My dearest Twenties,

There is a moment in everyone’s life when they have to say goodbye to you. I cannot believe that moment is finally here. It is difficult because we have been through so much together, but also exciting because there were times when I feared I would not have the privilege of seeing you to the end. My darling Twenties, you were lovely and ultimately had a rather dramatic conclusion. I found myself because of the relationship I had with you. And now, after ten magnificent years, I have to bid you adieu.

You were always there for me and our relationship was unfairly interrupted by cancer. Cancer put such a strain on our relationship. I couldn’t be with you the way I wanted to be. I couldn’t be with you the way that you wanted. Instead of just being fabulous twenty-somethings together, I was busy getting MRI’s, CAT scans, PET scans, bone scans, blood tests, genetic tests, a mastectomy, and chemotherapy. I was preoccupied by watching my long, beautiful brown hair fall out into my hands and witnessing the muscle mass in my legs disappear during the chemo regimen. My life was consumed with surgeries, bone pain, nausea, side effects, medications, shots, having a port placed in my chest, surgeries, radiation, and more surgeries. Cancer stole something from us that we will never get back.

You were there when I was so sick I feared I was going to die–not from the cancer, but from the treatment. You were there that night when I was in so much pain during a particularly grueling week of treatment that I whispered to my mom, as I lay on the floor unable to move, that I was scared to fall asleep because I was so terrified I would not wake up the following morning. You were there, Twenties, when I neglected you to fight so I could live in order to get rid of you—to ultimately outlive you. You were there when I fought to get to my thirties and leave you behind. And, now, after all that hard work, I made it. I am walking away. But I will never forget you. You and I are like old war buddies. The bond we created during the battle we faced together is simply unbreakable.

We are both so focused on moving on and letting each other go, but please take a moment and really see me so you can remember what we had together. If you ever do take an instant to look back, you will see that I am still the same girl you met ten years ago in college when I was literally bouncing off the walls with energy—with the same heart, the same forgiving spirit, the same eyes that were always fixated on you, the same curiosity and desire to witness new things, to experience the world together as a team. You meant so much to me—you still do. You showed me so much about myself and I will never forget that. You will always be a part of me, even though we will never see each other again after today

I admit you are a rather messy chapter in my book of life. The pages are dripping with red ink just aching to be corrected. There are parts of you that are completely torn out and missing, that I will most likely never see again. The years walked out of my life and took the pages with them. There are other parts that seem to have recycled themselves over and over again as I made the same repeated mistakes, failing to learn from them. But isn’t that exactly what our relationship was for? Isn’t that the theme of the infamous twenties? I believe that it is and, therefore, I can walk away knowing that this relationship was a success, knowing there was some marvelous order amidst the confusion that was our time together.

And now, my thirties lay in front of me shining with these beautiful, crisp, blank pages. The pages are all pumped up. They’ve heard about me; therefore they are prepared to get dirty, ready to be filled with new memories, new relationships, and new lessons. (And hopefully a trip to the Super Bowl with the Dallas Cowboys. Oh, wait; Tony Romo’s contract was renewed. Never mind.)

We had a promise made, Twenties, to get through them together, and we did. So, here we are, our very last night together. All I want is one more night of confusion, amazement, and possibility. That is my twenties. That is you. We got through something miraculous together, and I want to celebrate that with you

Now, as we part, and move on in our lives, know that I would not trade the beautiful, complicated, and often just plain ridiculous moments we shared together for anything. You were my twenties, most likely the most defining decade of my life. I give you all the credit for helping me reach my new friend, my Thirties. And all I can ask, dear Thirties, is that you can be a bit kinder, deal softer blows, and allow me to simply be the girl I discovered during those precious years that will forever belong to my twenties.

With Love,

Abby, the 30-something

I work at an organization that helps young adults faced with a cancer diagnosis get through their journey. Because of my position, I hear about and see individuals get diagnosed with cancer every day. I hear their stories, in many ways I walk down that same road I walked down, but this time it is with them. At times that is challenging. I would be lying if I said it wasn’t. The same emotions do appear. It is easy to fall back into that place of darkness and seclusion. But, at the same time, I can connect with these people in a way someone who has not faced cancer cannot and I find that to be invaluable in the work I do every day. I can tell them, “I know how you feel,” and really, really mean it. I can say, “I’ve been there,” and they are assured that I truly have. The kind of connection that makes between two people faced with similar challenges is what I believe the cancer community, in many ways, thrives on. It is what it is built upon. I don’t think it could operate any other way. This is because, at the end of the day, no one that has not gone through a doctor sitting them down and telling them that there is something inside their body that is trying to kill them, can understand, I mean truly understand what that person is going through. They haven’t received news that they have something that kills hundreds of thousands of people every year—something that takes mothers away from their children, that claims the lives of children, that does not discriminate, but rather goes after anyone it can—and because of this, they cannot truly understand what it is to fight cancer.

