It became a theme. A legal pad with only a few pages written upon.
When I found the first few of these on his kitchen table, I laughed and commented to his friend, “I can’t believe he only uses a few pages on each pad.”
“Welcome to my world,” she said with a smile.
As we dug deeper and deeper into the apartment — my brothers, my sister, my father all helping — it became abundantly clear that we had had a minimal understanding of Stewart’s struggles. Layered in with the notepads was a paper trail that told such a sad, sad story.
I daresay that each of us wept, though not collectively. Individually. Privately. Alone. As my family is wont to do. Hearts breaking, not just with the loss of a family member, but with the pain that we uncovered.
While over the years I was busy looking down my nose and saying things like, “I don’t understand why Stewart doesn’t just (fill in the blank),” Stewart was hitting yet another pothole on the bumpy road of his life. And I had no clue. I truly didn’t understand.
“I found a notepad if anyone needs one,” one of my brothers would call out occasionally.
the tip of the iceberg
We would laugh. There was no dearth of notebooks. He had legal pads – yellow and white, composition books, loose leaf paper and three ring binders, ring bound notebooks, blank journals, and paper, just plain white paper.
As I put together a timeline for Stewart’s life — the hidden part that I didn’t know — I began to see a theme. An attempt to put old things behind and start new, followed by a problem, followed by yet another attempt to start new.
This plethora of notepads was a metaphor for his life. A clean notebook. A fresh start. Followed by something I couldn’t always see that made him want to start again.
At the beginning of the weekend, I had driven to the Pittsburgh airport to pick up my sister. On my way, I had passed a man standing along a busy road where there was stop-and-go traffic. He held a battered cardboard sign that read something like, “HOMELESS. VETERAN. PLEASE HELP.” I had watched through my rearview mirror as someone handed him money out the window of their car. My cold hard heart felt nothing for him.
At the end of the weekend, after driving my sister back to the airport, I saw him again. I had no loose change to give him, but I wanted to ask him, “Do you have a sister? Does she live in a little town in a two-story house with her family? Does she know about your gritty exhaust-filled life here by the road?”
Stewart had never reached that point of standing by the road. But I never knew all the struggles he did have.
I wanted to roll down my window and hand that homeless guy a notepad.
“I’m Sally, Stewart’s sister,” I would say. Then they would tell me their name and how they knew Stewart.
From the food bank. “I volunteered with Stewart at the food bank. We could always count on him.”
From Habitat for Humanity. “Stewart took the minutes for our meetings. They were always precise and thorough.”
From the church in Tarentum. “Stewart had been our pastor.”
From the Presbytery. “Stewart served on a committee with me.”
From his apartment complex. “Stewart sat in the gazebo with us every night and we talked.”
From a coffee shop that had become his family. “We didn’t even know he was a pastor for the longest time.”
A young couple said, “Stewart performed our wedding.”
One man told me, “Stewart changed my life.”
A man named Buster stood in front of me, humble, awkward. He was as tongue-tied as I felt all day, his eyes watery as they looked at mine. “Stewart was a good man,” he finally said.
“Thank you,” I said, over and over and over.
I wished I had more words.
No, I wished they had more words. I loved hearing about the lives he had touched.
“Stewart drove me to the doctor.”
“Stewart drove me to the store.”
“Stewart loved that skate park.”
“Stewart listened.”
“Stewart helped.”
The two hour receiving line became almost unbearable. All these people. All these names. All these words — good words — but I couldn’t hear any more..
After the service, while people were still milling around and chatting, I sat by myself a short distance away. Maybe I seemed uncaring. I only knew that I was exhausted. Mary came to sit beside me and I hugged her.
This may sound crazy, but instead of a two hour receiving line, I wished for a two month one, where I could sit, one day at a time, with the people, share a cup of coffee with them, and really hear their story.
I have so many questions for them.
Did Stewart laugh a lot? I always liked his laugh.
Did Stewart cook for you? He was a pretty good cook.
Tell me everything you can about Stewart and his life here. Please.
An early morning phone call let me know that my oldest brother, Stewart, had passed away from a heart attack.
And I stood in the kitchen, and I stared at the wall
And I prayed for some wisdom, so I could make a little sense of it all.
