My Year Away. And Back.

The Joys of Getting Back into Academic Life after a Year-Long Sabbatical.


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A Gastronomic Epic Anniversary Trip Right Around the Corner.

I know it might seem like I am obsessed with food.  I’m not.  Okay, actually, maybe I am.  But when you’re staring into the abyss and wondering if you’ll ever eat like a normal person again, it makes you pause.

That’s one reason when I discovered I had Achalasia about the same time my husband and I started planning our 40th anniversary trip, we quickly zeroed in on France and Italy—both places that excel in foods we like to eat. The idea was that we’d celebrate our anniversary—and the joy of being able to eat again post surgery.  During the darkest days leading up to my surgery in February and ongoing recovery ever since, when I was feeling particularly bad, I’d close my eyes and imagine myself sitting in a small Parisian café, eating split pea soup with a touch of sherry ladled out of a white porcelain tureen.  Or sitting in a Tuscan village pizzeria tasting that first beautiful bite of pizza con pomodoro.

No doubt about it, I love food.  When I think about the best times of my life, it often includes eating something delicious, often with my favorite people.  Here are some of the best times I’ve ever had eating.

  • Eating alone in Tbilisi, Georgia. I prefer not to eat alone, but sometimes, there is no choice. Right before my sabbatical started, I spent about a month in Tbilisi, Georgia (the country, not the state), teaching a class. It was my second time in the country, but the first when I was alone for most meals.  That made the comfort of food even more important. When I ate “Georgian beans” I never felt lonely.  It’s hard to describe how delicious Georgian “lobani” are.  But, every time I ate them, I felt better, I felt at home, and I felt like everything would be okay.

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    A simple meal, but until you’ve eaten Georgian beans, you don’t really know what comfort food is.

  • Eating dinner at the Alvah Stone. My friend Kathy F moved from South Carolina to Massachusetts and I visited her a few years ago on my way to an academic conference.  Converted from an old mill, the Alvah Stone restaurant had it all—including an incredible chef.  We didn’t know what to expect, but it surpassed everything we could imagine.  We enjoyed the food (and wine!) so much that as the hours rolled by, the chef eventually came out of the kitchen to say hello.  I seem to remember an inventive take on gnocchi, a hint of lavender water in the shortbread, and a dry Riesling that made me swoon.  It remains a dinner for the record books.

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    The chef at the Alvah Stone was delighted that Kathy and I loved his food.

  • Creating a send-off dinner party. My friend Marcie and I cooked and hosted a dinner party last summer to celebrate our friend Kathy R who was heading up north to begin her presidency of Westminster College. We invented a cocktail (the Presidential Cocktail, of course) and cooked our hearts out (does blueberry soup with toasted pound cake croutons ring a bell?) as we toasted our dear friend.

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    The Presidential Cocktail that Marcie and I invented was just the beginning of this send-off dinner party.

  • Independence Day every year. Speaking of Marcie, many of my epic food experiences involve Marcie. And one of my favorite culinary events is the 4th of July when Marcie heads down to our beach house for a weekend of sun, relaxation and epic cooking.  Over the 4th, you can be sure that a blueberry pie will emerge along with any number of salads, fish, and veggies.  Cooking with Marcie is always grand.

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    I’ve made a lot of pies in my life, but there is nothing like a blueberry pie in July.

  • Cooking for the hubster. One of the joys of cooking is to cook for people I love. And the ultimate example here is cooking for my husband, Gary.  One of the many great things about my mate is that he always appreciates when I cook for him.  Doesn’t matter what it is, he eats it and (usually) likes it.  During our 40 years of marriage, I don’t think he has ever complained about something I cooked.  (And this includes the tater tot casserole with canned peas I made when we were poor and newly married.)

And now here we are, one week before we leave on our “big trip.”  In my mind, I have imagined in exquisite detail every meal I am hoping to eat during our 31 days away.  There are the four-course meals on our transatlantic cruise.  We’re sitting by the window at a table for two, gazing out at the sea, savoring a mango and feta salad.  Or a pile of heirloom tomatoes with a balsamic reduction.

Or, we’re grabbing a croissant in Paris on our way to a stroll along the Seine.  Or we’re tucking in to a piece of focaccia in Recco, Italy (which happens to be where focaccia was invented). Or eating dinner at our agritourismo in Tuscany, rendered speechless by the lightness of the homemade pasta.