***

A funny thing happened the other night. I was getting ready for bed, winding down, and I realized something that stopped me in my tracks. Something had crept up on me and I was standing there, by my bed, and the most beautiful realization entered my head—I hadn’t thought about cancer in like 29 hours!! BUST OUT THE BAND PEOPLE! This is a freaking breakthrough!!!!!! This is monumental. This is acceptance-speech-worthy. I had done it. I had reached another step in the healing process.

Of course, I had thought about cancer in the abstract. In my line of work I am helping survivors every day, but I had not thought about my own cancer in like 29.25 hours.

When I first went back to work after my doctor essentially relieved me of fighting-cancer-duty, I was still a novice. I was just a young pup in cancer terms. Everything was still fresh, and as a result I worried about cancer and its aftermath every day—sometimes every minute (no exaggeration).

I have a friend at work that is a nine-year survivor and when I first started my job I found myself oddly envious of her achievement. In the cancer world—survivor years are the crème de la crème. They are so coveted you would do unspeakable things to get them. They mean you are OK in a much realer way than you feel you are. One day I was speaking with this survivor friend of mine about the fears and emotional torture survivorship can put you through and she said that eventually, there would be a day when I just didn’t think about what I had been through. I would go about my day thinking about things like the tasks I needed to get done, what I was going to have for lunch, and those cancer-crazy thoughts would not even enter my brain. I didn’t believe her. I believed, very strongly, that I would be a nut job forever.

Well, the verdict is still out on that, but I did achieve a cancer-free-mind for a day and it was simply remarkable. It took eight months since I finished treatment. But I did it. So, the next morning I woke up and thought, “OK I was able to accomplish that once. I am going to try it again.” This time it wasn’t so easy. You see, cancer has this way of playing crazy mind tricks on you. You think that if you do not give cancer enough credit it will somehow come for you. Like, if you aren’t scared out of your wits of it, it is comin’ for ya.

So, I approached the next day differently. Instead of just trying not to think about it, I actively gave myself permission to spend a day free of cancer-think. I thought, if I just took it one day at a time, if I just allowed myself a 24-hour reprieve that would be OK with the cancer gods. So I did just that! I embraced my free day and took full advantage of it. It felt great and I thought, “This is life. This is how I remember it. Just focusing on other things, not allowing fear to conquer, but rather embracing the ebb and flow of life.”

I do this every day now. I actively tell myself that I am not going to live in the past today. That today I am in the present. I am not going to live in fear, but rather I am going to give myself a break, focus on something else, just live.

***

Perhaps one of the reasons I have achieved these worry free days and feel more back to normal is because of something that happened a few weeks ago…I had my very last surgery over the holidays. It was a reconstructive surgery to essentially put the finishing touches on my breasts. (No, there is NOT a less creepy way to put it, I checked.) So, after 15 months everything is, at long last, back where it belongs from a physical standpoint. In the weeks leading up to my final surgery I did not find myself too concerned about it. I had become so used to feeling different about my body that I never really felt as though I would find complete peace with it again and I accepted that. That is a difficult thing to accept as a 29 year-old female still searching for a lot of missing variables in her life. But somehow I did.

I remember my surgeon telling me the same day he told me I had breast cancer what a mastectomy was. I honestly didn’t know. I had heard the word before, but I was completely ignorant to the whole process. I didn’t know the advances reconstructive surgery had made. I was unaware I would be made “as good as new.” But that is just what my surgeon assured me after he told me about my treatment plan—I would eventually have breasts again…nice ones! I write this part for my many survivor sisters out there that are just now receiving word that they have breast cancer. I write this to those who are just now trying to grapple with the concept of a mastectomy and what that means for their body image and their self image. I did not believe my surgeon when he told me I would be made as good as new one day. I did not believe him when he told me that one day I would look at myself in the mirror and like what I saw again when I took my shirt off.

