Of course, we didn't have the best equipment to shave my head and Peter was a little nervous, but he stepped up to the plate and did a sterling job, first with the scissors and then with the buzzer and finally with an old electric razor we found in the drawer. It took a ages. My hair, what was left of it after the girls had been at it, was really thick. And it was a very strange color!
Of all the women I know, I think there may be only a handful who have not fiddled with the color of their hair. Look at the rows and rows of boxes of hair dye in the drugstores. Count the hair salons on every corner. Like most Anglo-Saxons I started life as a tow head, a color that usually morphs into dirty blond and gets highlighted by the sun in summer. As I got older, it got darker so I joined the highlighting set and became a slave to my colorist. Once you start down the coloring your hair path, you are locked in. No turning natural. Way too scary! But now I had no choice.
It was funny. It'd just been about to book a haircut and color when I found out about my cancer, so knowing I'd lose my hair saved me a bundle! But the really bizarre thing was discovering that my roots, tucked away in my curly hair, were now black! I couldn't believe it. How can hair change from fluffy white to bristly black? Is it genetically programed? If anyone has an answer to that one, I'd love to hear it. And of course, I've got a few months to wonder what color it will be when it grows back! I'm told it comes in curly, so that should be interesting.
I'd had my back to the mirror so it was a bit of shock when I finally saw myself. My first thought was "Yes, I really am a cancer patient". It didn't look like me at all - until I smiled. I took a while to study myself. It's amazing how hair, or lack of it, defines us and our personality. Without my hair, I feel exactly the same as I did before. But how will others react to this new look? Will people recognize me? I look just like a Tibetan monk.
Francesca came home from work and I warned her not to be scared at the way I looked. She hugged me. "You look beautiful, mamma".
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Ode to my hair...
April 28, 2010
I've spent an awful lot of time thinking about my hair recently. Like most women, my relationship with my hair has been pretty tense at times. Sometimes you love it, mostly you hate it. We have a constant dialog with it. "Why can't it be thicker/thinner/straighter/curlier/longer/shorter". "Just LOOK at this haircut - now what am I going to do!!" "ARGGH! that's not the color I wanted? You want how much to fix it?!" Hair is never easy.
It took me the better part of thirty years to come to terms with my hair. Things went wrong right from the get-go. My mother, who is from Venice, is convinced that she has Chinese ancestors courtesy of Marco Polo, because her hair is dead straight. This was a great source of dismay to my grandmother (the straight hair bit, not the Chinese ancestors - I don't think she knew about them) so when I was born, bald as a coot, she spent hours studying my scalp hoping for curls. My hair came in in tight knots, like my father's. My mother, brought up on the old system of a 100 brush strokes a day, hadn't the faintest idea of what to do with my tangle, and scissors to snip out knots became her tool of choice.
Being a teenager in the 60s, in the Marianne Faithful days when everyone, but everyone, had dead straight, shiny hair was tough. If you've never heard of Marianne Faithful, try to imagine a time when the only hair 'product' was hairspray in an aerosol can. No gels, no mousses, no conditioners, no relaxers, no flat irons or diffusers - just hairspray. Those of us with curly hair tried everything. We ironed it. We went to bed with scotch tape on our bangs to keep them flat. Tortured ourselves by sleeping in giant rollers. It worked - until you stepped outdoors into the never-ending English drizzle, and the perfect coiffe blew up into a frizzled fluff ball. It was mortifying.
And then came the musical, Hair! What a show. It took London by storm. All we frizzy heads came out of the woodwork, grew our hair and it didn't matter what it looked like, just as long as it was long and messy and parted down the middle. Parents hated it but who cared! Those were the days!!
As the years went by, my hair and I made peace. I grew it long. I cut it short. I came to love it as a reflection of my personality. When I learned that I would need chemo to treat my breast cancer, losing my hair was the first thing that popped to mind. Not in a scary way. More curious than anything. Just wondering if I'd look like I did in my baby pictures. Over the last two weeks I've let my three daughters take turns at cutting my hair. They did a great job and it was an interesting mother/daughter experience. It's good to tuck those away.
As I write, my hair is starting to fall out. Once you've had that second chemo infusion, the hair is done. Peter, my husband, is going to shave it off! Help!!