And I thought about the seasons, and how quickly they pass
Now there’s little to do but hope that the good ones will last…
Andrew Peterson, “Three Days Before Autumn”
I stood in the kitchen this morning, but I didn’t stare at the wall. I left the lights off and stood at the window, waiting for the sunrise.
Some sunrises are so spectacular with bursts of color lighting my horizon. I could have written, then, about how God spoke to me in the richness of the dawn, in the vast of array of pinks and golds and purples and oranges.
But He gave me an unassuming dawn, black to deep blue to gray. Gray. Non-descript.
I felt dull, like the sunrise.
My eyes filled with tears and I can’t even tell you why.
Stewart called me for my birthday, but I wasn’t home. He said he would call back, but he never did.
I had thought about it. I should call him, I thought, but I never picked up the phone.
And it’s easy enough to say, “He’s better off,
Chalk it up to the luck of the draw,
Life is tough, it was his time to go,
That’s all.”
Well, I don’t know about that…
Andrew Peterson, “Three Days Before Autumn”
Life is so short. Just yesterday, I had been looking at Isaiah 40 —
The grass withers,
the flower fades,
when the breath of the Lord blows on it.
Surely the people are grass.
I had thought about the Tenebrae services a woman at Laity Lodge had described to me, with candles being extinguished one by one until the church was in total darkness. I had been thinking about the breath of the Lord, withering the grass, blowing out the candles, one by one.
Our world is dark and sad.
I suppose that’s an appropriate place to start Lent, in the darkness and sadness of a broken world. Surely the people are grass. Surely Stewart is grass. Surely I am grass.
The grass withers,
the flower fades,
but the word of our Lord will stand forever.
I suppose that’s an appropriate place to start Lent, too.
Beyond this grassy withered world, there is eternity. And it is filled with hope.
Where did you spend your happiest memories with your loved one? Before all this, of course, were there special places you lived or traveled to that you can look back on and feel good about?
I forget how the topic came up. The way my parents used to tell the story, we were all begging to go to Myrtle Beach, because everyone else was, which just sounds wrong, because our family was never particularly susceptible to peer pressure. The way the story goes, though, is that we were all begging to go to Myrtle Beach so my father told us to pick out a place to stay and show it to him.
This was all back in the dark ages, before the internet. With a AAA membership, we were able to obtain a two-inch thick tourbook for the South Carolina. There was pages and pages of motels and hotels on the Grand Strand. Those little listing were hard to decipher, so my father suggested writing to the Chamber of Commerce in Myrtle Beach. I wrote the letter, and then had the thrill of receiving a whole bunch of mail. (Parents, if your children ever ask why they don’t get any mail, suggest they write to a chamber of commerce somewhere.)
With the stacks and stacks of brochures that arrived, we began culling through and narrowing down the search. I wanted a swimming pool. And small. Even then, I wanted someplace small and homey. Twelve stories simply doesn’t appeal to me, even if the rooms could face the ocean. Small, homey, swimming pool — yes, those were the criteria.
I found the perfect motel. It was called The Caravelle. It wasn’t huge. It had a swimming pool. It was right on the beach. Perfect.
Except they had no vacanices for the week we wanted to go.
So I went back to the pile of brochures and found our second choice. Small, homey, evening bridge games in the lounge (something I thought my parents would enjoy), a swimming pool, and a vacancy. We went to Teakwood Motel that year. And every year after that for about thirty years.
We patronized The Teakwood through several different owners and watched its decline. The last year we went the roof was covered with blue tarps and one of my children found an insulin needle under the bed. Now a parking lot for a high-rise hotel has replaced that motel.
In its heyday, though, The Teakwood was like family. We saw the same guests year after year. We knew the owners well, and one owner actually became family, in an extended sort of way.
There are so many, many memories of The Teakwood — an annual picture by The Teakwood sign, a bagpiper practicing in the Teaky Forest, cookouts, swimming in that pool, sliding down the slide into the pool (until they removed it for insurance reasons), kids freely going from room to room as we often booked four or more rooms in a row, crossing Ocean Boulevard to get to the ocean.
1989 — picture by the Teakwood sign — see the bottom of the “D”?The slide into the pool at the TeakwoodWandering from room to room at the Teakwood
The Caravelle is still in operation today. I would drive past it whenever we went to Myrtle Beach, just down the road from The Teakwood.
I’m thankful that the Caravelle was full in 1972.