Gary’s worried that I’ve played these scenarios out in my head so many times, the reality of our trip will not live up to my dreams of it.

But, I’m not worried.  The trip is already an unmitigated success in my mind, however it ends up in reality.  During the most painful days of my recovery, I would close my eyes and imagine the cooking class I’m planning to take in Italy.  Or the gelato I am planning to eat.  Or the breakfast on our balcony during our ocean crossing.

All of these dreams involve my husband.  He’s looking forward to the trip, but probably not to the level that I am.  He’s been on one cruise.  And he hated it.  Still, he is willing to take a two-week transatlantic cruise where we will spend many days at sea (and no way to get off the ship no matter what the weather is like, or how loud the people are, or how obnoxious the lessons in making animals out of towels may be).  And any ideas I have had about what to do while we’re in France and Italy, he has basically said, “Sure, sounds great.”

He is taking this trip to make me happy.  I am already happy over the whole thing.  This 40th wedding anniversary trip is already one for the record books.  And nothing like weather, long lines—or even achalasia—is going to change that.  I’m spending an entire month with the man who, as a college student, saw my potential.  What in the world did we know so long ago?

Turns out, we knew more than we thought we did. And that makes me happy.  And grateful.  So Bon Voyage! Ci vediamo quando torniamo!


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When You Become a Member of a Community You Didn’t Ask to Join

Well, it’s been six weeks since I had surgery to make my achalasia manageable.  I had my “How are you doing?” appointment with my surgeon this week and got the green light to go out into the world and act like a normal person.  I have been cleared to go back to rowing, to lift heavy objects, to give eating salad a try if I feel like it.  In short, the rest of my recovery is up to me.

But, I still have achalasia.  And I always will.  And because it is such a rare condition, I have also been introduced to the world of Rare Diseases.  On social media, I’ve read several posts from others who are members of this “I didn’t ask for it” community, and I’ve got mixed emotions.

For the most part, I like being identified by my groups.  I’m a Rower. I’m a Professor. I’m an Obsessive Pie Baker.  I’m a Christian. I’m an Alto.  I’m a Wife.  I’m a Mother.  Heck, I’m a Grandmother.

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Here is one of the pies I obsess over. It’s a strawberry rhubarb.

And, well, now I’m also a Rare Condition Member (that sounds awkward).  How about Achalasia Survivor?  (No, that doesn’t quite work since I still have the condition.) Achalasia Sufferer? (No, that sounds too dramatic.  Surgery has given me a new lease on life.)  I’m an Achalasia Aware Person?  Hmm. Awkward, but okay.

To me, my recovery has been nothing short of a miracle.  For the first few weeks, I was concerned.  I still couldn’t eat.  And, then, I started to get better.  I stopped throwing up clear, sticky Ghost Busters-like goo. I started successfully eating firmer food. I stopped having horrific esophageal spasms several times a day.  I ate some pasta.  A cupcake for my birthday. And then a few days ago, I ate thin crust cheese pizza.  And it didn’t hurt.  (Or not much anyway.)  I am on my way.

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My birthday cupcake! It took two sittings, but I ate it.

So what’s all the belly aching about? Can’t I just forget about the Community I Didn’t Ask to Join?  They don’t need me.  There are plenty of sufferers out there who can moan and groan about the horrors of achalasia.  They can be the ones to run the 5Ks to build awareness. They can be the ones to fight for research to better understand the mystery of this rare condition.  They can be the ones to post their sad stories on You Tube.  They don’t need me.  I’m better now.

Except, they do need me.  And, surprise, surprise, I think I need them, too.  They are the ones who helped me understand what was happening to me.  The ones who let me know that I was not alone with this wacky condition.  The ones who said they had been helped with surgery.  The ones who still had questions. They are the ones who understand what it’s like to have achalasia.

I’ve never come face to face with anyone who has achalasia.  I only know them virtually.  But when I read their stories or watch their videos, I get it.  I understand.  When I read posts from people who are afraid of having surgery, I understand.  When I read academic articles about achalasia, I want to weigh in with my own opinion.  I know you all.  And you know me.

Sure, this is a community I didn’t choose to join.  But it’s a welcoming community nonetheless.  For better or worse, I’m a life-long member now. So to my new-found community friends, take heart.  You are not alone.  And, get this!  Because of surgery, yesterday for the first time in about a year, I ate a salad.  And I rowed today for the first time since surgery.  Who knows what next week will bring?

