So, here we are six months into a global pandemic, and the same as everyone else, this has affected my daily routine. In January, my routine was to awaken at six or seven o'clock, wash up, eat breakfast, and check my calendar to remind myself what I'm doing all day. In January, I was dressing warmly and walking two blocks over to an eight month old boy's house where I let myself in. While I was removing my winter boots and down jacket, I'd talk with the adorable little boy's southern accented mom or his dark Latino-Italian dad to get the scoop on the boy's latest achievements and developments. Then as they left for work—mom to her dentistry clinic and dad to his basement office—I'd settle in with this happy little boy I'd only met months before. We enjoyed a crackling fire in the fireplace or sitting on the floor together playing with toys and practicing standing, sitting and walking. When meal time came we'd eat together at the dining room table, learning to use tiny silverware and trying to get as much food into his body as possible, rather than on the floor. He may have followed that up with a nap and some more time listening to me read to him about silly things like peas that can count up to one hundred, a llama looking for his true identity, or a doorbell signalling the arrival of more friends and cousins with which to celebrate a plate full of chocolate chip cookies. By the end of the afternoon Dad would be done with work and ready to take his little boy for play time, while I put on the warm clothes and boots in preparation for my short trek home. I really do enjoy my job as a child care giver. I know I make a significant difference in the world. I love little boy hugs and kisses and laughter. I relish the times that one of the twin girls I care for turns to me and asks, “What are you doing? Why did you do that?” as I handle colored pencils to color in my coloring book. Or when the twins and their girlfriend play me in a round of a card game that teaches counting, following directions, strategy, and losing with grace and dignity. When I arrive home after an afternoon or day away, I take the dog I'm fostering out for a much deserved walk and training session, check the mail, greet my husband and we discuss our days.
     Now, it's August, my routine is dramatically different, essentially non-existent. Only one of my child care families has parents that are pandemic essential workers, so I work exclusively for them. The mom is a part-time pediatric nurse who works twelve hour shifts at a nearby hospital; the dad works from home on his computer when his work team isn't trying to get back to working at the office. The twin girls and I don't go to the beach to stay cool on these hot summer days as the beaches are either closed or too crowded to safely enjoy. Our walks around the neighborhood involve social distancing with any other walkers. The girls do enjoy helping me walk my chihuahua-mix around the neighborhood, and as a team, the three of us have completed some very significant canine training. They used to relish visiting my aquarium and two beautiful orange and buff felines, but these days I don't allow them in my house. I frequently remind them to wash their hands. They're tired of board games. I have to say no to their requests more often. I'm tired of kids' TV shows. Well, okay, I confess that I actually enjoy some of them, but still...The kids are wondering whether they will be physically going to school in September. I am wondering whether I will have enough kids to care for come Fall. Early on in the pandemic I saw one of my neighbors running through all of the allies in my area, presumably a creative way to vary his daily workout. I took this time to have two essential surgeries done that I was previously putting off. Some have used this time to modify or redecorate their homes. Others have been laid off from work and are wondering where the next meal will come from. I have purchased more items online in the last few months than I ever have in my life.
     I don't cook or bake much, as it is cognitively challenging for me to do, but the other day I actually got really excited about purchasing a set of stainless steel measuring cups and  spoons. All of my adult life I've used the plastic measuring tools I was given either when I went away for college or when I got married, some thirty-five years ago! Definitely a long overdue purchase! Maybe I will enjoy cooking and baking a little bit more now....we'll see...
     With all of the changes that are taking place in the way we live our lives this pandemic year, I am glad that my having a hydrocephalus shunt is not reason to be concerned. The shunt operates within a closed system that is not affected by COVID-19. I am assured by neurologists that following the usual safety precautions is enough: wash hands frequently, stay at least six feet away from others, don't gather in large groups, wear a mask. When I come home from a day with my kids, I change my clothes and wash them just to be sure I'm not passing anything between our houses.
     I know I am not alone in wanting this pandemic to be under control and maybe even gone. Keep hanging in there. Do what you can to be kind to yourself and others. We'll get through this. I'm praying for all of us, people all over the world are praying, and prayer is a powerful thing. We have a powerful, faithful and merciful God we can really trust.

It's time to go back to school, readers. Here is a biology lesson on hydrocephalus.

