HOSPICE - Where Do I Fit In?

Finally! I’m working on the production of my book with a lovely woman who gets me AND gets the time crunch. Title: Does This Coffin Make Me Look Fat? It’s an artsy book of words, stories and art. My legacy project for family and friends. So glad to be back on it.

My day to day is still surreal. Tying up loose ends, spending time with my grandson, my kids and also resting. I’ve already put mostly all affairs in order. But there’s an abundance of stuff around here! Especially art. So I’m working on sorting and shipping. Lots of last minute sales.

HOSPICE
The weirdest part of hospice is going from the mindset of attending/solving all ailments and possible cancer problems/progressions, to ignoring anything that can’t be managed from a comfort-only perspective. Which mostly involves pain pills. Except thankfully I’m not in pain.

My biggest problem remains difficulty swallowing and anything other than thin purées is a no-go.

At some point I won’t be able to manage even water. But I’m not there yet. My second biggest problem are my lungs —they are not happy and having no scans only leaves my imagination for how bad they are. Plus the coughing wheezing and shortness of breath. But for now there’s not a lot to do about that either. The rain and humidity does not help!

I have realized that I no longer fit in anywhere. With a change of markers to triple negative, I’m no longer a part of the her2+ mbc community. They are all on active treatment. I am end of the road.

It’s weird after so many years (26) of the brightest and most supportive groups, I just don’t belong. Something else for me to reconcile and grieve.

I belong to the pioneers who take matters into their own hands and decide not to suffer down to the bitter end. In California we have the death with dignity act which allows control as long as you are terminal within 6 months. There are measures in place to independently test state of mind and make sure one is making sound decisions.

The big decision—when to go—remains to be seen. I’d rather stay *but* once I cannot eat, swallow or breathe I imagine the time to go will become obvious.

I’m still in a nesting-out phase. Content to take it easy at home. Rest. Nap. I don’t sleep more than a few hours at a time so that leaves lots of room for napping.

I don’t socialize or chat on the phone. I’m so easily overwhelmed. Or triggered by grief. Or angered by stupidity. Haha.

Again and again I remind myself that all I have is each moment, and to live in the day I was given. Live in the day I am given. Simple yet profound. What other day is there?!

I think a lot about all the people I know and love. And how if it weren’t for covid I might be way more inclined to have people stop by. Maybe if I still have strength once the rain stops we’ll be able to  visit, to reminisce and sit outside under the newly leafed maple tree.

I’m overall so grateful. A little scared. But glad I can still be in charge of me. And that I have time to process all these thoughts and feel as prepared as possible for when the time comes to leave.

I know we’re all in this together. Even separately and even from afar. That’s the community of love. And that’s the one I’ll never leave. Because love never dies. 🤍

©2023 FPHendron

THE SUGGESTION BOX IS CLOSED

Good news / bad news. My esophageal stent was removed last week and thankfully all of the horrific pain has resolved. That is the very good news.

The bad news is swallowing is an issue and it’s going to limit greatly the time I have left.

The good news is I do have some control over how and when and I’m looking into those next steps.

The bad news is that a lot of loving friends, family and community have a lot of their own anxiety and feelings and needs and think this is the time to share those with me. It is not.

And a lot of well-intended messages, texts and calls are hitting my inbox with way too many questions, for which there are no answers.

Since this is my Prelude to Death, I get to call the shots. And one of them is that I don’t wish to have conversations where I have to hear anybody else’s anxiety, speeches or feelings of shock. You’ll have to manage your own emotions.

We’ve had years for these conversations. Now is not the time to ramp up on how you are feeling.  Surely not the time to text constant messages. It’s too much for me.

Email is best.

This is a time that is strictly about me. My one and only death. And all the support you’ve offered and all of the times you’ve showed up—in so many ways, is what sustained me and helped get me to here. Gratitude for so much love, support and good times.

This is where I’m at right now and that may or may not change.

