pudding and eat a bowl of it warm, get some crisp, fresh fruit, some sugar snap peas in season, or some sour candy." Whatever you like, but make sure first if you're doing it for the right reasons, and if you can have enough self-control not to eat it ALL. Stuffing your body with junk food is only stuffing your emotions inside someplace where they don't belong, and that can cause you over time to turn into a person you never meant to be.
Oh, but for the chocolate!
Dark, rich, delicious chocolate!
My absolute favorite is Godiva's raspberry granache truffles...
Yes, So, anyway, I write myself a coupon for such things, and I give it a lot of thought beforehand to make sure that I'm not going to eat an entire box or bag of something.
Love myself, love my body, etc.

TOUCH

Well, this one can sound really weird or maybe mildly inappropriate, but let me
show you:

The little pebble on the right I plucked from the sand back when I
was 12 yrs old. It's smooth surface feels like a time capsule to me.

Fuzzy fluffy stuff to rub against my cheek. Is this a toddler'type coping mechanism? Yes. Yes, it is. But I've got PTSD, and I can tell you for a fact that in that case you need to resort to childhood's comforts, because when you're thinking out of anxiety, fear, and a sense of helplessness, that's the wounded child inside of you crying for love and comfort. Give the poor kid a blanket or a lovey, and for pity's sake don't judge yourself for that.

Rock I got in divorce care group.

Seashell buttons. The ridges and smooth contours felt wonderful on my fingers, but I seem to have misplaced them. Lucy gets this box out and uses it sometimes, so she's a prime suspect. I think it was worth it if it helped.
Tactile rocks are solid and grounding in the midst of a panic attack, after a nightmare or a flashback.
The affirmation beads come back into play here because you can physically feel their cool smoothness as you tick off your positive traits in your mind.

Floam like I've got, or Play-Do, if you prefer. How about clay? Take up pottery-making -- the feel of your fingers slipping along the outside of a pot with the wheel in motion is one of the most soothing sensations I've ever experienced. A bean bag or stress ball are helpful, or you can use a rubber ball like I do, to bounce ideas up against a wall (Yes, I got the idea from House MD, but it works!)
Other ideas I've had but either not been able buy or not able to fit into my box would be: My great, big fluffy blanket, one of those heated neck pads, magnets if you believe in them, bubble bath doubles as a touch-related experience, exfoliating scrub for your face or your feet, soft, warm clothing, or a nice warm heating pad. A travel-sized Mancala game, or marbles, or a bag of jaxs. A pair of warm fuzzy socks! Your imagination is the only limit, which is why I'm lending you so much of mine.

HEARING

This category universally brings to mind rain-sounding mood music,
a waves on the beach track, crickets, a tinkly little music box if it makes your heart glad. I think a white noise machine would work equally as well, or a sweet-sounding little bell or chime, or the sound of drums, or fluting, and music from your childhood that brings up only your happy memories. I've got Celtic Lullabies, and I listen to Deep Relaxation music on Pandora or You Tube. I had a little i-Pod Shuffle that I liked to listen to on brisk walks when I was especially troubled. I put only happy, fun-

loving songs in there, and then a few Girl Power types as well. Unfortunately, mine is broken and I'm left waiting in hope that someone remembers to get me a replacement for Christmas.
And I made a little ticket for myself to seek out of video of a laughing baby on YouTube, because almost everyone I have ever met has not been able to resist smiling at that bubbly, uncomplicated burst of joy that pours out of a happy, healthy child.

Frankly, I made this box because I reached a point in my life where it felt like I was ensnared in an endless loop of misery that was never going to go away. Time really does heal most things -- But wouldn't it be better if we stopped passively waiting out the storm and instead started actively pursuing our happiness?

 The Artist's Date Book  is a Great Resource for Adding Variety to Your Box!

I am mostly happy these days, when once it seemed I would be crushed under the weight of my own grief.

I hope that you are inspired to create a Feel Better Box for yourself --or a drawer, or cabinet, trunk, or a child's wading pool just chuck full of happy thoughts for yourself. Decide that you are worth it and get it done. I'm always available for thoughts, kind words, encouragement and advice. And give me a message or a post on my wall any time you run out of positive thoughts about yourself. I know plenty, and I'll bet a lot of other people do, too.