I've spent an awful lot of time thinking about my hair recently. Like most women, my relationship with my hair has been pretty tense at times. Sometimes you love it, mostly you hate it. We have a constant dialog with it. "Why can't it be thicker/thinner/straighter/curlier/longer/shorter". "Just LOOK at this haircut - now what am I going to do!!" "ARGGH! that's not the color I wanted? You want how much to fix it?!" Hair is never easy.
It took me the better part of thirty years to come to terms with my hair. Things went wrong right from the get-go. My mother, who is from Venice, is convinced that she has Chinese ancestors courtesy of Marco Polo, because her hair is dead straight. This was a great source of dismay to my grandmother (the straight hair bit, not the Chinese ancestors - I don't think she knew about them) so when I was born, bald as a coot, she spent hours studying my scalp hoping for curls. My hair came in in tight knots, like my father's. My mother, brought up on the old system of a 100 brush strokes a day, hadn't the faintest idea of what to do with my tangle, and scissors to snip out knots became her tool of choice.
Being a teenager in the 60s, in the Marianne Faithful days when everyone, but everyone, had dead straight, shiny hair was tough. If you've never heard of Marianne Faithful, try to imagine a time when the only hair 'product' was hairspray in an aerosol can. No gels, no mousses, no conditioners, no relaxers, no flat irons or diffusers - just hairspray. Those of us with curly hair tried everything. We ironed it. We went to bed with scotch tape on our bangs to keep them flat. Tortured ourselves by sleeping in giant rollers. It worked - until you stepped outdoors into the never-ending English drizzle, and the perfect coiffe blew up into a frizzled fluff ball. It was mortifying.
And then came the musical, Hair! What a show. It took London by storm. All we frizzy heads came out of the woodwork, grew our hair and it didn't matter what it looked like, just as long as it was long and messy and parted down the middle. Parents hated it but who cared! Those were the days!!
As the years went by, my hair and I made peace. I grew it long. I cut it short. I came to love it as a reflection of my personality. When I learned that I would need chemo to treat my breast cancer, losing my hair was the first thing that popped to mind. Not in a scary way. More curious than anything. Just wondering if I'd look like I did in my baby pictures. Over the last two weeks I've let my three daughters take turns at cutting my hair. They did a great job and it was an interesting mother/daughter experience. It's good to tuck those away.
As I write, my hair is starting to fall out. Once you've had that second chemo infusion, the hair is done. Peter, my husband, is going to shave it off! Help!!
Friday, April 23, 2010
Radio silence......!
I simply cannot believe it's been a week since my last post. Why does time go by faster the older and slower we get? It makes no sense at all. When I was a kid, time went by with snail-like dullness. Birthdays and Christmases took an eternity to come. School days never seemed to end. And summer holidays....well, sometimes you'd think they would never, ever come. As I get older, I seem to be losing hours from my allotted quota of 24/7. Everything happens in the Fast Forward mode. I've got to find the Pause button.
Anyway, so there's another week vanished in a flash. To be honest, the first couple of days after the chemo were a bit foggy, probably all those darned pills. But all in all, it really wasn't all that bad. I think most people (me included) have the idea, tucked away in those dark corners where we store the unpalatable facts of life..... those things we hope that we, personally, will never have to deal with.... that chemotherapy is in the same league as illegal torture, or at the least akin to invasive dental work with no anesthesia. It was a pleasant surprise to learn otherwise.
The only problem I had was that I lost 3 lbs in a week. I know. That's an obnoxious admission. But my appetite simply took a hike and finding something that tickled my taste buds was a challenge. I finally settled on a steady diet of chicken soup, oatmeal and hot tea with sugar and lemon.
The wonderful Mary, who runs the breast cancer center, had warned me about the food thing. "Make sure you don't just eat one thing, or you'll never eat it again", she said, citing mashed potatoes, which seems to be a favorite for chemo patients. "Don't worry," I assured her, "If there's one thing I don't like it's mashed spuds." But I could see where she was going with this, and I tried really hard not to eat the chicken soup at every meal.
The other main instruction was to drink gallons of water. Toxins from the chemo can build up in the kidneys, so it's important to keep one's plumbing in good working order. I drank and drank. It reminded me of hydrating before a regatta. The more you drink the day before a race, the better your endurance. I quite liked this..... I started to feel that I was in training. Training to win against this invisible and uninvited marauder in my body. I'm pretty sure I'm going to win a medal!