I’ve never died before so taking things day by day and often minute by minute.
Same for my immediate family. We are still in this together.
I love and appreciate all of you❤️

Fighting to Keep my Balance

I’ve got one foot on the ground
And one foot in the grave

And time is standing still
I need more antibiotics
My lungs hurt

Which doctor do I message?
Oncologist?
Pulmonologist?
Gastroenterologist?

Interventional gastroenterologist?
Palliative care?
Nurse practitioner? (My favorite)

I have a new concern; my teeth hurt.
Frantically googling all my new meds. Which ones cause teeth pain?

Meantime the box of morphine sits like a cheap box of wine—ugly, unopened. Shamefully pushed to the back of the meds group. Directions - take x ml per mg per kg per body weight. What?

Nothing about morphine is simple. I leave the box sealed and hidden.

I’ve got one foot on the ground and one foot in the grave.
Off-balance.

Beautiful text messages roll in. I try to keep up but can’t. I feel and appreciate the words. I lean into them. Let them pull me out of the grave and back to firm footing.

I’ve got one foot on the ground and one foot in the grave.  Maybe that’s what we all have. Maybe I’m just feeling the unsteadiness, bridging two realities.

My daughter is uploading photos to the group album. “Mom do you want me to edit out the pics where you’re in pajamas, in bed and not looking well?”
Facetune my Cancer? Brilliant!
I laugh at the thought of Glamming up my Pre-death.
Nope. It’s your album. And this is where I’m at.
In pain. In pajamas. In bed.

The majority of my life tells a different story, but the advances of late disease with this awful pain has zapped my strength.

Jude doesn’t care. He likes my big fluffy bed.

He brings all his favorite stuffed animals and toys into my room. And climbs up next to me in bed. And decides to finally try vanilla pudding. He’s surprised and calls it
apa-see-ah, which is how he says ice cream. Nearly all his words are changing from baby language to people language. He is fluent in Spanish and easily uses the two.

Balexa! Balexa! He’s now in the kitchen, shouting at Alexa. We were painting with dot paints and I made up a song about the dots.

He wants “Balexa” to play this “new” song. My daughter tells him that Yama made it up. But he keeps asking, so she cleverly plays “Who let the dogs out” and we change the words to “who let the dots out”. Instant hit and the song was on repeat the rest of the afternoon.

Anything that makes him happy makes me happy. The evolution of 20 months of photos shows my deep love for this little boy.

Yes, you can see the fat-faced steroid sisters all over my face. And the chemo killing rapidly dividing cells, all over my bald head.

But you can see that most days I had good-enough energy. As you can see lately that my energy is leaving. And pain is making an appearance.

One foot on the ground, and one in the grave.
I’m fighting to keep my balance.

Dying in 14 Days

Small cups empty of pudding fill my kitchen trash.

A big change from the fresh fruit & vegetable peels, yogurt and other healthy foods.

I’m fixated on dying in 14 days

Problems have come up so quickly.

I don’t like the Doctor who “installed” my stent.

First, I thought he was being very mindful going over a variety of scenarios with me.

Now I see it as kind of odd rambling, nervous, not  confident, mumbling, talking out loud in front of me, but not really talking to me.

After recovery, I ask him, what can I eat and when?

Liquids.

He said, be careful, don’t eat mashed potatoes.

I don’t want mashed potatoes.

I don’t want you to eat anything too thick. I don’t want you to swallow the stent I don’t want you to push the stent down.

Swallow the stent????????????

When can I have soup?

Thin soup he said.

Gina asks, can she have chicken broth or potato leek purée or butternut squash soup?

The last three days I’ve had hydration. An IV with saline slowing dripping in to keep me hydrated. Alive.

Hydration is not soup.

He looks at her blankly and says “I’m not good with soups”.

They don’t have a hand-out sheet on what foods I can eat when. I’m getting conflicting information.