“Carefully protected inside the human head, inside your brain there are four compartments called ventricles. Filled with cerebrospinal fluid, they are connected by several narrow passageways and special cells. Cerebrospinal fluid, or CSF, flows between the two lateral ventricles, down to the third ventricle, through the Aqueduct of Sylvius (also called the cerebral aqueduct), and down further into the fourth ventricle, then into the narrow space surrounding the brain and the spinal cord. The CSF that bathes our brains provides important nutrients to the neurons and spinal column. It helps clean out cellular waste, and protects us by filling the space between our brains and our skulls with an absorptive cushion of fluid. Without it we would experience major brain trauma each time we bumped our heads.

"Our bony skulls act as armor. Newborn babies have a soft spot, the anterior fontanel, where the skull has not finished growing together. Their brains are protected in that spot by a membrane that covers the hole. Soon after birth, the hole disappears and in its place is a completed bony skull. As the baby grows and matures, the brain and skull grow and mature as well. Once the CSF has made the rounds, so to speak, through the whole system, it is expelled from the brain by special cells, and absorbed into our bodies. Nothing is ever wasted.

"Hydrocephalus (hi' dro sef' uh luhs—from two latin words meaning “water” and “head”) occurs when something prevents the CSF from freely flowing in the “lakes and creeks and rivers” inside the head. Yes, that was the reason for the geography lesson, not to mention it was fun to tell it to you. I am proud to be a Minnesotan. Imagine what would happen if Minnehaha Creek or the Mississippi River was dammed up by beavers. Where would the water go? It would overflow its banks and flood the surrounding land, maybe even spilling over the top of the dam. Though CSF may be impeded by an obstruction in an aqueduct, it continues to be produced at the rate of 0.35 milliliters per minute and flows through the system anyway. In babies, because their skulls are not yet knit together completely, the CSF pushes against the brain, causing the skull to expand to accommodate the fluid. The anterior fontanel may bulge or be abnormally convex. The pressure inside the brain increases abnormally. In teenagers and adults, whose skulls are complete, the extra pressure builds as the fluid has no where to go, so it presses against brain cells, causing pain and problems for normal cell function.

"This may cause urinary incontinence, mobility abnormalities, cognitive and language learning disabilities, and severe headaches, like migraine headaches, and no over the counter medication will suffice.

"Common causes of hydrocephalus include congenital lesions (e.g. spina bifida), traumatic lesions (concussions), and infections such as meningoencephalitis, as well as congenital aqueductal stenosis and a rare genetic disease. One form of hydrocephalus can be misdiagnosed as Alzheimer's Disease or Parkinson's Disease. Usually neurosurgeons can tell you which type of hydrocephalus you have and how best to treat it.” --From The Lakes In My Head: Paddling An Unexplored Wilderness​

So, we do have lakes in our heads, do we not? When my hydrocephalus was discovered, my cerebral lakes were filled to overflowing, much like the flooding we have been experiencing in locations all over the world, due to climate change. With lakes in our heads and lakes all around us, it is difficult to ignore our need to use wise stewardship for them both. Let's take care of all of our lakes!

Why do I write about hydrocephalus using lake imagery?

 I think it is because here in Minnesota we are literally surrounded by lakes, and many of those lakes are connected to each other by rivers and streams. We see them every day. Most people don't realize that inside our brains there are pockets of fluid connected by channels called aqueducts. The fluid is cerebrospinal fluid, often called CSF. It's filled with nutrients that feed our brains, and at the same time it flushes away waste from our brain cells. This is exactly how we--and all life on earth--use the lake and groundwater around us, to give us necessary nutrients and flush away waste. In hydrocephalus, there is an excess of that normally helpful fluid, CSF, which creates pressure on the brain. The cells that usually assist us in re-absorption of the CSF can't keep up with the production of it, which as far as we know is constant. The pressure prevents the brain from functioning properly, resulting in symptoms like headaches, nausea and vision problems. If caught early enough, permanent brain damage can be prevented. Coincidentally, here in Minnesota and elsewhere in the world we are trying to figure out how to live with an excess of water caused by climate change, cleaning up after severe rains, extreme storms and flooding. The parallel is all around us, all the time. 

Why should others know about my condition?