Pictured last is my original Feel Better "Box," created for me by my daughter when she was only seven years old. She said that it was mine to keep for when I miss her and she's away at her dad's house without me. I never once complained, and have always tried not to let them see how much sadness I have tied into their comings and goings from my house to his, but somehow her sturdy little heart found me out and created this magical bag that brings her close every time I open it and look at its contents. It is full of photographs, little drawings all folded up to squeeze them in, a note that says "I Luv yoo,"tiny little toys that she one played with and enjoyed, a Scooby Doo Valentine, a bracelet that she must have found somewhere out on the dirt road her dad lives on (It was missing several fake diamonds and crusted with dried mud), the "Love" pillow that she ripped off an old teddy bear, and my very own Frog Prince in case I should ever get lonely and decide to settle down with someone again. These days the entire bag resides right inside my Feel Better Box with the rest of my things for me to take out and look at whenever I'm sad, anxious, or simply missing my children. Looking at this bag once again brings to mind what I said when I was discussing money at the beginning of this entry, when I said that you don't need a whole lot of money to create a box that will lift your mood and help you carry on. This simple little bag  with my daughter's huge heart sprinkled inside really warms my heart for me exactly as it is. No, the really important matters of the heart only need a little bit of love and a lot of patience and kindness toward yourself. 

With Love, 

~ HH

"Hope is a Thing With Feathers"

The first week in October is National Mental Health Awareness Week. That's important because there is such a terrible stigma around what in essence is simply a medical condition. According to the International weekly journal of science, "more than 350 million people are affected by depression, making it one of the most common disorders in the world." 

A couple of years ago I had such "an acute psychiatric crisis" that I ended up living for two weeks in what they call a "Crisis Unit." Frankly, the Crisis Unit is where you go if you are suicidal. I have PTSD. Something triggered it and I didn't feel safe, even from myself. 

I made it through that terrible time because my family loves me, and because my children need me. Of course those things. But also because I was finally ready to love and need myself. 

While I was "locked up," I painted this picture. I posted it on Facebook, and a lot of people loved it. Most of you didn't know that I was suffering because I was ashamed of it and didn't want anyone to know. People who don't experience depression find it almost impossible to comprehend, and that's one of the reasons people blow it off or try not to talk about it. We don't pretend AIDS doesn't exist just because we don't have it. 
People don't get help for depression and other serious mental illnesses because they are afraid of what others will think, or how it will make them look in the eyes of their employer or their family, and their fear can literally kill them. 
People also don't get help because they simply cannot pay for the treatment, because health insurance in this country doesn't cover "Mental" health. It should. We should remove the "quotes" from around this word. People are dying from these types of illnesses simply because they have gone too long untreated. 


I went into the Crisis Unit because my life seemed like a cycle of pain that was never going to get any better. But I got better, and so I painted a picture about hope, about how someone can still sing even while in the fire just so long as they have reason to believe that things can and will improve if they only stick around long enough to find out. 
Today I am a happier and person for having gone through that experience without trying to "tough it out" completely alone. I allowed people to help me even as I feared to expose how completely empty and worthless I felt about myself at that time.
And I am a stronger person, too, in allowing myself to be so vulnerable in the face of that stigma. That's something I think not everyone realizes -- That in exposing your weakness you show great courage and strength. 

I hope I can be "real" about what happened to me without being judged, but I've reached a point where I'm going to just be real anyway. Maybe if you're suffering right now, you will feel less alone knowing that I've been there too, or that I care if you're going through a hard time. Whatever you do, don't be afraid or ashamed to bring it up on a public forum. You could potentially break a cycle of shallow, surface socializing that so many of us complain of but not enough of us do anything about. You have my support.