Would my mother have gotten lost trying to find the post office from The Teakwood. (see Six Ways to Anywhere)? Probably not that year. That would have happened further down the Alzheimer’s road; The Teakwood was like a second home.
If there’s a special place for us, it’s a little mom-and-pop motel in Myrtle Beach called The Teakwood that has now gone to motel heaven.
What is one of the scariest situations you have been in because of dementia?
Let’s face it — dementia can be a scary thing, for everyone involved. Every time I see another news story about someone with dementia wandering off, my stomach tightens. There, but for the grace of God, goes my mother.
My mom and my dad on an earlier trip
My father recently told me a scary story. Years ago, my parents traveled with a church group to Macedonia, to walk where Paul walked. They had booked the trip during the days of denial, but there was no denying my mother’s dementia when it came time to leave. I was worried sick.
That’s probably why my father didn’t tell me this story when they first got home from the trip. Back then, he told me how the other ladies on the trip all helped with Mom. “They were great,” he said. “They really looked out for her.”
He saved this story to tell me years later.
In his words, “When we were in Greece, I needed to go find an ATM to get some more cash, so I told Mom to stay in our hotel room. I explained that I needed to go out, but that I would be back. She said she understood, but when I got back, she was gone.”
She had, indeed, left the hotel room alone. In a foreign country. Wandering off. Fortunately, some people from the tour saw her and kept her safe until my father came back. It could have been quite disastrous. There, but for the grace of God…
My own personal scary situation with my mother took place at JFK.
I’m still not sure of the reasoning behind taking my parents to JFK as opposed to an upstate airport. Maybe, what with my blurry memory and all, it was for that same international trip, and the trip originated from JFK. I think, though, that it was a trip to Florida. We thought a direct flight to Florida would be so much easier than trying to make connections.
Whatever the reason, there we were at JFK — me and my parents. I pulled right up to the door, dropped them off, parked in the short-term parking, and ran over to the terminal to make sure everything went okay.
By the time I got there, they were already well-entrenched in the snaking line leading to the security checkpoint. I stood and watched as they inched forward. My father turned and waved at me. He got my mother to do the same.
Slowly, slowly, they worked their way to the stacks of trays, the conveyor belts, and the scanner.
I watched my parents each take off their shoes and put them in their respective trays. A TSA agent told my mother to remove her jacket, which she did, and that went into the tray too.
My father, moving much more slowly than my mother, was still untying his shoes.
My mother spryly moved her way through the line, putting more and more distance between herself and my father. I stood, helplessly, at a rope barrier watching.
A security guard stood near me. “Excuse me,” I said to him. “My mother has Alzheimer’s and she is getting separated from my father at the checkpoint.”
He glanced in the direction I pointed, shrugged, and said, “I can’t really do anything about that.”
Even as I spoke with him, I could see my mother pass through the checkpoint and grab her jacket and shoes. My father was still by the trays.
“I really need to get in there to help her,” I told the guard.
He shrugged again, unmoved. “I can’t do anything,” he repeated.
My mother had her shoes on as my father was walking through the metal detector. She was heading out of my sight down a corridor. “Please, sir,” I begged the guard.
“Next time ask for a pass to accompany them through the gate,” he said, but he refused to make eye contact with me. He stared resolutely ahead. I felt like I was talking to a wall.
My father made it through the checkpoint and I could see him sitting to put his shoes on. My mother was nowhere in sight. There was, quite literally, nothing I could do.
I watched him finish tying his shoes and slowly move down the same corridor where my mother had disappeared. I felt like I had swallowed a boulder. The security guard, impassive, had moved away from me and was talking with someone else.
My final hope was to call my father on his cell phone. Of course, he didn’t have it turned on.
I dejectedly turned to leave, but made one last appeal at a help desk. The woman was so nice, but, of course, couldn’t help me. She offered me the same advice as the guard — get a gate pass, but it had to be done with the ticketed passenger with me; I couldn’t do it after the fact.
Of course, when I left JFK that day, I got lost in Manhattan and cried.
My father and my mother found each other in the airport. It all turned out okay in the end.
Still. Scary is an understatement for those events.
Because of situations like this, few things have built my faith more than Alzheimer’s. The rope barrier at JFK might as well have been the gulf between Lazarus and the rich man. (see Luke 16:19-31) With no way to cross it, only helpless feelings welled up inside as I stood and watched.