Hydrocephalus, like depression and other illnesses, can seem invisible to us. I am not limping, not wearing a cast, not showing obvious signs of having a medical condition. Yet I do have a daily struggle with memory problems, recurring headaches, and the ever present threat of my brain shunt malfunctioning which is life-threatening. I pay a lot of medical bills.  Many of us struggle with depression. Some have other conditions along side their hydrocephalus, like Spina Bifida, seizures and Chiari malformations, that present other hurdles, as well. We want to be accepted and respected by others, and would like others to realize that we may have special needs, but inside we are just like you. There is much more to us than just our medical condition. We want to be treated kindly and compassionately, with respect and dignity.

What advice do I have for others who have this condition?

 Don't be afraid to tell others you have hydrocephalus and at the same time don't use hydrocephalus as an excuse to not be your best self. We all need close friends to be able to share our lives with. We need intimacy. Share your hydrocephalus struggles with those with whom you already have a close relationship. Lean on their support. Let yourself be encouraged by their love. Then try new things. Wear a helmet when you do activities during which you may injure your head. Find out what you're good at. Be reasonable about your limitations. It is immensely freeing to not live your life in fear of others finding out about your condition. By the same token, it may not be necessary to tell some of your acquaintances about it. You may or may not want to reveal it to your employer. It depends on your personal situation. Hydrocephalus will not keep you from enjoying an abundant life, but fear will.

For more, read The Lakes In My Head: Paddling An Unexplored Wilderness

Good afternoon from lovely Minnesota, USA!

Let me introduce myself: My name is Lesli. I have a husband named Ken, two cats named Mango and Butternut, and a freshwater aquarium full of small fish. My adult daughter is on her own now, but we enjoy seeing her frequently. I've lived in Minnesota all my life, but I've traveled all over the U.S. and to England and South America. I enjoy camping, being outdoors, singing in choirs at my church, learning as much as I can about music, and caring for my neighbors' children and pets. Oh, and I also have hydrocephalus.

I worked for close to twenty years in the human medical laboratory industry and in veterinary clinics as a vet assistant. I have a bachelor of science degree in biology, having taken many more credits than I needed because I couldn't narrow down my field of study. Everything fascinates me. I also love to learn. I pursued becoming a medical technician, a physical therapist, a naturalist, and a veterinary technician. I was persistent. It seemed like I was always struggling with medical conditions that were limiting me. Then I was diagnosed with hydrocephalus.

Over the course of my life I've raised rabbits, cats, a dalmatian, fiddler crabs, freshwater fish...even an anole from Florida that piggybacked into my house on a Norfolk Island Pine. I adopted a cockatiel that had escaped from his owners, flown an unknown distance and landed in my neighborhood. One of my cats died from feline leukemia; Matthew's heart stopped because of hypertrophic cardiomyopathy; Kaci, Gretchen and Princess all died of different types of cancer. The dalmatian had a spinal injury of some kind, but lived to almost thirteen. Feline Heidi and cockatiel Alec actually lived into old age; we were pleasantly amazed. Turns out, I have a medical condition, too.

I've lived along side two parents, my father and my husband's mother, as they struggled with dementia and then passed peacefully away. There have been two suicides in my extended family. I would never consider suicide as an option; I have way too much to live for. I was there when one grandfather, several great aunts, several cousins, an uncle, and both of my grandmothers passed away. To our knowledge, none of them had hydrocephalus, but now I do.

By the age of forty-five years I had already lived a full life of service to others and to God. Actively involved in the Christian church as I was growing up, through my college years, and the years following, I had a firm foundation of faith to rely on. Faith in a loving God who is always by my side. Faith in a just God who acts in our lives for our good. Then, I was diagnosed with the kind of hydrocephalus that is usually diagnosed at birth or soon after. The surgeon said I was probably born with it. Aqueductal stenosis, he called it. 

And, guess what? It can't be cured...yet. It can be treated through brain surgery, often several or many. This was my prognosis. I knew what hydrocephalus is, but how could I have it now? I'm not a newborn! I'm forty-five years old! 

Well, I'm making it through this latest journey in my life, and I am happy. It's been twelve years since that diagnosis. Twelve years that haven't been easy. I'm still here on the planet and I have a story to tell!

Read The Lakes In My Head: Paddling An Unexplored Wilderness​, published by Xlibris Publishing, written by yours truly.

​Right now, my life is filled with messiness.