And the pain in my chest feels like sharp burning swords. My pain level is about an 11. Maybe even a 15.

I try counting the burning spasms of pain. Thinking if I count, I can focus on the count and not the pain. It hurts so bad that my ears hurt. Stabbing, burning. Knives In.

In recovery the first thing to hurt were my eyelids! Burning burning!They apparently put tape on my eyelids during surgery and then ripped the tape off.

I wake up complaining about my eyelids, feeling raw, burning. I can’t blink it hurts so much.

Gina has some Aquaphor to put on for me.

Then I realize I have a fat lip, and big bruises on my cheek. What the fuck? What the fuck happened in that OR? How could they be so rough with me? I am a human person. This is Cedars-Sinai.

Jimmy Fallon is so cute. He’s on mute, in the background doing his usual lighthearted comedy. He understands the assignment. And he’s great company tonight. While I write. Trying to sort and make sense.

10 more days left to live. I am fixated on that number.

I don’t know how this is going to be OK. Incredible pain from the stent.

I imagine a thin silky tube, maybe a pretty color, going into my esophagus. Holding it open against the stricture and patching the hole into my trachea.

Something body friendly. Feminine. Purple.

But then I looked it up online and almost died right then and there.

it looks like an 8 inch piece of garden hose. Its thick and ugly and worse—it’s lined in metal mesh. Braces for my esophagus. No wonder it hurts like hell. Burning burning stabbing. The pain is atrocious. I can’t manage it. It’s metal scaffolding inside a garden hose. Why didn’t I ask to see it beforehand?

I text my oncologist and tell her my pain is not managed. Help help help.

Palliative medicine calls me back quickly, thankfully, and says I need liquid morphine. Just for this acute phase.

I never take narcotics. He said I really need to take some morphine it will help me. I said I’m too scared. I don’t like how these medicines make me feel.

He said I could drink more viscose lidocaine — every three hours if I want. OK I say I’ll try that and I’ll try adding Advil to the Tylenol.

And my son runs around and fills the morphine, but I don’t think I’m gonna take it.

And my daughter says, mom you might need to take some morphine, it could help you. And I said OK I’ll try.

But I knew I wouldn’t open the box. I can deal with the pain. I can’t deal with feeling out of my mind, or feeling nauseous, or feeling dizzy. Or SWALLOWING the stent. Because what the actual fuck??

And this is how my ending seems to be going. Even though in 26 years, I’ve never known another person living with metastatic breast cancer, who suddenly couldn’t swallow or eat.

And this is how my ending seems to be going. Triple negative breast cancer, spreading like wildfire.

And this is how my ending seems to be going. Even with my mom’s sage advice. “Don’t write the ending”, I can read it.

And with all these crises, I haven’t been able to get enough Chemo and I’m not sure that the chemo I have had and the chemo I’m going to have will be enough In the 10 days that I have left.

I am in dire circumstances. Mostly it’s the pain right now. Maybe tomorrow will be a better day. I just don’t know.  I can’t really deal with any of this. Too much pain. Too much grief.

And I hate goodbyes.

THE BED IS A DEAD GIVEAWAY

The bed is a dead giveaway.

It looks nice enough with its fluffy white comforter, soft white sheets, and linen upholstered  headboard.

But then, too many throw pillows, a jumbo heating pad, a sleeping wedge, Kindle in the bed, phone in the bed, TV remotes in the bed. All signs of someone not feeling well. Someone who can’t even reach their own nightstand.

Yesterday, while waiting for my infusion, IV already veined in place, vitals already taken, blood draw sent to the lab and returned with flying colors, I reached for a sip of water and felt some kind of a crack and a shooting pain in my right clavicle area.

And just like that, everything changed.

My nurse and Nurse practitioner were called. Heat packs were cracked. And I was sent for x-rays down the hall, thankful for this technology that lives right in the same office as my oncology practice. As my dear nurses and doctors.