Anyway, so there's another week vanished in a flash. To be honest, the first couple of days after the chemo were a bit foggy, probably all those darned pills. But all in all, it really wasn't all that bad. I think most people (me included) have the idea, tucked away in those dark corners where we store the unpalatable facts of life..... those things we hope that we, personally, will never have to deal with.... that chemotherapy is in the same league as illegal torture, or at the least akin to invasive dental work with no anesthesia. It was a pleasant surprise to learn otherwise.
The only problem I had was that I lost 3 lbs in a week. I know. That's an obnoxious admission. But my appetite simply took a hike and finding something that tickled my taste buds was a challenge. I finally settled on a steady diet of chicken soup, oatmeal and hot tea with sugar and lemon.
The wonderful Mary, who runs the breast cancer center, had warned me about the food thing. "Make sure you don't just eat one thing, or you'll never eat it again", she said, citing mashed potatoes, which seems to be a favorite for chemo patients. "Don't worry," I assured her, "If there's one thing I don't like it's mashed spuds." But I could see where she was going with this, and I tried really hard not to eat the chicken soup at every meal.
The other main instruction was to drink gallons of water. Toxins from the chemo can build up in the kidneys, so it's important to keep one's plumbing in good working order. I drank and drank. It reminded me of hydrating before a regatta. The more you drink the day before a race, the better your endurance. I quite liked this..... I started to feel that I was in training. Training to win against this invisible and uninvited marauder in my body. I'm pretty sure I'm going to win a medal!
Friday, April 16, 2010
I was pumped!!
April 13, 2010
I learned later, that the reason I was so energetic after my first chemo dose was that I was pumped on steroids!! I certainly felt like the energizer bunny, leading the way through the new vegetable garden in my little backyard, shoveling a blend of sphagnum moss, vermiculite and compost into the raised beds Francesca had built for me. My head was spinning, but I was relentless. The beds had to be prepared. And now!
Emma and I sat down for dinner and I fell on my food -- positively starving! I had seconds!! The dinner, courtesy of one of my MRC rower friends, D, was super-delicious! I figured it would be a good idea to get to bed early, given all the excitement, so I gathered my pharmacopoeia and checked what I had to take. The main side effect of chemo is severe gastric distress, so you have to stock up on an arsenal of pills to keep the stomach under control, at all times!
Dr Z. was absolutely adamant that anyone on chemo has the right to turn into a sissy and take the pills. "This isn't the time to tough it out" he kept repeating. "We don't want you turning into a porcelain princess!" " A what?" Visions of Lladro' angels popped into my head. I hadn't a clue what he was talking about. "You know", he bellowed, "A toilet hugger!"
I'd prepared a cheat sheet to keep all the meds organized and tucked it into a large box with all the bottles. Since no one I know can read the labels even with their glasses on, I'd taken the precaution of labeling everying in large felt-tip lettering. First up: Compazine. I looked it up. "A potent anti-psychotic used to treat schizophrenics and manic depressives." Hang on, chaps, that's not what I've got! Oh wait, also used as an anti-emetic (read: vomiting) for chemotherapy patients. Good grief! This is powerful stuff. I think it was in the drip bags at the hospital. No wonder I was so dizzy. I must have been having a reverse psychotic moment!
So my instructions were simple........ the minute you even suspect you might feel nauseous, take a Compazine. Check! If in 10 minutes you still think you might possibly feel sick, take a Zofran (this second wonder drug gives you a headache and bungs you up - positively marvelous!). Check! If you get a headache, take Tylenol. Check! If you even remotely think you're still ever-so-slightly queasy, take an Ativan, another anti-psychotic used to treat anxiety.
I'll tell you something, just the thought of all these pills rattling around inside me, on top of all the drugs that had been piped into me earlier was making me feeling a little anxious. I set them neatly in a row on the bedside table, in order, and tried to think. It wasn't easy. My head was still swimming and as I lay down I heard my stomach tell me quite clearly that I should take the pills. I obeyed.
I learned later, that the reason I was so energetic after my first chemo dose was that I was pumped on steroids!! I certainly felt like the energizer bunny, leading the way through the new vegetable garden in my little backyard, shoveling a blend of sphagnum moss, vermiculite and compost into the raised beds Francesca had built for me. My head was spinning, but I was relentless. The beds had to be prepared. And now!