Loved ones who need assistance with life-threatening illness. My back is complaining from my recent endeavors, so I have to do exercises for it. I care for babies and kids; they make big messes, sometimes on me. My house is messy. My pets have messy moments. Relationships are messy at times. My writing space is, well let's just say that I can find things, but others who want something from my office can not. Some people thrive on messiness. Artists and inventors  often create wonderful art or solutions to problems in the midst of messiness.

For the past couple of summers I have raised monarch butterflies in my house. In my office, in fact. With the door closed it is a haven for little caterpillars working on becoming butterflies. We frequently use the butterfly's process of pupating to express the uncertainty of proceeding through changes in our lives. "Just hang in there," we say to one another. "A butterfly will emerge from all this. It will be beautiful!" Butterflies make it look so easy! A quiet yet spunky, persistant caterpillar emerges from a practically microscopic egg stuck to a milkweed leaf. It blends in so well with the leaf that we can hardly see it. First it eats the egg casing it came out of. It looks like a black dot (its head) munching its way around in a circle on the leaf. When it's ready, it sheds its skin and eats that, too. The caterpillar's skin changes to the familiar black, yellow and white stripes. Eat some more milkweed leaf. Eliminate the waste, called frass. Grow a little longer and bigger in circumference. This is the focused life of a caterpillar. It sheds its skin three more times, each time becoming longer and larger, until after nine to sixteen days it somehow knows to stop eating and eliminates its last frass. Suddenly, it's on a mission: crawling away from the milkweed to a quiet, safe place where it rests momentarily. It glues its tail end to a stick or something else firm off of the ground using a fine webbing of silk. Next it hangs by its tail forming the shape of a J and begins to pulsate internally, pulling itself into an "o" shape, and back down into a J. If you look away at this point to check your cell phone, by the time you look back at the caterpillar it is gone, and in its place is a shiny, mint green, ovular chrysalis with a black "stem" attached to the silky web. It will stay this way for eight to fifteen days, gradually becoming darker and darker, wearing sparkling gold jewelry, thus the name monarch. At the end of this pseudo-gestation period, a wrinkled but beautiful bright orange and black butterfly will slowly, patiently slide out of its translucent membrane, unfurl its wings and fly away to find out the lay of the land. Looking for flowers, it will drink nectar to restore its energy while it searches for a mate.

Sounds neat and organized, doesn't it? It is, for the most part, and since butterflies are insects their bodies are following a predetermined schedule of transformation. Individual butterflies don't question their purpose, decide to go on a vacation, or demand a different schedule. They quietly do what they're created to do....unless...someone or something interferes with that schedule. Then, their lives become downright messy! Parasites may lay eggs in a caterpillar, causing it to die when the alien eggs hatch, releasing the newly emerged flies or mites. And though the chrysalis looks shiny and smooth and even peaceful on the outside, what's happening inside is anything but! I have accidently disturbed a caterpillar in the stage of forming the chrysalis (pupating), killing it and turning it into a puddle of bright green goo with no sign of a caterpillar or butterfly body. It was like a scene out of a horror movie. It worried me for days! Once I realized that the goo was just part of the process, and how fragile the chrysalids are I felt relieved and ready to try again with a new caterpillar. 

Maybe we can learn a lesson from this. When life throws a wrench in our neatly organized plans, relax and remember that the green goo before you is simply a messy part of life.

The last two days I've been given an amazing gift. It's been there all along, but this gift has turned my attention toward the sky. 

Two days ago, while walking from my house to the garage, which is also my husband's shop and where he spends much of his time, I heard a faint but distinct bird call. I knew instantly what it was and looked high into the sky to find the caller. My eyes followed and locked on to the source of the calls: a broad-winged hawk. Then yesterday it was two broad-winged hawks calling to each other. It's a little late for the semi-annual hawk migration that occurs every spring, and it's more common for us to hear and see Cooper's hawks or red-tailed hawks in our neighborhood, than broad-wings. What a treat to be rewarded for my many hours of listening to bird song recordings! The sound-siting gave me an inner feeling of accomplishment and thankfulness that still makes me feel good just to remember it.