Seven painful views later, the radiologist determined there was no fracture, which is great news but meanwhile I can’t move my arm. Likely due to annoying cancer growth, plus hard lymph nodes - gosh it’s all a mess.

The biggest mess is my esophagus, which has a blockage, and so I am on a pure liquid diet. And in the past two weeks, the blockage has become worse, because I went from a soft diet to purée to liquid.

I can barely swallow water. The good news is it’s fixable and on Monday I’m scheduled to have it fixed. This will be my second endoscopy in less than a week. That’s lucky during a time of busy offices with appointments often months away.

My first endoscopy this past Wednesday, showed that I had a severe stricture, a kind of a little fucky closure in the esophagus, very very close to the top of my throat, which is why I can’t swallow any food past that point.

My gastro doctor’s office is on my street corner, so it was easy —I walked up alone to his building which also has a surgery center.

The check in staff could not have been more welcoming. They were all nice and treated me like a normal person.  The team inside was gold. My nurse, patient and kind. It was very crowded and very busy. Yet they remained professional and efficient and the place was clean. And everyone had masks.  My doctor stopped by and said “Flori, I’m so glad we’re doing this.” He is one of the kindest people on this planet. And best doctor.

Soon they wheeled me into the OR, arranging me on the same table as I arrived. Turn onto your left side, here is a warm blanket, here’s a pillow for you to lean back on, can you put your head here, are you OK, are you comfortable?

The anesthesiologist was standing by and she said she’d give me some propanol and it would be very fast acting, and without combining any other drugs, I would not have any hangover. Okay sounds good, I say.

There were many voices and a lot of protocol being covered so I lay quietly and waited. And I felt a warm hand, lightly rubbing my shoulder and I thought what a kind and human gesture and took a big deep breath and relaxed feeling a little less anxious.

I wondered who had their hand rubbing my shoulder, and then I realized it was my doctor. See—kindest human.

Healing does not get better than that moment.

NeXt I heard. OK, Flori, I am going to give you the propanol now, and I could feel medicine running into my IV in my hand, so I unclenched my hand, giving it an easier time flowing in.

A few minutes later I was in recovery. And the news was delivered; Flori I am shocked. With your swallow tests being normal, I wasn’t expecting a blockage. You have a stricture and will have to see someone from Dr Lo’s team.

“I’ve already texted with your oncologist and Dr Lo’s NP and asked that you be seen this week. He’ll either dialate or stent or both but they’ll get you swallowing again”. So many people working on my behalf, I am grateful.

I am also hugely relieved that there is some thing they can fix. Because my money has been on modern medicine for the past 26 years. So many talented surgeons, oncologists, physicists, radiologists, specialists, orthopedists, researchers, scientists, and yes, even big Pharma.

They all played a part in my 15 1/2 years of surviving metastatic breast cancer.

My goals now orient towards quality of life. I’ve got to be able to swallow because I’m hungry and I want to eat food! My secondary goal is to go after this fucking cancer again. A new drug, called trodelvy. I’ve done one infusion and I really need to get going on it. But swallowing takes precedent. It can hopefully be improved quickly. New chemo is a longer game. I’ll need several cycles to see if it’ll work.

Yesterday my plan was to get another infusion, but instead, I had this weird crack, sound and intense pain and everybody running around to see if I broke my clavicle. Which, thankfully I didn’t. But something happened to my right arm which is now mostly out of commission.

Thankful I could talk things through with my nurses and my daughter and an executive decision was made—hold treatment until after throat procedure scheduled on Monday.

So that’s where I’m at. Throat on Monday. Rest on Tuesday. Back to chemo on Wednesday. Fingers crossed it all somehow works out.