With A Little Help From My Friends (And Acceptance of Myself)

It's year and a half since my car accident, and still we have questions regarding my independent living skills and executive functioning, all of which are tested using my ability to focus, remember, and manage my neurofatigue.
Intelligence is largely determined by how fast we think and how much we are able to remember (God help us all as we age!).
In my case the the neuro psychologist's tests are to both show my progress, and to expose the areas that have stayed the same. To some extent, re-testing hypothetically predicts my future. Can I ever move out of my sister's house and live by myself again?
You can't tell in a two to three sentence Facebook post what's been going on in my life, that my finances and all my other affairs are in a snarl and that all my success revolves around repetition in my schedule and heavily leans on getting cues from the people around me. My family remind me of things, ask me questions to make sure I understand things, and to some extent have been forced to really get into my business to make sure I don't capsize my rickety little boat.
I don't have the exact numbers yet, and I am certainly not a number, but the concern with me is that I may be so affected by fatigue and perhaps some other type of damage that I am unable to think quickly, or even reasonably, unless I learn to pace myself better.
All I could infer from re-testing last night was that 45 minutes into it I struggled to focus, had a harder time remembering details of the tasks set before me, and indeed started to slow down. It's the neuro psychologist's job to lend practical meaning and a purposeful approach to my therapy in response to the tests, and all he would say offhand was that my numbers dropped significantly from when I did the first test to when I re-took the first test 45 minutes later.
MY job while waiting for his official write-up is pretty much to remember this quote I got from Woody Haiken, one of those Life Coach Dudes: "We are exactly who and what we should be in this exact moment. We ARE perfect. If there is something that we want to change, then it is not an imperfection, it is a detail to be refined."
I can live independently, but I may have to have a little help with some of it.
And I never liked the "Think Fast!" game anyway.

"Reach Out In the Darkness!"

I have learned many lessons about people this year.
The most disappointing lesson is that not everyone is drawn to be supportive of struggling, marginalized misfits the way that I am.
The best thing that I've learned is that, in caring for people worse off than myself, there is the discovery that A.) No one is necessarily "worse off" than me, and B.) When I really need a friend myself, they are there for me in a heartbeat. All the best things that have happened to me in my lifetime have been because in my suffering and reaching out for support, I have also caught the reaching hands of others.
And my life is all the better for it.
I feel a mixture of pity and disdain for people who shelter themselves from anything or anyone that might really make them feel something strongly -- People who won't reach out to the loner out in the streets, the sobbing woman standing in the grocery line, the man in the suicide ward who was still trying to steal kitchen knives in order to off himself.
These people are "THOSE People," the ones you should never associate with, the ones who will drag you down, burden you, take more than they will ever give back, have bad attitudes, struggle with depression or mental illness.
It is just as easy for these people I disdain to speak about all kinds of altruistic pursuits -- Just so long as they don't have to get their hands dirty doing it. These are the people who recycle trash, but refuse to give broken people a second chance with them. These are the people who passionately argue for social justice from the safety of their nice homes, but who would never volunteer at a shelter -- or anywhere else for that matter. They talk about poverty in Haiti, but don't donate to any charities. They say that it's a shame that mental illness isn't considered equal to physical illness, but you will never see them befriending anyone they met in the waiting room who seemed a little unstable. And

they would never ever actually strike up a conversation with any of "THOSE people."
I make friends easily, and I make a lot of them. 75% of my friends are such purely because at some point in their lives they needed someone to be there for them, and I made a point of being that person. The people toward I feel so much pity are not the people I met in homeless shelters, not the people I met in psychiatrist's offices, on the suicide ward, and neither is it the people I love who seem incapable of fitting in, or of holding back their most naked thoughts. No, for these marginalized people are stronger than the ones I pity so much -- and far more interesting to talk to.
The people whom I pity so much, are the people who can't seem to see that.
How very lonely it must feel to be perfect, to always get things right, to sit in the waiting room and stare down at your phone for fear of having to meet anyone's eyes and be forced to talk to them.
How very limiting it must be to only associate with "whole" people, with "normal" people --- With only the people you can benefit from as opposed to people who could benefit from you.
How commendable of them to not associate with lower life-forms.
They will live and die bereft of true friends in their lifetime, having left the world no better than they found it.
And absolutely certain that they were clever enough not to become entangled with anyone who might need them.
How empty must their lives be, how depressing!
But how very neat and tidy.
I don't go into any friendship thinking to myself, "What can I get out of this person?"
I don't ask myself, "Gee, I wonder if they've got their shit together, or if they're going to create unnecessary drama in my life?"
I think, "That person needs a friend; What can I do for them?"
I think, "This is a complex person -- What can I learn from them?"
You learn a lot.
You learn, for example, how much you really have to offer to the world, and how important it is for you to do that.
You learn to value every person you meet, to learn from every experience you have.
You learn that the woman with the incurable, degenerative disease who lives on welfare and was once an alcoholic is also a beautiful artist, and a kind soul at heart.
You learn that the girl nobody else liked during your grade school years is the kindest, most generous person there is -- quite possibly because she knows what it is to be mistreated, and she knows how it feels to have nothing -- And she just might have learned from you what it feels like to just give anyway. Or maybe you learn that from her.
You learn that even drug addicts can love their children and hope for the best for them.
You learn that people who never went to college can still be geniuses, gifted people with a purpose in life.
You learn that people are more important than things.
You learn that acts of kindness have no statutes of limitations, that a kindness done for another can