Sculling October 10

It was so great to row this morning!


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A Tool Kit for Surviving Surgery—and learning a whole lot in the process

I’m alive!  But, Yowzers.  That was one painful surgical experience. As I wrote about recently, I had surgery on February 2 to make my Achalasia manageable.  I am early into the recovery process, but on my way.  As I move on to the next step toward recovery, I thought it might be helpful to present this nifty guide for anyone who is facing a hospital visit.  While you might not be able to use all these tools, I hope there is at least something you’ll find helpful.

  1. If you are having laparoscopic surgery to your abdomen area and the pre-surgical directions tell you to “wear loose clothing,” take this seriously.  I thought “loose clothing” meant I should wear something that I could change out of easily.    You have to wear loose clothing because you are most likely going to pumped up with gas and will resemble the Michelin Tire Man.  As I mentioned in my previous post on my condition, a benefit to having Achalasia (albeit a painful one) is that you’ll most likely lose weight.  So if you need to shed a few pounds, at least this is one good thing that happens.  By the time I headed to the hospital, everything I owned was loose. Even my underwear.  When I left the hospital about 32 hours later, I could barely fit into my underwear, let alone the loose pants I had worn in.  This “pumping up” phenomena is fascinating (especially if you are observing from afar) but painful.  I was pumped up with CO2 so the surgeon could move my organs around easily.  You know, I was all about climate change and the evils of too much carbon dioxide in the air before my surgery.  I’m even more committed to ridding the world of excess gas now.  But, I need to concentrate on keeping it local and trying to get rid of my own personal greenhouse gas emissions.
  2. Don’t panic when you meet your first nurse. There are a whole lot of people who will be taking care of you.  Everyone has a role and they know what they’re doing.  It’s a good thing, too, because my first nurse was, uh, well, not quite feeble, but heading in that direction. I found myself wanting to hear her perspective on WWII.  I’m thinking to myself, “Okay, there is no way I can let this sweet and lovely woman put a needle into my hand.”  Before I had to figure out a plan, an athletic, energetic, and completely confident woman (with steady hands, no less) bounded into the room to get me ready.  Deep breaths.
  3. Try to pay attention while you’re in the recovery area. It’s fascinating what you might observe.  I was there for several hours before I got moved to my room, so I was able to observe quite a bit (of course, this was all through an anesthetic fog).  One of the most interesting events was watching the patient in the next bay hitting on the recovery nurse who was taking care of both of us.  Hitting on a woman anytime is just downright inappropriate, but doing it after you’ve had surgery, while your target has your health in her hands is just plain stupid.  How she rose above all that and gave him fantastic care is a testament to the professionalism of nurses everywhere!
  4. Make sure you do your homework about your surgery so you can speak with knowledge and authority during your recovery. The surgeon ordered shots of heparin to help prevent blood clots.  The first shot came several hours after surgery.  The nurse said something along the lines of “Okay to put this in your belly?”  Now, think about this.  I had incisions all over my torso.  I considered all sorts of wisecracks each time a nurse came in to give this shot.  “Seriously.  Take a look.  What do you think?” was effective, but a little snarkier than I wanted.  I finally settled on “No thanks.  I’ll take the shot in my thigh.  You’ll find lots of unused space there.” Worked like a charm.
  5. When you’re home and in the thick of your recovery, do not, under any circumstances, watch The Money Pit. Especially if you haven’t seen it since it originally came out in 1986. And, I especially mean this if you and your spouse do home renovation projects.  There is a scene when Tom Hanks starts to fall off some scaffolding creating a domino effect that made me laugh so hard I had to think about taking an extra dose of hydrocodone.  I don’t care what anyone says, this was not worth it.  I’d recommend a movie that you’ve seen multiple times so you can prepare yourself to get through the funny parts without splitting your sides laughing.  Guffawing is to be avoided at all costs after having surgery that impacts your core muscles.  I think Office Space might work, but only if you’ve seen it at least three times and can stay in control when Amir smashes the printer.
  6. If you’re getting pumped with CO2 gas, make sure you ask your surgeon all sorts of questions so he understands that you understand what’s going on. Be intelligent and he’ll give you all the specifics.  This was especially helpful for me; otherwise, I may have totally freaked out after taking a sip of soup and feeling debilitating pain in my shoulders.  Say what? Turns out, this is called “referred pain.”  What happens is that the gas allows the surgeon to move the organs around, but all sorts of nerves get bumped around a bit in the process.  Your whole body is now confused (and rightly so, I might add).  Everything hurts—including your nerves, which send out messages like “Help me!”  The group of particular nerves near where a lot of my surgery took place have a direct path to the shoulders.  Understanding why I hurt helps.  Not with the pain, unfortunately, but at least to know I don’t have to panic.  The pain in my face cheeks is a little harder to explain, but who cares?  I find that I have a limited amount of areas that I am able to process as “Yikes, that hurts like crazy.”  For now, the cheeks are going to just have to take a back seat.
  7. Remember why you’re having the procedure in the first place. I have a fairly high pain tolerance, but I hurt all over.  I mean ALL OVER.  I’ve shed a few tears over the pain (listening to sad music at the same time is probably sub-optimal, but, honestly, it hurts too much to change the channel), and I’ve had a couple of whiny moments where I have lamented the six-week recovery.  I thought I might be able to eat like a normal person sooner than that.  Turns out, it will be awhile.  Right now, I’m on an even more restrictive diet than I was before the surgery.  My husband has had to strain my beloved tomato soup because it’s not smooth enough for me right now.  But in the middle of all this self-pity, he asked me how I was swallowing.  Wait a minute!  I realized that while I’m only eating a bit of tomato soup at a time, it is travelling directly from my esophagus to my stomach. The surgery worked.  It’s a miracle.  My surgeon is a genius. My husband is a saint.  My colleagues and graduate students are concerned and supportive. My rowing friends and church friends are praying for me or sending good thoughts my way. My new blogging buddies are reading this post.