January 21, 2023 © flori hendron

small sufferings January 2023

small sufferings

sand inside your shoe

glass shards

a splinter in your finger

no food or drink after midnight

waiting for test results to show up on your chart

when you know damn well they are available.

being told to change into a gown

“I’ve been told don’t ever change”

and no one laughs

because there is no comedy

drinking barium in the X-ray room

small sufferings,

the list is endless.

calls not returned,

impossible appointment times

and the waiting!

so much waiting

small sufferings,

time, my precious commodity

I’m constantly giving it away.

spending it in ways I don’t want to.

small sufferings

is living with a disease that is a sneaky time robber.

metastatic breast cancer - terminal

the ticking of my life clock drowns out every other sound.

except maybe my staccato heart

small sufferings,

my anger on the inside,

leaking out my pores,

a resident of my face

dimming my smile.

small sufferings, not feeling well enough to go dance, to go out, to live “my life”

as if there is a choice of whose life we get to live

small sufferings

a small tumor presses into my small esophagus

FUCK!

food won’t swallow

poor poor purée me

crisscross Applesauce

all pills emptied into sauce

or crushed

like my soul

small sufferings

(not so small this week)

i am hungry

ensure? have I tried it?

i may kill the next to ask.

HAVE YOU TRIED IT?

I want to scream.

instead I answer politely.

small sufferings

no one knows what to do

no one knows what to say

least of all me.

©FPH January 2023
Waiting for Trodelvy

Cadaver Kin

SEPTEMBER 9, 2022

I kiddingly asked my doctor if he thought I might know my cadaver, the one whose skin I’m temporarily wearing. The nurse said doubtful, the cadaver skin comes from New Jersey.

I’m from New Jersey I said! So for the past week I’ve been thinking about all relatives, the ones who died these last two years and wondering if I could possibly be wearing their skin.

The list of family members I’ve lost who lived in New Jersey is long. Mostly first cousins of my parents, all in their 80’s.

Obviously I know that donated bodies take quite a while to process and this cadaver skin is not peeled off a dead cousin and put on me. It is treated and processed and closer resembles a perforated Band-Aid than a piece of skin with a freckle or a mole. But I talk to it anyway.

Harold, is that you? I can’t imagine it’s you, you haven’t cracked one joke. But maybe you’re anxious because you know the skin is temporary or maybe you’re overcome with joy getting to be in California one last time, getting to meet Baby Jude.

Harold, I’m so sorry for this facocktah weather. I know you would hate the humidity and maybe that’s why you haven’t said a single word. And I’m sorry we haven’t gone to the beach, but I really can’t be in the sand or ocean right now. I’m supposed to stay home and just wait.

Next week this piece of cadaver skin gets exchanged for a skin graft. Yet another piece of me will be cut, removed and relocated to a whole different body zone.

Luckily the skin on my inner bicep is silky soft, hairless, and smooth. On Wednesday, a two-inch flap of my innocent inner arm will be moved to just below my throat, where the volcano used to live. It will replace the temporary cadaver cousin I’ve been wearing. It will be sewn by the best plastic surgeon in Los Angeles, Dr Handsome.

And hopefully in the couple weeks following, I will heal up, the stitches will dissolve and only some faint scars will remain. They don’t bother me. I have many scars. Reminders of my resilience.

Once healed, I will be thrilled to be able to wear my necklaces that I love so much and triple thrilled not to have that shameful cancer volcano bubbling on top of my skin.

And then a few days after surgery I’m due for another infusion of the clinical trial drug.

I feel rushed and overwhelmed but this is how it has to be. It’s not a slam dunk procedure. All done in between my infusion schedule, so I don’t get kicked off the trial. Crazy.

So—my plan is to TRY. Try to get thru the surgeries. Try to show up at the infusion center. Try to let my friends take care of me and help. Try not to lose my mind with all the sitting around waiting. Try to push thru all the feeling not so good. Try to get through this next phase of breast cancer-killing.