Prayer is my main refuge.
I am not in the hell of the rich man, though some describe care-giving in such negative terms. No, I am stuck at a rope barrier, talking not to Abraham, or an impassive security guard, but to God Himself.
I’m watching my mother as she is carried into Abraham’s bosom.
What was the first indication you had that something was not right? Was it a peculiar behavior or a specific incident?
My mother always knew six ways to anywhere. And the rest stops along the way. And the quality of the bathrooms at the rest areas.
This was in the days before GPS. We used old-fashioned paper accordion-folded maps. Not that my mother needed them. It was all in her head. For longer trips, she would order AAA TripTiks, but I think were more for us than for her. We could learn the names of the roads and where the rest stops were by using them. Her mind, however, was a veritable road atlas.
That’s why when she got lost, it stuck out.
Of course there had been little signs, little things she forgot or repeated. When I do that now, I’m just sure that it’s the first sign of Alzheimer’s. I think we all have those fears.
But my mother getting lost? That was almost unheard of.
We were in Myrtle Beach — my mom and dad, my sister and her husband, and my family. We were all in Myrtle Beach at the time-share condo that my father had been snookered into purchased.
The area was very familiar because we had been going to the same place for a number of years. Mom decided to make a quick trip to the Post Office to mail out the postcards she had written. Helen, probably 10 or 11 at the time, went along for the ride.
I should add here, that if any of my children have inherited my mother’s internal atlas, it’s Helen. Even at that age, she knew her way around and remembered roads better than I ever will.
So off they went to the Post Office while we hung around the pool.
They were gone for a very long time.
You know how it is. At first, no one thinks anything of it. Oh,they’re gone to the Post Office.
Then, someone asks where they are. They went to the Post Office a while ago.
A little later, someone asks when exactly did they leave for the Post Office.
You start wondering, how long have they been gone?
Then the misgivings begin, and a thousand scenarios, most of them bad, start playing in your mind.
It was well over an hour, maybe a lot longer, before the car pulled back into the parking lot. Helen’s eyes were big. She pulled us aside and she said, “Grammie got lost.”
The Post Office, only about a mile away, was elusive for my mother that day. It was so unheard of.
My sister and I whispered about it. Something wasn’t right. All the other little things suddenly took on new significance. Maybe there was something more going on.
As it turns out, that something more was Alzheimer’s.
Last night (and the night before) Laurel said to me as she went to bed, “I’m sorry if I come in.” Sometimes she wakes up in the middle of the night with a bad dream and comes in our room.
“It’s okay,” I told her. “It’s in my job description.”
I probably should have looked the job description over a little more carefully before I signed on. Not that I ever really looked over any job description; I was usually just glad to have a job.
Like when I worked at the Baseball Hall of Fame, I think my job title was “Souvenir Girl” and that pretty much summed it up. I sold souvenirs and tickets. Maybe it specified that I wasn’t supposed to try to charge VIPs, like the time I was going to charge Bowie Kuhn admission, but I honestly never read through it.
But a Mom Job Description — whew! There’s a good one that I’ve seen: The Mom Job Description. (Click to see it.)
I actually think I could do it in five words.
and other duties as assigned
No matter how complete the list, it would still be incredibly incomplete.
I knew I would have sleepless nights. I imagined they would end when my children slept through the night. Not so. It’s not always Laurel waking me up. Sometimes I wake with a particular child on my mind and just pray for them.
Prayer is definitely somewhere in the job description. Under communication — with doctors, teachers, waitresses, and God. Yep.
Jacob getting a haircut a few years ago.
No one told me that when I became a mom, I would have to cut hair. But I have cut the boys’ hair for years. All my boys are now teenagers and beyond. I tell them to get their haircut by somebody who knows what they’re doing. And yet, what did I do the other day? Cut Jacob’s hair. And I still don’t know what I’m doing.
I knew when I became a mom that I would have to prepare meals. I was okay with that because I know how to read recipes. My creativity in the kitchen is pretty limited. But did I ever imagine that I would have to triple or quadruple every recipe every written? And kids think math skills aren’t that important…
And all those years of raising children are really just a warm-up for caring for parents, a job I’m now cowering from. Other duties as assigned.
It doesn’t seem to get any easier.
And I just seem to get tireder.
But Laurel can still wake me up any night of the week.