Almost every day I walk to stay healthy. It keeps my heart and muscles strong, keeps me feeling positive and gives me energy for my day. I often walk outside in our neighborhood near Minnehaha Creek or around Lake Nokomis. While outside I never listen to music with ear buds in my ears; that would block out all the sounds of nature I enjoy. My intention is always to push myself to walk as fast as I can, but so often I get side-tracked by seeing or hearing a bird. If it's pouring rain outside I walk on the treadmill in my basement, and only then do I have ear buds in my ears--listening to recorded bird songs and calls! I am a musician; I love music, but when I hear it I stop whatever I'm doing and listen or dance to it. If I can't walk to the beat of the music it drives me crazy, so exercising to music is out for me unless I find the perfect song to play with the exercise I'm doing. I discovered that bird songs and calls are beautiful to hear while exercising, without the temptation to follow a beat. I can focus on my body, its movements, how I'm feeling, listening to what my body needs that day. The side benefit of this is learning to recognize bird calls.

As all birders know, many small song birds are elusive, hiding in the forest understory and hunting for insects under the dead leaves, or camouflaged high up in the leafy branches of a mature hardwood tree. Even using binoculars they can be difficult to spot. If I pay attention to my ears the sounds of the forest or lakeside will reveal the presence of birds that are concealed there. In my book, The Lakes In My Head, I write about how exciting it was to first hear, then eventually see my first varied thrush four years ago in Alaska on the Kenai Peninsula:
"We saw the peak of Mt. Denali (formerly McKinley) in the dazzling sun from the Alaska Railroad train car. We breathed the fresh, clean air of the Alaskan coniferous forests. I identified over thirty bird species I had never seen before, by sound and by sight, including varied thrushes, a highlight of the trip for me--and a source of amusement for my husband and friend, who teased me about my birding excitement. We saw moose, magpies, and ravens wherever we went, even in the city, and black bear, grizzly bear, porcupines and Arctic ground squirrels in the forested areas."

One night while staying in a tiny cabin at Denali, falling asleep while it was still quite light outside due to the Alaskan summer I was rudely startled by the very loud sound of a wood thrush (or possibly a Swainson's thrush, I don't recall) echoing through the crisp air and bouncing off the hillsides right outside the cabin door. My husband, Ken, was soundly asleep, but there was no way I was going to get to sleep with that "noise" outside the cabin. My curiosity overwhelmed me. I got up, put some pants on, and went outside to quietly stalk the bird. Again, the call told me it would be on the ground among the bushes beneath the pines and I followed the sound to where it was. I was rewarded with a really good siting of the bird standing on the ground singing away with all his might. No binoculars necessary. He kept on singing while I tiptoed back into bed. It took me a bit to fall asleep again. The bird, however, clearly was not going to be sleeping any time soon!

Do you listen? I mean REALLY listen? Do you pay attention to all the sounds around you? Try it some time. The next time your child runs to you demanding your attention, give her or him ALL of your attention. Listen to what she's saying between the lines. The next time you're outside listen to all the sounds you hear. Do you hear the wind rustling the leaves, the family across the street talking to one another, the two men on the corner having a lively discussion, the sound of the mud squishing beneath your feet after a rain? It's such a privilege to be able to hear the details.

Welcome back to my blog!

It's been a challenging six months since I last checked in. Many hours soaking in Epsom salts, pampering my back and spine, faithfully doing physical therapy exercises twice daily, more often if necessary to relieve pain, have brought a focus to my life. A focus on caring for my body once again. This led to caring for others when a close relative fell and broke her hip, needing comfort and assistance. She can't care for her dog any more, so I'm doing that as well.

Then, of course, the threat of the novel coronavirus has increasingly become a major part of our lives worldwide. It is almost impossible to get through a day without hearing some news station or neighbor or friend talking about possible infection. With my scientific and medical background I have tried to keep up with all the latest accurate information. "Accurate" is the key word in that sentence! Not all information in the news or on the internet is scientifically accurate. We are worried about losing our jobs, our finances, our health, and our families. It is easy to let that worry take control. Concern and learning about the virus is helpful and can even be calming to know we are doing something about our situations. All of this baffling new information, doing our best to protect ourselves, our neighbors and friends, and wondering when or if everything will get back to "normal" can leave their marks on our lives. This can include back, neck and shoulder pain.

One thing I've learned is that many of us carry our stress in our backs, necks, and shoulders without knowing it. Then one day as we are thinking we're handling life quite well, seemingly without fear or anger, pain rears its ugly head to remind us that we are keeping our emotions inside and not dealing with them directly. Each time we feel strong emotions or are in a stressful situation our bodies release hormones and chemicals that are supposed to help us flee from the perceived danger. If we don't physically flee--as in, run away--those chemicals remain in our bodies. Over time they cause pain and stiffness.