My goals are simple: get through surgery, heal, finish editing my legacy book, produce my book, orchestrate an open studio art sale and sell a bunch of work to make room for new work. Paint and create as much as possible, get the new variant booster shot, start going to small social gatherings, travel to see my nieces, travel to see my family in Florida, travel to see my son and daughter-in-law up north and spend as much time as I possibly can with my grandson. It’s an ambitious list but it’s a list of somebody living life. And that’s what I intend to do.

My Own Skin

MY OWN SKIN
I moved into my own skin today;
my own rebirth.
24 hours after what would have been
my Father’s birthday.

Looking in the mirror I realize
I have to embrace what I see.
Thinking of people who are
“comfortable in their skin”
I decide--today is the day!

I am moving into my own skin.

I’ve done this once before,
In 2002 after they amputated my breasts,
in trying to save my life.
It took me five years
and a thousand rounds of chemo
to get comfortable in that skin.

Today I am certain the move will be shorter.
I don’t have five years to waste.
And I am so ready to live in my own skin.

I think by the time the sun sets,
I will be moved in and fully unpacked.

Yesterday was my father’s birthday.
He’s been gone since 2004.
But I’ve kept his voice alive;
especially the critical parent.
The “go brush your hair
and put on some lipstick” voice.

Lipstick will not help, Dad,
I said in 1994
on the way home
from burying my mother.

For this past year,
I have not been living in my skin.
I’ve been waiting for Covid to end
So I can get back to my old skin.

But you can’t get anything in the past back.
You can only take what you have and move forward.

And you know what?
My skin feels fine.
It’s actually quite comfortable.

I don’t mind the gray hair…this is my look now.
I don’t mind the eyeglasses…this is my look now.
I don’t mind the extra pounds…this is my look now.

The curves. The soft, the rough.
The wrinkles and stretch marks.
The cracks.
The asymmetricals.
The age spots and dots.

I’ve moved into it all.
Head to toe
Inside and out,

Every place has been kissed or caressed
by someone
at some time
but lately,
not by me.

I moved in to my own skin today.
I inspected it and decided
Today’s the day.
It’s time to get comfortable.

All the life I’ve lived. All the sights I’ve seen.
All the wisdom And all the wisecracks.
What better company?

My skin feels so good.
Like rich silk.
63 year’s worth of texture.
I am all moved in and I’m here to stay.

Flori Hendron
3/26/21

Pfizer Shot #2

Pfizer Shot Two, My poem for you

Our world is a mess
But I still hold hope, I confess
Though many profess
to have the solutions 
They’ll utter social promises
They’ll offer resolutions 

The key ingredient
that needs to be spread—
The words that need to be said-
Kindness, concern and love 
From our heart
and not from our head

Heading out for this shot today 
My mind filled with anxiety
I pull the car over
Turn the flashing lights on
I need to Pray,
so I pray a Psalm

Dear God of Covid and Cancer,
In the next variant for the world to see 
In the next tumor progression inside of me 
Please spread the contagion 
of love and compassion, 
Kindness and humanity

Have those multiplying inside of people 
In their Season of Cancer
In their Days of Covid

And may our next scans show 
High levels of increased activity 
Suspicious for love 

And numerous sites 
with proclivity for kindness 
And compassion
That’s our answer
That’s our cure 

Dear God of Covid & Cancer
If you could— 
Spread this comfort
Over our entire earth 
Our places of birth
We could understand
Our worth

We would stop the hate - it’s NOT our fate
Not ours to decide.
When you disrupt the universe  
You disrupt her tide
Mother Nature 
We need you
as our Guide

My left blinker on
Pulling back on the road
My prayer was sent up 
in Universe Code

Converse with the people
Take my words- do your part
And send them via feelings 
to every beating heart

Put the beat of my prayer 
in the rhythm of your heart 
The sound can defeat
what is wrong with the planet 
Dear God of the Universe, 
Take this love,
Go and plant it.