I was very lucky to have one of the most amazing plastic surgeons in my corner. He has told me, “I am just a man. I don’t have a magic wand.” But I am convinced he does because he is extraordinarily good at what he does. He is simply the best. The day after my most recent surgery my mom and I decided to take off the bandages and see what it all looked like under there. I was convinced my body would require my mind to, once again, adjust. But, when I took off the bandages and stood there in front of the mirror, over a year after I had essentially said goodbye to my old body the night before my mastectomy, I sat there in disbelief. Not only was I tolerant with what I saw, I liked what I saw. I was completely blown away.

This blog post is not to toot my own horn about how great I look. (OK maybe it is a little.) But the main goal of this post is to tell other women facing breast cancer that are kicking off their cancer journey with a mastectomy—you will like your body again. It took me awhile and several surgeries, but I like my body, no I love it for getting me through cancer, and I love what I look like again at long last. The scars have faded and as I said in my very first blog post, all the ladies beside me in assisted living someday are going to be so jealous of my extraordinarily perky breasts.

So, for any of you reading this facing your own journey, I have been there. Right where you are. Sad about the surgery, but knowing it is necessary to save your life. And, I guess, my point is to say that it does get better. The scars heal, the implants go in, and eventually you will find yourself getting ready for bed and realize cancer didn’t even enter your mind today and you will be grateful knowing that, and stronger because of what you have been through, and you will be, at long last, as good as new. 

I remember the night I realized that I was going to die. I was nine years old.

I have been an insomniac my entire life. The whole concept of a bedtime never made sense to me. When I would lay my head down on my pillow at night, instead of drifting off to sleep like most carefree children, I would think for hours upon hours about everything—letting my mind wander to wherever it pleased. I just couldn’t shut my mind off. I had always been an avid reader with trips to the library with my mother being a weekly ritual. I would lose myself in the pages of my books accepting the worlds they offered to me and entering into them gladly. I found myself entirely at peace there, never wanting to leave. My mom, knowing I could not sleep as much as I tried to every night, instilled a new bedtime rule: I had to be in bed at 8:30, but I was allowed to stay up as late as I wanted as long as I was reading. That was the coolest thing ever, I thought. And so it began.

I kept this reading lamp attached to my bed. It was pink and I had it until college until it burned off the nose of my favorite stuffed animal, Ross, and then I retired it. But, underneath that lamp, reading through whatever book I had opened that week, I felt the most comfortable.

One night, during my nightly reading period, I ran into a boy losing his mother in one of my books. She died in a car accident and I remember being completely jolted. Now, I was nine years old so it was not like I had never encountered the concept of death before. People died, animals died, plants died. In the abstract I got it. And when my pet hamster died, I experienced it. But for some reason, this time I allowed my mind to wander for just a little bit too long and realized that one day, I too will die.

I hurried out of my room and ran up the stairs to my parents’ bedroom. This, too, had become a nightly ritual. Now, as though insomnia was not bad enough, often, when I was finally able to drift off to sleep, I would have nightmares and be shaken awake by my own tears and screams. I would rush to my parents’ room and shake my mom awake, telling her about the most recent trauma I had come across in my dreams. She would tell me it was all OK and coax me back down to my room, or at least to the foot of my parents’ bed where I often found myself in the morning when my dad would almost annihilate me by tromping on me. He was, and still is, a heavy sleeper and quite often he would not have even heard my nightly visit and would only realize it had taken place when he nearly stepped on me the next day.

This night, the night I realized death was real, however, was different. Instead of going to my mom, I went straight to my dad’s side of the bed. This was a serious matter and I needed my father. I generally shook my mother awake after my nightmares because she was honestly the easier one of the two to wake. I was practical at nine years old and my dad was a heavy sleeper and no matter how gently I tried to wake him, he usually did not take it very well. It was much like you would feel if you tried to ease a bear out of hibernation, they have been in such a deep slumber that things just don’t go well when they arise. Regardless, I needed to discuss death and I needed to discuss it now. So I woke my father. At first I remember he was flustered and confused, but he saw my face red and puffy from the tears and I was pretty adorable as a kid, so I saw his face quickly soften with understanding and love. “Dad,” I said. “I am going to die.”