round back up on you, years after the fact, and become something kind that that person will now do for you.
You learn that helping others takes away that nagging emptiness you hold inside.
You learn that your life isn't about feeling safe or being stable; It's meant to mean something, to care about something, to give something without expecting anything back -- but getting everything that you need anyway -- perhaps by realizing that you have everything you need.
I never turn down a friend, and I try to make myself the friend of anyone I see who seems to be struggling in any way, and I try to use my own struggles to empathize and encourage them.
I pay it forward.
And for that I am never sorry.
The ultimate pity I feel toward these Avoiders is that they look at their life and relationships as some sort of zero-sum game, as if they will run out of time, energy, resources -- love -- if they give to much.
Why can't they see that the more you give, the more you have to give -- that the more people whom you love, the more love that you have and you get?

The Corey Project

She was beautiful, smart, funny, friendly, and kind. She was in theater. She loved Dr. Who and ugly sweaters. She was creative and artistic -- unique. Meeting Corey was like meeting her mother from thirty years ago.
It's funny how, when you try to measure time by a specific memory, it always seems as if you've gone through a wormhole and skipped a few decades. The years speed past us, leave us wondering where they'd all gone to in such a hurry.
It seems like one day Corey's mother and I reconnected on Facebook, and in the next moment Corey's Senior pictures were posted on her proud mother's wall.

And then Corey was gone.
Her passing rent a great, gaping hole in the fabric of our universe, the balance of our world. I like to think of her knocking around in some alternate universe with The Doctor, with lots of planets and people to save. A good mother's child is generally a good child, and I know no better source of compassion than to have a kind and understanding mother. So Corey, she will be very kind, and clever, and brighten the very souls of every living being she meets. But in this universe, there is still that empty hole, and what do we do with that?

Corey would want us to fill it.

And so I find myself with a whole awful lot of running to do.
Corey was seventeen when she died, as she will always be in my memory.
And in the heart and memories of her mother, Corey will always exist as the infant, the toddler, the elementary student, and the happy teenager. For her mother there was so much more to lose. As each memory, each anniversary, each holiday and every birthday without Corey multiplies in the two years since her death, I know another little piece of her mother's heart gets torn fresh. It's hard to know how to comfort someone when they have lost their only child. I heard or read somewhere that Rose Kennedy, upon asked about her sons' deaths, said something about how unnatural it is for a parent to outlive their children, and that's a level of pain I can not fully even comprehend.
I think of how much it hurt when my ex-husband got physical custody of my children because I had no home to take them to, how the pain was so bad that I scarcely got through it alive. But to lose them altogether?
I think back to the days after I had to give them up, to the unnatural quiet in the house, to the empty rooms and unused toys mocking me every time I walked past their doorways, and most of all just how pointless my life had become all of a sudden. It had revolved around them, and now it felt as if there was nothing. I remembered I cried. I screamed at the relentlessly cold universe.
But I still had my children to live for. And this is the thing not everyone understands about being a mother, being a parent: You are always a mother (or father), whether your children are with you or not. I hadn't lost them, and I was still their mother. They needed me to figure out a way to live, and to thrive, so that someday I could show them how. You will always carry your children with you, in your heart and in your head. They're in your face and they're in the sounds, sights, and smells that accompany every day of your life.
"Lucy loves that flavor of ice cream."
"I remember when I watched this with Stuart; He cracked up at that part."
"That sounds like Lucy's laugh."
"I haven't been on this street since that time Stuart fell and skinned his knee. He carried on so much you'd have thought he was going to die..."