Pfizer shot number two
Sexy modern mRNA
Moderna or whatever 
You’ll get today

God of Covid & Cancer 
Universe I’m pleading
Hear my prayer while 
my own heart’s still beating

15 minutes I have to wait 
Praying while writing out my fate 

Gold Beads of Prayers 
Drum Beats of Prayer
Songs of Love 
Final Chorus of Compassion
Words of truth
Spread this Loving-Kindness
May humanity take fast action 

3/20/21 UCLA Pfizer Vaccine#2
©Flori Hendron

LOVE RUNS DOWN

Love Runs Down

In Judaism we say, “L’dor v’dor, Hebrew for “generation to generation”.  There is a special part of the Bar/Bat Mitzvah service where the immediate family goes up on the Bima (stage) and stands shoulder to shoulder facing the congregation, with the oldest family member furthest from the pulpit and each subsequent family member in line until they reach the Bar/Bat Mitzvah child. 

The congregation rises as the ark doors open and the rabbi brings out the Torah which is handed to the oldest member of the family--often a grandparent, sometimes a great grandparent, and then each person passes the Torah until it reaches the bar/bat mitzvah child. L’dor v’dor, from generation to generation. It is a very powerful moment during the service watching the generations hand the responsibilities of Judaism down to the youngest in the family. 

At my father’s funeral in 2004, Rabbi Zoe spoke of Poppy’s love for his five grandchildren. She said “love runs downhill” as part of her beautiful eulogy of woven words, yes love runs down from my father to me to my children.  A beautiful reminder of love and how it flows to us. L’dor v’dor. Love runs down. Her words a blessing and a comfort to hear. 

“Love runs downhill, through the generations.
Our love, 
The intricate love we have for our parents 
Runs downhill,
And pools
Becoming deeper and more pure
In our love for our children

And our love for our children
Runs downhill,
Pools,
Deeper than oceans, more pure than light 
In our love for our grandchildren…”

I was at my beautiful nieces house this weekend. Meeting her daughter, my GREAT Niece! And as I held this little 8-week-old baby girl, I could feel the love running down. Love from my great-grandparents, my grandparents, from my parents. That running love all the way down me and into her. And I know she felt it because she didn’t cry. Even though we just met, she relaxed into my arms. 

And when her eight-week-old little self, focused in on my face, she grinned a toothless fairy-girl grin, her smile spreading all over her face, up into the crinkles of her newborn baby eyes, and she squirmed in delight as she grinned about the silly thing I had just said to her. 

And love gushed down from me to this newly born bald beauty, with those sparkles in her eyes and that full body smile.  

And I felt like my heart of love might overflow and turn their living room into a river and their couch into a little boat and my beautiful Grandniece and I would take a ride outside in the sunshine, floating through the gentle waves of all the love flowing down from her ancestors through me. 

It’s not unusual for my gratitude to take the form of a love flood. So much emotion coming up from my heart, with nowhere to go but to pour out of my eyes. Salty tears of love and gratitude. Usually I’m thinking, “thank you”. Thank You Universe for this single most perfect moment in time. 

When I look at my beautiful pregnant daughter, and I imagine meeting my grandson for the first time, I realize he will need a magic baby blanket that becomes a raft so I don’t drown him with my river of gratitude. With my love flowing down. And then I think maybe just a baby life preserver would do. And then I think no, he will surely need a small boat with all the gratitude that will be pouring out of me. I will no doubt create an ocean of love.  All those ancestors seeing him through my eyes for the first time.  Yes, an ocean of love.  

I have so much to tell him about; where the sea of tears comes from; about my parents and my grandparents and especially stories about his mother, my daughter. So much love flowing down. The bubbling water telling stories from my past, telling secrets of love and survival. 

Maybe that is really all Noah’s ark was about; God’s tears of gratitude at giving life a second chance; creating so much water he knew only a boat would save Noah and the animals.

Rabbi Zoe was right. Love runs down. Love runs down to become a river of love. Within a sea of gratitude. All that love flowing to us from our ancestors, feel it.  
L’dor V’dor. 

©Flori Hendron