Dad and I had often had tough conversations. My fascination with God, and the beginning of the universe, were often things I needed to discuss. When did the universe begin? And before that what was there? We would talk for hours and sometimes satisfy my hunger for the unknown, but often would have to just move on and hope I would shut up or become distracted.  Tonight was no such night. I needed answers.

My dad asked me for more information and I explained that I just realized that, in fact, I am going to die one day and it terrified me. I had practical concerns like I didn’t want bugs to crawl through me if I am buried and how am I going to get to heaven if I am just a bunch of bones? And furthermore I just didn’t want to die. Ever. Most of us don’t.

We discussed my concerns and I expressed my desire to be put on ice if I did have to die. He said that he was sure technology would advance and that would become a viable option. And then he said what comforted me the most when I said I was going to die, “Yes, but you won’t for a very, very long time.” I looked at him and took solace in these words. That helps. If I do have to die, which I still don’t want to, it would not be for a very, very long time. So, I can live with that.

A few days after I was diagnosed with cancer I recalled this conversation with my dad almost twenty years prior. I had obviously crept forward in the timeline of my life so perhaps I wasn’t going to die for a “very long time” instead of a “very, very long time.” But still, I was young. Didn’t I have more time? It was like I was nine years old again being shaken awake by the reality of death. It happens. To all of us. So now what?

Cancer has a way of showing us that we need more than just some time. Time is just time. We all need something more fulfilling than that.

With a breast cancer diagnosis, it is not all over when your oncologist calls you with news that you are cancer-free after battling the disease for months or years. You then enter this “watch and wait” period where you literally hold your breath, just praying the cancer won’t return. My breast cancer type was “triple negative.” Whenever I tell another breast cancer survivor this fact their eyes get wide and there is visible concern in their eyes because they know that is a bad one. Yes, they are all bad, but triple negative breast cancer has the unfortunate reputation of being extremely aggressive—extremely bad. As if that news is not bad enough, there are no post-treatment medications that most other breast cancer survivors stay on for several years to decrease the chance of recurrence. So I have no “safety net” so-to-speak. My oncologist just waved goodbye and shoved me out into the real world.

I have already had a significant scare since my treatment ended. A few months ago I had severe pain in my upper back. It didn’t go away for months and I started to worry. I told my oncologist about the pain and we waited it out for a few more weeks, but the pain was just not going away. Finally, my oncologist told me it would be useful to get an MRI. And then he said it, “to rule out metastasis.” Metastasis is my least favorite word. I hate it more than cancer. I hate it more than asparagus. I hate it. So then, of course, my mind goes to worst case scenarios and I start trying to comfort myself but have no success because I am scared out of my mind. Luckily, the scans came back clear and I moved on slowly and carefully with my nerves eased a tad.

The fear boils down to the extreme level of uncertainty one struggles with every day. I can have a pain in my back and it could be a muscle pull or it could be that my cancer has returned. Or I could feel tired one day and it could be that I stayed up too late reading the night before or the cancer has returned. One just never knows. Words fail to truly express how tough that can be on a person’s psyche. The other day I was looking at myself in the mirror and checking out my hair growth and a thought shot through my head, “I hope I don’t die before I can grow my hair back out to ‘ponytail’ length.” It is unfortunate that my thoughts go there, but having spoken to breast cancer survivor friends of mine I have found that these thoughts, and living with this degree of fear, is very normal.

I feel like I was good at fighting cancer. I wore the pink wig, I rocked the bald head, I joked about my crazy perky boobs, I made lifelong friends with my healthcare providers. I was a cancer cheerleader in every essence of that concept. I fear, however, that I am failing at this whole survivorship thing. Survivor friends of mine assure me that it just takes time, but how much time?

There we go again. Time. I want more than that.

If I were told tomorrow that my time is being cut short, I would want my story to have helped someone. I would want someone going down a tough road to have found comfort in the words I have written in this blog during my war with cancer. Sometimes I feel as though I have fallen short when some of the closest people to me have come out on the other side of this experience not remotely understanding what I have been through and what I still deal with every minute. I feel this heavy burden to help those going through this journey, but sometimes I fail myself when I succumb to the fear that is cancer and its aftermath. I want to see my nephew grow up and get married. I want to see my niece grow up and become a stand-up comedian, which I have determined is the road she is heading down. But I guess, before any of that happens, I just want them and those close to me to know I love them and I find comfort knowing, without a doubt, that they do.