And, I’ve learned a lot. For an academic, that counts.  That counts a bunch. In the meantime, I’m watching the Food Network and dreaming (okay, maybe hallucinating) about all kinds of food. So that’s how Bobby Flay roasts tomatillos. Sunchokes? Interesting. Ancho chili pepper in chocolate frosting?  Why not? Gruyere in French toast? I’m ready!


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And, now, for the weirdest medical diagnosis ever.

In September 2016, I was diagnosed with achalasia—a condition I had never heard of.  Only one person out of between 100,000 and 200,000 people has achalasia.  With a US population of about 325,000,000, you do the math.  Seriously, do the math (I keep getting confused about what to divide or multiply).  Chances are, I will be the only person you will ever know who has this weird condition.

I am more fortunate than most who suffer from achalasia in that my gastroenterologist zeroed in on my troubles right away (after I finally made an appointment to see him).  Apparently some people suffer for up to a decade before they get an appropriate diagnosis, which given what I have experienced, I find not only bizarre, but utterly horrifying.

So what is achalasia, anyway?  It’s a swallowing disorder (or if you want to get all medical, a “motility” disease).  There are lots of swallowing disorders out there, but this one may be the craziest.  In order to be diagnosed, you have to go through four tests.  First up, the typical endoscopy.  If you haven’t had an endoscopy in a while, I highly recommend one.  For mine, I was given the drug that Michael Jackson took a little too often.  And it was awesome! (I totally see why he got addicted.)  I had the best 20-minute sleep in my life and woke up completely refreshed.  You have to have an endoscopy to “get the lay of the land” and to rule out a bunch of other esophageal problems.

Next up, you have one more test to rule out “pseudo achalasia” (code word for tumors and cancer):  a CT scan with a lovely dye injected throughout your system.  I would have called this an uncomfortable test, but then I had Test #3, which made all other tests there are in the world seem like a warm tropical island vacation.

The Manometry Study.  To explain this test, it’s helpful if you’ve seen The Matrix.  Remember those mechanical worm things that set out to destroy Neo and his crew?  Well, for the Manometry Study, the technician takes one of those and sticks it in your nose and down your throat, through your esophagus, into your stomach.  Without sedation.  How I let them do this to me, I’ll never know because I have a gag reflex that is, shall we say, sensitive.  Once the tube is in place (and the technician confirms that the patient is still alive), for about an hour, you swallow little sips of water every few minutes.  This test measures the muscle pressure of your esophagus as well as the pressure at the Lower Esophageal Sphincter (LES).  If you have achalasia, over time, your esophagus loses its ability to squeeze food down past the LES into the stomach.  The loss of this muscle squeezing is called peristalsis.  My reading was at zero, which meant my esophagus muscle was shot (bummer).  The test also shows the pressure at the LES, which is the little trap door that opens and closes. The idea is that the LES opens when food works its way down the esophagus and closes after the food passes through.  If you have GERD (severe acid reflux), there’s a good chance that the LES doesn’t close quickly enough after the food passes through, which allows the acid from the stomach to work its way back up the esophagus.  But if you have achalasia, the LES doesn’t open in the first place so the food stays in the esophagus.  In the Manometry Study, high pressure at the LES indicates the LES stays shut.  Yep, that was me.