Emma and I sat down for dinner and I fell on my food -- positively starving! I had seconds!! The dinner, courtesy of one of my MRC rower friends, D, was super-delicious! I figured it would be a good idea to get to bed early, given all the excitement, so I gathered my pharmacopoeia and checked what I had to take. The main side effect of chemo is severe gastric distress, so you have to stock up on an arsenal of pills to keep the stomach under control, at all times!
Dr Z. was absolutely adamant that anyone on chemo has the right to turn into a sissy and take the pills. "This isn't the time to tough it out" he kept repeating. "We don't want you turning into a porcelain princess!" " A what?" Visions of Lladro' angels popped into my head. I hadn't a clue what he was talking about. "You know", he bellowed, "A toilet hugger!"
I'd prepared a cheat sheet to keep all the meds organized and tucked it into a large box with all the bottles. Since no one I know can read the labels even with their glasses on, I'd taken the precaution of labeling everying in large felt-tip lettering. First up: Compazine. I looked it up. "A potent anti-psychotic used to treat schizophrenics and manic depressives." Hang on, chaps, that's not what I've got! Oh wait, also used as an anti-emetic (read: vomiting) for chemotherapy patients. Good grief! This is powerful stuff. I think it was in the drip bags at the hospital. No wonder I was so dizzy. I must have been having a reverse psychotic moment!
So my instructions were simple........ the minute you even suspect you might feel nauseous, take a Compazine. Check! If in 10 minutes you still think you might possibly feel sick, take a Zofran (this second wonder drug gives you a headache and bungs you up - positively marvelous!). Check! If you get a headache, take Tylenol. Check! If you even remotely think you're still ever-so-slightly queasy, take an Ativan, another anti-psychotic used to treat anxiety.
I'll tell you something, just the thought of all these pills rattling around inside me, on top of all the drugs that had been piped into me earlier was making me feeling a little anxious. I set them neatly in a row on the bedside table, in order, and tried to think. It wasn't easy. My head was still swimming and as I lay down I heard my stomach tell me quite clearly that I should take the pills. I obeyed.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Today's the day!!
Monday 12, 2010
I know this sounds like an outrageous thing to say, but I was actually looking forward to starting chemo, just to get going and have the ordeal be over!
So, with Peter off on another business trip to Europe, Emma and I set off for the hospital looking as if we were going on a trip of our own. I had my special bag with the Feel Good Blanket and my FP Designs workbag with the Sunday paper, the Monday paper and my laptop. Emma had her backback and laptop. What was I thinking?! There wasn't a second to even look in my work bag.
First off : finger stick, weigh-in and blood pressure. Next: loooooong wait for a chair in the infusion room which was a busy spot that day. The waiting room faces a lovely outdoor patio (I'm going to offer to spruce up their pots next time I'm there!) and has doors from two corridors and another opening into the infusion room. The place is buzzing, cheerful and not the gloomy space you might think the waiting room to a chemotherapy treatment center might be. My friend Peggy, who is having radiation, came by for a long chat before disappearing off for her treatment, then came back to chat some more.
Francesca, daughter #3, has decided that she's going to mother me through this, which is lovely, and so she came over to check on me. I showed her around and she met all my team and saw that I was in good hands!
FINALLY, a chair became available and I was settled in, reclined, covered in the Feel Good Blanket, much admired by everyone, patients and nurses alike! Val the vein nurse removed the rest of the glue still stuck to my port and got ready to plug me in. "I'm going to count to three and you take a deep breath" Crunch into the port. Easy! I'll get used to it. There was a whole bunch of bags ready to drip in. These days they are determined to prevent chemo patients from suffering from nausea or vomiting, so you get a dose of zantac for the stomach, something to prevent nausea and a steroid. When that had dripped in and made my head spin, Val came back with two syringes of Adriamycin, a bright red liquid, which she shot into my port line, and then a syringe of Cytoxan, which went into my saline bag to drip slowly. The whole thing took about 2 hours.
The recliners all face the nurses station in the center of the room, so you can pretty much see everyone. It is a totally non-threatening place. Some people nap, others chat with friends, eat lunch, talk to each other. It's quite the party place. If you're hungry, there are bagels and cookies. I managed most of the crossword, Emma worked on the marketing plan for her non-profit, Peaks over Poverty, and the time passed quickly. I was unplugged and good to go!