At the end of the day, I understand that all our days are numbered. When I was first diagnosed with cancer, I often got the comforting words that yes, cancer sucks and you can die from it, but hey, “you could step outside tomorrow and be hit by a bus!!!” Oh, ok! Then what am I stressing for? But there is one thing I know for sure, that if I have one day left on this earth or 90 years, I want to surround myself with those people I hold dear and make sure they know I love them. Because time is just time, but spending it experiencing that ever-precious time with those you love—that is when you are truly living. 

I was diagnosed with breast cancer on this day one year ago. It is officially my one-year “Cancerversary.” I remember a few days after I was diagnosed I was talking to a stranger about my diagnosis (because at that time I was telling everyone I came in contact with) and she said I was a survivor. And I corrected her. I told her I wasn’t a survivor yet. I told her the fight had just begun. She looked back at me and replied, “Oh no, honey. You are a survivor already!” I got to thinking about that in the days and weeks to come and I figured she was right. I was a survivor. I was already developing a superhuman-like skin that couldn’t be penetrated, and I thought to myself, “What makes someone a survivor?”

***

A survivor is anyone who has been made stronger because of the path they have had to walk down.

What makes us stronger?

We are stronger when we try for something regardless of the outcome.

We are stronger when we face each day knowing the fears we have and live alongside those fears while maintaining a level of peace.

We are stronger when we help someone, hold someone, empower someone.

We are stronger when we look back at where we have come from and look ahead knowing we will only move forward.

So take your steps carefully but confidently.

Say thank you for every breath you get to take and every smile you get to spread across someone’s face.

Spend time alone, but spend more time surrounded by those you love.

Never let anyone steal your happiness: not for one moment, not for one second, not for one breath.

Make friends with yourself. Love yourself to pieces!

Wait on what is worth waiting for…only you know what that is.

Look inside your heart when no one else is looking and ask yourself, “What do I want to do today?” And then make it happen.

Hand your love out freely because love is infinite, love is powerful, love is the only thing that makes sense today and will make sense again tomorrow.

Remember how magnificent and endless the world is and make sure you see as much of it as you can.

If there is someone you love and you haven’t told them how you feel, don’t waste another second, tell them.

Remember that you live in this world, but you don’t have to be of this world. You can be whatever you like.

Just be who you are, no excuses. That is the strongest you can be, that is the best you can be.

And we are the strongest of all when we wake up tomorrow and do it all again.

We are all survivors. 

. 

Have you ever experienced a moment in time that is just so fantastic you wish you could wrap your hands around it and hold on, to save and treasure forever? When everything just comes together perfectly and all your fears and heartache from the past dissipate and the world comes into focus? A sense of calm rushes over you and you feel weightless, as though only opportunity awaits you? This is how I felt last Friday when I received the best phone call of my life.

***

The night before my final PET scan felt very similar to the nights before chemo because of the anxiety I felt about the following day. I had one last test scheduled to determine whether or not the treatment had worked—to determine whether or not I was cancer-free, to determine if I could go ahead and live my new life. The night before my final PET scan brought back that same aching feeling of uncertainty that I have had ever since I was diagnosed with breast cancer ten months ago. Is the treatment going to work? How can I be sure? This is my life we are talking about here. I need to be sure!

There have been so many moments throughout this journey where I really resented God for not making our bodies transparent, so we could just check for any cancerous spots ourselves. Wouldn’t it just be so much easier if we could peek inside our own bodies instead of having to take all of these silly tests? When I was diagnosed and first learned that the lump I found in my right breast was cancer, I would place my hand on the lump and be completely mind-blown by the fact that I was millimeters away from a cancerous tumor. It was inside me. But today, after some VERY hard work, it is not.

Last Friday, I headed to the same hospital where I was born, where, 28 years later, I had my double mastectomy, where I went to get my voluntary menopause shot days before chemo began, where I sat in the chemo chair eight times for chemotherapy, where I laid on the radiation table thirty-five times for radiation treatment. Now I was there to get my final PET scan. It was the same old scene I experienced ten months ago—the same room, the same receptionist, the same chairs, and the same smell. I had been through so much, but here everything was just as it was when I had first visited.