It was Corey's Mom who started it, my cherished childhood friend. At Christmas she mailed me a card and a packet of smaller-sized business cards with encouraging messages on them, to hand out to random people I meet, especially anyone who worked a thankless job, seemed in any way sad, or simply because my heart wordlessly led me to them.

Because Corey's mother still has her daughter to live for, as she will always carry her with her, always see and feel and hear her with all of her senses, all of her memories, because their hearts and minds connected in a way that only a mother can know.  In this sense, Corey has not left us at all. How much the rest of us mothers take for granted! All the little things that could at any moment be subtracted and replaced by a huge hole.

One thing I learned being without my children was that there are a lot of these holes out there in this tired, cynical old world, more than any one person could ever fill. 

But as Corey's mother, my friend had to do what Corey would have done.

In August, she challenged her Facebook friends to come up with seventeen acts of kindness, one for each year of Corey's life. If enough of us did that, those little good deeds would add up to something like the number of things Corey might have done, or would have us to do.

I promised that I would meet that challenge, and set out to work at it. I don't need accolades for anything I came up with; I didn't do them for that. I'm writing because I promised Corey's Mom that I would share these things with her, and then later it seemed that as many people as possible ought to know, and to do at least one small kindness -- for Corey.

My first kindness with Corey in mind was for a man I met at work who had served our country in Saudi Arabia. He had done his duty and then returned to the states using a walker, which he has had to use ever since. He was one of the nicest men I have ever met, and I think Corey would have liked his quirky sense of humor his liberal-mindedness, and what a really good artist he was. 

While I stuck to coloring mandala coloring books between calls  at the center where we both worked, David created scenes and stories with pictures he drew from memory -- A place he'd once lived, a man he once knew, a soldier, a desert -- This sailboat, which he gave to me on my last day at work. While I had an expensive set of 72 watercolor pencils, David worked with three #2 pencils, a couple of highlighters, three colored pencils in primary colors, and a charcoal pencil. He often stopped at my desk and told me how much he envied me my fancy "art kit," so I decided to go out and buy him a set of his own. I was curious to see what he'd do if he had a wider range of colors and a better quality pencil. The plan was to leave the pencils at his desk on my last day at work, so that I could slip out without having to endure the embarrassment of a "Thank you." I don't know why they make me feel that way, but they do. I want to do something really nice, but I don't necessarily want to be complimented for it. Go ask Freud.

One day David got to work three hours late, looking harried and upset. 

"What happened to you?" I asked, feeling that vague but fearful empathy of not knowing more than the expression on someone's face.

"I had an appointment at the VA hospital this morning," said David grimly, "The appointment was at nine, but I just got back."

I checked the time on my monitor. Three-thirty.

David was about to elaborate, but it was time for an impromptu meeting that had been called. Everyone shuffled out for the conference room and settled in, a buzz in the air about how this was the time of year when the call center started laying people off. We were all there on time, but the person from Human Resources was late, so David continued his story: 

"I stood there in line for awhile, but then had to take a number and go sit in the waiting area. It was like they just forgot about me. Three hours later, when I went to ask the lady at the desk what the hold-up was because I had to get to work, she looked at me like I was trash and accused me of being some kind of a problem. She said, 'Maybe if you had any kind of patience people would actually want to help you. You need to go sit down.' And it was like someone was going to escort me out of there if I said another word."

"Wow," I said. "It's terrible how they can spend so much money to send soldiers out to die for this country, but then they can't come up with better services for people after they've come home."

"You're telling me," he said glumly.

"If it isn't too much to ask -- What did you have to go in for?"

"My eyes," he said, "I noticed some blurriness, and I thought that it was just that I needed a new prescription, but turns out I've got cataracts."

I didn't get a chance to do more than shake my head before the meeting started, and it turned out people were right -- Tomorrow was our last day.

David had been hoping he could stay on because it was the only job he knew of available to him.

I had already interviewed for another one and gotten it, so I was only sorry for his sake.

Corey didn't have to nudge me very hard.