After all of that, I still had to go through one more test.  Just to be sure.  The Barium Swallow.  I might have been concerned with this test (I had heard plenty of horror stories), but, I tell you, after the Manometry Study, having a Barium Swallow was like going to a cocktail party with your best girlfriends.  Even the barium drink seemed pretty festive. The radiologist conducting the test seemed concerned.  After shooting the first slides and then exclaiming rather loudly “Oh, wow.  Just wow!” and then quickly apologizing for the outburst, I told him I was fine and that I would also like to see these amazing slides of which he was so enamored.  You could say the radiologist and I bonded:  He, because he was finally seeing a live version of a condition he had only read about and me, I suppose, because I was the live specimen.  What he and I saw was a stretched out esophagus, a tight-shut LES, and the barium sitting in my esophagus.    That clinched it.  All doctors involved agreed.

I have achalasia.

All also agreed that there was only one solution:  surgery (scheduled for February 2).  If the condition is not weird enough for you, then how’s this?  Surgery involves making small slices in the outer wall of the esophagus, forcing the LES to stay open.  This is called the Heller Myotomy Procedure.  Then, in order to keep the food from just shooting back out my esophagus, the surgeon performs a Nissen Fundoplication (who comes up with these names, anyway?), a procedure that wraps my stomach in some weird position around part of my esophagus to help keep the food down to give it time to digest.

It’s not a cure.  Apparently, I’ll never get the pressure back in my esophagus and I’ll always have to be careful about eating.  But, I should be able to eat relatively normally after I recover from surgery.

So what have I learned from all of this craziness?

First, those of you who know me, you know how much I love food.  I love to cook food, I love to look at beautiful food, I love to read cookbooks, I love to try new foods, I love the texture of food, I love to write about food, I love to talk to other foodies about food.  And most of all, I love to eat food.  But for the past year (at least), eating has become difficult.  I do best when I stick to hot, soft foods like soup.  I love soup, so it’s not like I am deprived.  But, I’ll admit, even I am getting tired of soup.

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I can’t eat this now, but soon!

Because of achalasia, I have to think before I eat.  I have to eat slowly.  I have to pay attention to my food.  I have to be mindful about what goes into my mouth.  And, I’ve come to the conclusion that there is not a single thing wrong with eating that way.  So I’m thankful that achalasia has brought me to that point even though it would have been nice to get there in a slightly less painful way.

Second, I’m reminded of what a privileged life I live.  I have a fantastic GI doc who suspected I had something other than acid reflux when I first met with him.  In just a matter of months because of his insight, I had a definitive diagnosis and a plan for the future. As the doctor told me, this is “serious, but not life threatening.”  It seems like almost every month I hear about someone who is young and healthy yet gets a cancer diagnosis.  I may no longer be young, but I am certainly healthy and have remained so, even while struggling with this condition.

Third, while I would not recommend this method to anyone, because of achalasia, I have lost excess weight.  But it’s weird.  Even though I have an extremely healthy self-esteem, I’ve learned that I do have some body image issues.  I’ve always felt like I needed to lose weight (even in 7th grade when I was growing about a quarter inch a week and could not eat enough to keep up).  My BMI is way within the normal range now and when I fill out those highly (un)scientific online polls, they all say things like “it would not benefit you to lose more weight.”  Still, I think I could lose a few more pounds before surgery.  I have nightmares that I’ll gain weight about 30 seconds after surgery (how many pizzas would it be possible to eat in my first week of recovery, I wonder?).  All told, I have more empathy now for those who need to lose weight, those who don’t need to lose weight but think they do, and those who can eat everything in sight without a care in the world.

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I was a bit chubby as a kid, but that’s okay!