Returning to this room was one of the strangest feelings I have ever had. I recalled the feeling I had for weeks after I was diagnosed that formed in the pit of my stomach. The feeling I had that my life had slipped beyond my grasp, and I was barely hanging on. I sat in the same chairs waiting for my name to be called. A similar friendly face called me to the back and informed my mom that the test would take about two hours. My mom and I hugged, just as we did ten months ago, before I went back to the room where I would be injected with “sugar water,” as they like to call it. Then they handed me a blanket and shut the door and turned off the light. Yup, you read that right. In order for a PET scan to be accurate you have to be calm. If you aren’t calm, your active thoughts can actually throw off the results of the test. So, I had to sit alone in a dark room for about an hour. I had to find a place of Zen, something I have been searching for my entire life and I was doubtful I would find it there. How was I supposed to be calm when I knew what this test meant? How was I supposed to be calm period when I knew my entire life was at stake?

After an hour of sitting on a cold, stiff chair and pretending to be calm, a man entered the room, the lights flicked on, and he announced it was time. I was placed on a table near a machine that looks much like an MRI machine. It was show time.

The test lasted about forty-five minutes. A nurse reminded me that I had to remain perfectly still, and I couldn’t help but laugh. When I was first diagnosed, and going to what felt like daily tests, I was always told that I had to be still: for my MRI, for my CAT Scan, for radiation simulations, for my PET scan. And every time they told me this, I would be like, “Umm, that is impossible. I can’t stay still for an hour. I just can’t.” And the employees would always return with the same response, “You have to.” But now, as an official cancer-killing alumnus, being still is no problem. I am considering becoming one of those carnival people that stands on top of an overturned bucket, my body and clothes covered in silver paint, pretending to be a statue. I feel as though I could do really well at that. I am not sure if that position is salaried or has benefits, but I am looking into it.

After being still, the test was finished, I returned to my mom, and the waiting began. We had been told that getting the results could take as long as three days. So I decided I had to be busy the entire time. Much like a dance marathon, I needed to keep moving until I received word. Luckily for me, that word came about four hours later. My mom and I were walking towards a bookstore when I got a call from the hospital. I grabbed onto my mom’s arm as we walked through the parking lot and answered. A cute little voice came on the phone and one of my oncologist’s nurses explained that she had the results and asked if I would like to hear them. I accosted her through the phone, “YES. I WOULD LIKE TO HEAR THEM.” And then the sweetest words I have ever heard responded, “There are no malignancies detected on your scans. There is no more cancer.” I thanked her and got off the phone and relayed the news to my mom. She was the first to burst into tears just like she had been the first one to break down in tears when I was diagnosed. My emotions are always trying to keep up! It takes me longer to process. When I saw her tears I immediately joined her and there we were, in the middle of the parking lot of a bookstore, sobbing and hugging and I think I was jumping up and down. We had done it! It was over! I couldn’t believe it.

We both kept sobbing and at some point we somehow ended up sitting down in the middle of the parking lot. People were staring. I didn’t care. I had made it. I am one of the cancer-free people again. And it felt so sweet. All the stress and the emotional and physical weight that these last few months placed on me evaporated. I could feel it all just lift off my shoulders and I felt light, completely irrepressible, and entirely free. We kept crying for what felt like hours. A man actually stopped his car, got out, and walked over to us to see if we were OK. I told him that I was crying happy tears and explained my news to him. He started cheering alongside us. He was so happy for me and I had never even met this guy before! It was quite a moment: my mother and I rejoicing over my good news in the company of the Barnes and Noble patrons.

After receiving the news, I called friends and family members and then I just kept smiling and randomly busting out sweet dance moves. I didn’t stop for days. I can’t sleep anymore because every night I think about all the things I can do with my life. My mind races with everything I want to do the following day now that I am cancer-free. I got my cancer-free life back. I can do anything I want. I can do anything in the world except stop smiling. It is the best feeling in the world.

***

I will never ever forget the feeling I had when I received that phone call, just as I will never forget how hard I had to fight in order to get that phone call. I am sure I will experience more heartache and more setbacks, but I am moving ahead in this next chapter of my life knowing I can handle anything that is thrown my way. I have this almost childlike appreciation for life now where every last thing is just cool and fabulous. A stick of deodorant can absolutely rock my world. I am going to work very hard to keep this mindset and I pray every day that it never goes away.