The next day, when David came back from his break, I was on the phone with a customer, but I listened nervously for a reaction. 

There was a box of 150 colored pencils sitting on his desk.

I heard the box open, and the sound of him riffling his fingers through them all. He settled himself into his chair, paused, and then I heard the gentle rustle of paper as he unfolded his note. After a few minutes of silence, I heard him draw in a deep, sniffling breath, and then release it. 

It occurred to me that this had actually all been a terrible mistake, that the man still had four more hours of work to go, talking on the phone with one customer after another, fighting back tears.

I hung up my phone.

David tapped my shoulder, so I swiveled my chair around to face him. 

"Did you do this?" he asked solemnly.

Sensing some strong emotions, I was almost afraid to nod my head. David clutched the note to his heart and mouthed "THANK YOU!" through his tears.

And then all I could do in return is mouth the words, "You're welcome," because I felt as if I might start crying myself. 

"She was her only child?" he asked. 

I nodded again. I'd been worried about what I might do if he were too proud to accept the gift, so I'd written explaining that the pencils weren't from me, that they had nothing to do with me at all. 

The next day, he came in and told me "You made my wife cry with what you did."

As a general rule, I don't think it's a good thing to make someone else cry, but the way he said it expressed further gratitude and a desire to let me know what a profound thing had taken place here. In David's smile and the warmth of his voice, I felt something more than just a "little" act of kindness, and that as soon as they could do so, the couple would pass that kindness on to somebody else. David would be sure to explain that it was for Corey.

We tend to get caught up in the idea that doing something important for someone else requires a lot of time, work and money. It's overwhelming how big we think it has to be when we reach out toward another person. I didn't have time or money, and simply doing my job from day to day was exhausting, so I'd had to come up with something more manageable. But how many acts of kindness does it take to fully represent seventeen years of life? Some of the things I thought of were things I know I would have done anyway, just little things, but it was kind of nice to think of myself as having Corey for a partner in this venture. I would stop and consciously try to decide 'How can I brighten the day, or maybe just one important little moment of the life of the average Joe out on the street?" What would the creative, thoughtful young woman have chosen to do?

And so Corey...

1. Gave me a pat on the back for helping David and then pressed me to move on, to
2. send a special picture to another of my grieving friends,
3. Give a painting to another of my friends who was worried about losing her job,
4. had me tell my daughter Lucy all about her and the project she had me working on, and how I could use some help carrying out her work.
5. helped us come up with the idea of donating money to a dying child around Lucy's age who wanted to swim with the dolphins,
6. pressed us to help someone clean up a mess that wasn't actually any concern of our own,
7. told the man washing the windows at the restaurant that he was doing a beautiful job helping us to see the flowers, and he was so pleased and astonished that we were pretty sure no one had ever taken the time to tell him before,
8. which prompted us to stop and make contact with every janitor we came across, to really see them and tell them how much we appreciated their hard work,
9. had us read a story to a crying child in a waiting room until the little girl laughed instead,
10. found something special for me to post on the wall of each of my Facebook friends, one for every day of the month,
11. made certain that I stopped and stooped down to pick up litter wherever I walked outside that month,
12. helped me contrive something nice to do for my mom on her birthday by cajoling one of my rides to stop at Meijer for us to buy her a cake,
13. had us talk to people in waiting rooms about the lives of their families and their friends instead of staring down at my phone,
14. reminded me to slow down for the rest of the  summertime I had with Stuart and Lucy, and work extra hard to look them in the eyes, listen to what they had to say, and then find the right responses,
15. Gave my boyfriend a little shove to help an elderly woman get something off the top shelf at the store instead of standing there muttering to himself about her being in our way,
16. encouraged me to leave my phone downstairs, on mute or in silent mode, and instead of feeling badly about our time together not seeming long enough and not being ideal, focusing instead on the quality of the time that we had left.
17. and asked me to stop feeling badly about myself when the kids were away, stop focusing on the hole I felt inside myself, and instead to spend that time apart from my children filling in holes in the hearts of others.

I had set about trying to heal the world's hurts 

one person, 

one small act of kindness 

at a time.

And I discovered

 that there is no "small" act of kindness.

Corey taught me that.