One way I have found to handle stress effectively is to GET OUTDOORS! Fresh air, sunshine, physical movement! Dancing! Running! Walking the dog! Biking! Yoga! Swimming! Do it all outside if you can. Even running on a cloudy day helps. As long as you stay six feet away from others you can still talk to them. The wind, fresh air and UV light from the sun will help keep you safe from the coronavirus. Seeing others out enjoying the outdoors is heartening, as well. It keeps us connected. It keeps us positive. The Bible says in Proverbs that "a cheerful heart is good medicine." That is actually true. Staying positive boosts our immune systems and gives us energy. 

Get outside and do something fun! You will feel better for it and so will your friends and family!

It's Minnesota. The green leaves on the trees are slowly turning yellow, orange, and red in response to the cooler nights of September. The animals have begun preparing for winter. Families are re-arranging their schedules to accommodate the kids going back to school. There are sports and after school classes to sign up for, and child care to plan for those times when parents can't get home from work right away. Kids are nervous or excited for starting a new school year. 
It's time for me to brush up on the things I've forgotten. 
I knew this day would come, the day that I can't remember the details of those challenging ten years that began in 2006. Life has been unpredictable and busy this summer, and I haven't had time to do what I've done every summer since 2010, talk to others who have been newly diagnosed with hydrocephalus. Bring them hope and encouragement as they face the prospect of brain surgery for the first time. Help them understand what hydrocephalus is and how to spell the dang word! 
My diagnosis experience went something like this, an excerpt from my book:
"The appointment was scary, no doubt about that. The surgeon wasn't scary; he had a confident yet gentle, and soft-spoken demeanor. He told me I was not alone. At first I thought that was an odd thing to say, but as I pondered it I realized I do feel alone. After all, I am the only one inside my head. He was willing to answer every one of my questions. I had a long list. He actually gently took my list from my hands and read each question quickly, saying 'yes' or 'no' in response, giving a short explanation if needed. He didn't ignore a single question. What I needed to know so badly, he couldn't tell me for sure. I asked, 'Do I have hydrocephalus because I fell and hit my head?' His answer was an immediate, 'No.' 'So, I had to be born with it and no one knew it was there?' I asked. He nodded his head yes. He had seen a lot of cases of hydrocephalus, I reminded myself. He should know. He showed me the MRI images of my brain, and specifically, the colorful hour glass shaped Aqueduct of Sylvius connecting the lateral and third ventricles with the fourth ventricle. Do you recall my lesson on Minnehaha Creek and the four lakes it connects? Do you remember the beavers? Well, my Aqueduct of Sylvius was shaped like an hour glass. It wasn't supposed to be. There was a stenosis, or narrowing of the flow, right in the middle and the fluid had backed up on either side of the stenosis, creating an hour glass shape where there was supposed to be a straight, open canal. The surgeon said this particular condition, aqueductal stenosis, is almost always congenital. I was born with it. The beavers had been busy during my gestation in the womb.
"I was in disbelief. How could I have had hydrocephalus for forty-five years without anyone knowing it?
"The solution, I was told, was to surgically place a shunt in my brain to drain off the excess cerebrospinal fluid. A ventriculoperitoneal shunt is a long silicone catheter placed with one end in one of the lateral ventricles, sliding the other end under my skin all the way down to my peritoneal cavity. The end in my brain (the anterior end) would have a one way valve on it that could be set to open when the pressure in the ventricles reached a predetermined setting. Then, fluid would travel down the catheter and be absorbed in my peritoneal cavity, the space in which the lower half of my internal organs lies. The valve setting would control how much CSF is allowed to travel down the catheter and when.
"'So, we should schedule your surgery soon.'
"Brain surgery? But this was not on my agenda, my life's plan!"

Complications with my shunt, or possibly living for forty-five years with a brain condition my body had to compensate for, later caused me to permanently lose some of my brain capabilities. I lost some of my short-term memory and executive function. This means that periodically I need to re-read my book The Lakes In My Head to remind myself why I am anxious about forgetting things. It brings me wondrous relief from anxiety; it eventually returns, but I can take comfort in remembering why it's there to begin with. Writing the book was hard work, but well worth the effort!