In fact, when we got home, I was so good to go that we worked in the garden for a couple of hours! Did feel really dizzy, though. Let's see what happens later!
I know this sounds like an outrageous thing to say, but I was actually looking forward to starting chemo, just to get going and have the ordeal be over!
So, with Peter off on another business trip to Europe, Emma and I set off for the hospital looking as if we were going on a trip of our own. I had my special bag with the Feel Good Blanket and my FP Designs workbag with the Sunday paper, the Monday paper and my laptop. Emma had her backback and laptop. What was I thinking?! There wasn't a second to even look in my work bag.
First off : finger stick, weigh-in and blood pressure. Next: loooooong wait for a chair in the infusion room which was a busy spot that day. The waiting room faces a lovely outdoor patio (I'm going to offer to spruce up their pots next time I'm there!) and has doors from two corridors and another opening into the infusion room. The place is buzzing, cheerful and not the gloomy space you might think the waiting room to a chemotherapy treatment center might be. My friend Peggy, who is having radiation, came by for a long chat before disappearing off for her treatment, then came back to chat some more.
Francesca, daughter #3, has decided that she's going to mother me through this, which is lovely, and so she came over to check on me. I showed her around and she met all my team and saw that I was in good hands!
FINALLY, a chair became available and I was settled in, reclined, covered in the Feel Good Blanket, much admired by everyone, patients and nurses alike! Val the vein nurse removed the rest of the glue still stuck to my port and got ready to plug me in. "I'm going to count to three and you take a deep breath" Crunch into the port. Easy! I'll get used to it. There was a whole bunch of bags ready to drip in. These days they are determined to prevent chemo patients from suffering from nausea or vomiting, so you get a dose of zantac for the stomach, something to prevent nausea and a steroid. When that had dripped in and made my head spin, Val came back with two syringes of Adriamycin, a bright red liquid, which she shot into my port line, and then a syringe of Cytoxan, which went into my saline bag to drip slowly. The whole thing took about 2 hours.
The recliners all face the nurses station in the center of the room, so you can pretty much see everyone. It is a totally non-threatening place. Some people nap, others chat with friends, eat lunch, talk to each other. It's quite the party place. If you're hungry, there are bagels and cookies. I managed most of the crossword, Emma worked on the marketing plan for her non-profit, Peaks over Poverty, and the time passed quickly. I was unplugged and good to go!
In fact, when we got home, I was so good to go that we worked in the garden for a couple of hours! Did feel really dizzy, though. Let's see what happens later!
Sunday, April 11, 2010
The blanket....
After the skin glue fiasco, the niggly headache that had been edging forward since I'd had the port installed, got worse and worse. My ears hurt and I was covered in a rash. I felt awful but since it was Friday morning, my first chemo day, I dutifully showed up to meet Dr Z., who immediately sent me back to Radiology to have the port checked. Nothing wrong with it at all. "You must be allergic to the dressing", they said, parroting back to me what I had just told them. I do wonder about some of these doctors. Common Sense 101 can't be on the curriculum at med school.
One of the downsides of chemo is that it knocks you down. Your white blood count drops so you can't fight infections so easily. If you're even slightly sick, you can't get the chemo. So, yours truly was packed off home with a prescription for antibiotics and told to report back on Monday. Aye, Aye, Sir!
As we went past the cancer center, I spotted by friend S zigzagging furtively down the corridor. It was a bit baffling to see her there, so I hailed her loudly: "What ho, young S, what are you up to?" Apparently she was there on the Q.T., dispatched by the United Rowers of Norwalk, to deliver the most fantastical, amazing gift which was going to wrap me in everyone's love while I was infused with the chemo potion.
Remember those Verizon TV ads where the mafia guy was down at the river bank and something bad was going down? Then the camera panned back and there was a phalanx of Verizon people in wing formation covering the dude's back? That, folks, is how I feel. I'm the point person, on the line, maximum danger zone, persistent bass line setting the tone -- but I have this huge army covering my back. There is NO WAY I can't get out of this ordeal!
The blanket will be my secret weapon, my security blanket. It is a testament to how versatile women can be. Here you have a body of dedicated athletes, muscles and hours of cardio endurance, and they can also knit, sew and crochet. Plus they're artists!!