When Maggie can’t find her fish, she carries a different toy.
“You’re the lady with the dog,” a woman said to me at church the other day.
“The dog with the fish?” I responded, half-questioning, half completing her sentence.
“That’s right,” she said excitedly.
Our dog is famous around Greene. She carries a toy, usually a fish, with her on walks. At Christmas, she carries a Santa.
And now I’m known as the lady with the dog with the fish. All my life I’ve been identified by others — Dr. Pollock’s daughter, Bud’s wife, Philip’s (or Owen’s or Sam’s or Helen’s or Jacob’s or Karl’s or Mary’s or Laurel’s) mother. It’s really okay — I kind of like being in the background.
The outdoor high ropes course at the Clark Sports Center in Cooperstown.
Yesterday, Mary did an outdoor high ropes course. She said, “There were two rules. The first was that you couldn’t call anyone ‘Hey, you’ so we had to learn everyone’s names. If we couldn’t remember their name, we were supposed to ask them to tell us again because it’s disrespectful not to try to learn someone’s name.”
“What was the second rule?” I asked.
“I don’t remember,” she said.
When we visited my mother at the Manor, she was still in bed. It was 11 AM.
“She’s being a stinker,” the nurse told us.
“Hi, Mom,” I said as I entered her room.
She turned and looked at me. “Oh, hi,” she said.
“Are you going to get up today?” I asked.
“Not yet,” she replied.
“Do you know who I am?” I asked.
“Yes, I know who you are.” She smiled at me.
“Okay, then,” I challenged, “who am I?”
“You’re Sally.”
What a sweet little pleasure to realize that she still knows my name!
She knows my name. I’m not the lady with the dog, or the one with a bunch of kids. She knows my name.
A number of years ago, I was able to accompany my father on his trip to his hometown. He was meeting with his siblings and their spouses to inter my grandparents’ remains. My mother was planning to go with him, but got sick just before they were supposed to leave. I filled in for her.
I had no idea what a special trip that would turn out to be. We went to the cemetery and sat on a little knoll while my father and his brother and sister reminisced about their parents. They each shared memories of how their parents had made their house a home. They talked about my grandmother making elaborate Halloween costumes for them, her competitive side coming out, so that they could win the town’s contest. They talked about their cousins and their pets and their school and their growing up years. Then my uncle said something which I will never forget.
He said, “They were young once. They fell in love. They had dreams and passions just like we do.”
I don’t know why that was so profound, but it hit me squarely in the heart.
My grandparents were old the whole time I knew them. My grandmother had Alzheimer’s. She smoked and drank martinis. I have seen her wedding picture and she was once beautiful.
My grandfather had Guillain-Barre syndrome in the late 70’s or early 80’s, I think. (Perhaps one of my siblings has a better memory for these details.) It transformed him from the robust, fun Grampa that I loved to go see, to a weak man confined to a wheelchair. I have wonderful earlier memories of him throwing the Hollywood brick (it was made of foam) at us, and tricking us every time with it. In fact, I think we all (the grandchildren) wanted that brick when they were emptying out the apartment, but no one seems to know where it went.
Unfortunately, my mind doesn’t always go back to good memories. Why these memories? My grandfather weeping in a wheelchair when I came to visit when I was pregnant with Philip. My grandmother smoking and sniping.
“They were young once. They fell in love…” I chose, then and there, to replace my memories with happier ones.
Yesterday, I caught a little glimpse of that with my mother. We were sitting at the table, with a full plate of marmalade sandwiches. She had made ten or so before I got there — for the others. She looked up at a window ledge, and asked my father, “What’s in that vase?”
Now, you need to know that my mother has always a way with plants. Her home was filled with them. She had the most beautiful Christmas cactus I have ever seen. She would take little pieces of the Christmas cactus, stick them in a cup of water, wait for them to send out little roots and then move them to pots. She started so many plants that way. And the house is still littered with pieces of Christmas cactus stuck in water. That’s what was in the vase.
My father looked up at the milk-glass vase with the sad little piece of Christmas cactus drooping over the edge. “Well, that’s a genie in a bottle,” he said. “If you rub it, he’ll come out and grant your wish.”
My mother giggled like a schoolgirl. She looked at him and smiled.
When he left the room, she said, “I’m so lucky I found him.”
Oh, Mom, you have no idea.