Finally, I’m learning that life continues to be one interesting journey.  And the longer we travel, the more interesting it becomes.  While Easy Street might seem like a worthy goal, it’s really not.  So whatever you’ve been handed, make the most of it.  Trust me, it’s better than curling up into a ball or sticking your head in the sand.   Victor Hugo once wrote, “Many great actions are committed in small struggles.”  To be sure, compared to others, my struggles are small.  But the good news is I can take my own small struggles and work toward better actions.  That’s what I hope to do in 2017.  And, at least occasionally, I hope to contemplate these actions while mindfully eating a luscious, crunchy crusted, piping hot pizza.


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For the first time in my life, I spent Thanksgiving by myself.

For the first time in my life, I spent Thanksgiving by myself.

And it was surprisingly okay.  Those who know me know I am absolutely obsessive about Thanksgiving.  I always make the food myself because I simply can’t trust another human being to make everything in the true New England manner into which I was indoctrinated (for Thanksgiving, anyway).  That means absolutely no giblets in the gravy, stuffing outside the bird (and please don’t even think about putting raisons or oysters in the stuffing!), and a minimum of four pies with all-butter crusts.  There are always traditional apple, pecan and pumpkin pies.  Then there is the Roving Pie.  And sometimes there is the Decoy Pie.  About a week before Thanksgiving, people around the country start asking me what the Roving Pie for the year will be.

But this year they were met with silence.  No Roving Pie—or any pie for that matter. Heartbreakingly, my sister-in-law’s husband, Kevin, passed away a few days before Thanksgiving, so my husband, of course, had to rush to Wisconsin to be with his sister, his mother, and all the many, many people who knew and loved Kevin.

We quickly contacted our dinner guests to say we would have to cancel the long-anticipated meal and that was that.  So these days that I have been alone at the beach, I have had plenty of time to think about life and the joys and pains that come along with the basic fact of living.  What did I conclude?

First, Gary and I have had a rough 2016. My dad was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in January and died August 30.  About that same time, I was diagnosed with achalasia, a bizarre and very rare swallowing disorder (more about this in a future post).  About the same time as that (seriously, these all happened in the course of four days), Gary’s mom fell and broke her hip and had to have emergency surgery.  Then, in early October, our beach island was slammed with Hurricane Matthew.  Our car was totaled as was our golf cart.  Gary’s beloved workshop and tools were heavily damaged or destroyed.  And, now, Kevin’s passing.

But here is what I thought about these last several days.  I have so much to be thankful for, it’s hard to feel blue just because I’m alone for Thanksgiving.  Even when I’m sad, thinking about the heartbreak of losing people we love, I am still thankful.  Here’s just a snippet of my many blessings:

Even though both of my mom and dad are gone, their lives continue to influence mine.  They were wonderful parents and during the holidays, all I have are sweet memories of the great times we shared.  From the time my mom dropped the turkey and it slid across the kitchen floor while everyone was waiting in the dining room (“I’m carving the turkey now” she called out as she picked up the smooshed bird and we both could hardly breathe for laughing so hard) to the time my dad bought my sister and me skis and everything that went with them even though none of us knew how to ski, Christmas and Thanksgiving provide anchors of memories that will last for a lifetime.  My parents travelled the world and ingrained that curiosity for life into me.

As soon as anyone found out I was going to be alone for Thanksgiving, they invited me to their home to share their meal.  Even though I declined all invitations, it was wonderful to be reminded that I have many friends who care and lots and lots of people around me who I can call on if I have need.

Even though achalasia makes swallowing a challenge, for some reason I have no difficultly singing in the choir.  In fact, I tend to have about a two-hour window after singing when I can eat almost normally (if you call eating soft foods normal).

While we suffered some loss with the hurricane, it is nothing compared to what so many others experienced.  And while Matthew was devastating to property, no one in South Carolina died from the storm.

And, finally, while it’s sad that my brother-in-law is gone, he impacted untold lives during his 59 years.  He leaves behind a great wife (my sister-in-law, Barbara), three terrific adult kids (Zach, Peter and Andrew), their beautiful wives, and their quiver full of children.  Around 300 people came to the funeral during a holiday weekend to express their thankfulness for Kevin’s life.

No one ever said life would be easy.  I used to tell my daughter, Grace, “Be careful what you whine about because life can always get worse.”  And even when it does, it’s still good.

But just in case you were wondering, this is why I didn’t make pies.