Here's my team with the blanket! How cool is this. It even has a pocket and a bunch of flowers on it and I love all the colors!
I tested the blanket's healing powers that afternoon by wrapping up in it to try to shift the headache. It lulled me deep into sleep....
One of the downsides of chemo is that it knocks you down. Your white blood count drops so you can't fight infections so easily. If you're even slightly sick, you can't get the chemo. So, yours truly was packed off home with a prescription for antibiotics and told to report back on Monday. Aye, Aye, Sir!
As we went past the cancer center, I spotted by friend S zigzagging furtively down the corridor. It was a bit baffling to see her there, so I hailed her loudly: "What ho, young S, what are you up to?" Apparently she was there on the Q.T., dispatched by the United Rowers of Norwalk, to deliver the most fantastical, amazing gift which was going to wrap me in everyone's love while I was infused with the chemo potion.
Remember those Verizon TV ads where the mafia guy was down at the river bank and something bad was going down? Then the camera panned back and there was a phalanx of Verizon people in wing formation covering the dude's back? That, folks, is how I feel. I'm the point person, on the line, maximum danger zone, persistent bass line setting the tone -- but I have this huge army covering my back. There is NO WAY I can't get out of this ordeal!
The blanket will be my secret weapon, my security blanket. It is a testament to how versatile women can be. Here you have a body of dedicated athletes, muscles and hours of cardio endurance, and they can also knit, sew and crochet. Plus they're artists!!
Here's my team with the blanket! How cool is this. It even has a pocket and a bunch of flowers on it and I love all the colors! I tested the blanket's healing powers that afternoon by wrapping up in it to try to shift the headache. It lulled me deep into sleep....
Thank goodness for daughters!!
My daughters are amazing creatures, quite ready to rise to any challenge, and far, far braver than I. They have all bungee-jumped, which I think has to be the most absurd invention ever, two off a bridge into a ravine in Costa Rica and one off a crane in Russia. Nuts, all three of them. Two of them have jumped out of a plane. If you're on a hike in the mountains and happen to pass a vertical rock face, they'll all be half way up like a bunch of monkeys before you realize they're no longer on the path with you. They've traveled to distant lands on shoestring budgets, and made it back safely. No fear!
So when I suggested they practice the simple - and safe - art of hair cutting on me, I was surprised when they didn't jump at the chance to give me an interesting hairdo. "Are you sure?" "Suppose I mess up?" "Where do I start". I pointed out that it didn't matter how awful it looked since it was all getting buzzed off soon. I did put my foot down at the suggestion of a mohawk, however.
You don't always lose your hair with chemo but with the sort of drugs I'm getting, mine will be leaving me after the second treatment. Apparently, it starts to thin out and then one day you wake up and it's all on your pillow! So in order to circumvent a grieving process over my hair, the best solution seemed to be to take action ahead of time.
We set up a salon in the kitchen and Francesca went first, shaping the mess my hair had grown into. Dimity had a go next, and gave me a really nice cut which I'll keep for a week. It was lovely having the girls working together to figure out how to create lines and make it even.
So, even though the circumstances in which I let them near my head with a pair of scissors was a little unusual, I'm looking at it as another of life's lessons I've passed onto my girls!
So when I suggested they practice the simple - and safe - art of hair cutting on me, I was surprised when they didn't jump at the chance to give me an interesting hairdo. "Are you sure?" "Suppose I mess up?" "Where do I start". I pointed out that it didn't matter how awful it looked since it was all getting buzzed off soon. I did put my foot down at the suggestion of a mohawk, however.
You don't always lose your hair with chemo but with the sort of drugs I'm getting, mine will be leaving me after the second treatment. Apparently, it starts to thin out and then one day you wake up and it's all on your pillow! So in order to circumvent a grieving process over my hair, the best solution seemed to be to take action ahead of time.
We set up a salon in the kitchen and Francesca went first, shaping the mess my hair had grown into. Dimity had a go next, and gave me a really nice cut which I'll keep for a week. It was lovely having the girls working together to figure out how to create lines and make it even.
So, even though the circumstances in which I let them near my head with a pair of scissors was a little unusual, I'm looking at it as another of life's lessons I've passed onto my girls!
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