“They were young once. They fell in love…” She was back to that point in her life. I want to remember her that way.
********************************************
This picture is from Christmas 1981. I chose it because it’s one of the few pictures I have of my grandparents. That’s them in the front row. I love the fact that my grandmother reached over and put her hand on my grandfather. They were in love still.
I read somewhere the other day about the health benefits of coffee. Supposedly, coffee drinkers have lower incidences of everything from strokes to diabetes to dementia. The dementia part caught my eye. My mother has been (and still is) a die-hard coffee drinker. Coffee doesn’t seem to have helped.
My mother used to tell me that it was part of her job as a floor nurse to make the coffee. People liked her coffee, and always complimented her on it — and that was before she started drinking it. She must have started drinking it before she got married though, because one of their wedding gifts was an electric percolating coffee pot. This was eventually passed down to me when Mr. Coffee came to live in their kitchen.
I never really mastered the art of percolating coffee. I think I always ground the beans too finely because there were often grounds in my coffee. Plus the whole thing was a pain in the neck to clean. There was the tube and the basket and the basket lid that I could throw in the dishwasher, but then I had to wash to rest by hand, carefully, because it was electric. I’m not sure what finally became of it. It may be in a box in the shed. I have a hard time throwing things away. But I digress…
Even though they had a coffee maker, my parents have always liked instant coffee. I hope my father bought stock in Folgers because he has certainly invested a lot in that company otherwise. Even today, if I brew a pot of coffee, I make instant for my mother. At my sister’s house, where she has one of those K-cup coffee brewers and there are dozens of flavors to choose from, my sister makes instant for my mother.
“This coffee is so bitter,” she’ll say if you give her anything other than instant.
Coffee is one of the few things that my mother can still successfully make. Sometimes I’ll arrive at the house and find 6 – 8 mugs sitting on the stove all with their one little spoonful of Folgers in them. She is prepared. For the others.
The others are not unlike “The Others” from Lost, the television show. These mysterious people are always lurking somewhere that I can’t see. They move things around. They tell my mother to do things. They expect large meals. And coffee.
The other day when I was there, my mother went to the kitchen to make coffee. She got out two mugs, then turned and asked me if I wanted coffee.
“No, thanks,” I replied.
My father, who had also followed her into the kitchen, said, “And I don’t care for any coffee right now either.”
“Okay,” she answered, as she spooned Folgers into each of the mugs.
“Did you hear me, Elinor? I said that I didn’t want coffee right now,” he repeated.
“Yes, I heard you,” she said, as she poured water into both mugs.
“Then who is that other cup of coffee for?” he asked.
“The others want coffee even if you don’t,” was her response.
I sighed. I knew it was just another cup of coffee I might find in the cupboard or the refrigerator or the freezer or on the counter or on a table. The others like to put their cups of coffee in strange places sometimes.
So, yeah, coffee is supposed to reduce the risk of dementia.
Just for fun, I did my own bit of “Google research” this morning. Each of the search terms were put in quotations — because that’s about all the technical savvy I have when it comes to searching on the internet. Here are the results:
“health benefits of coffee” yielded “About 117,000 results (0.12 seconds)” Obviously a lot of people are talking about coffee these days.
“health benefits of marmalade” yielded “1 result (0.08 seconds)” That one result looked remarkably spambottish, with just a whole bunch of random terms strung together. I was lucky enough to hit one. I’m guessing there may not be a lot of health benefits to marmalade. I’m not going to tell my mother that. She likes marmalade too much.
“health benefits of mud” yielded “About 7,470 results (0.14 seconds)” This was meant to be my control, but I didn’t think about the fact that mud baths are quite in vogue, and apparently quite healthy.
“health benefits of brussel sprouts” yielded “About 5,770 results (0.18 seconds)” I hate brussels sprouts and was hoping these would not come up healthy, but apparently they do have some health value.
“health benefits of broccoli” yielded “About 28,100 results (0.13 seconds)” I love broccoli and was happy to see that it ranked higher than brussel sprouts.
I did one last search term before I ended my little exercise. Now this one, I wish my mother had been aware of. No results found for “health benefits of liver and onions” Apparently even spambots don’t like liver and onions.
Time for me to pour one more cup of coffee. I need those health benefits.
![IMG_3013[1]](http://28daysatatime.files.wordpress.com/2013/12/img_30131.jpg)
