When She Turned 18: Her Choice, Her Journey

My oldest daughter turned 18 this year. And when she did, she asked for genetic testing.

I didn't push her toward it. She came to me and said she wanted to do it. She's grown up knowing my story. She's been there for appointments, surgeries, conversations about risk. She understands what BRCA means. And she wanted answers about her own genetic status.

She had already done 23andMe, but like many people, she wanted confirmation. 23andMe itself recommends verifying results with your doctor. For her, that mattered. She wanted concrete answers, not just a home test result sitting in her mind.

We were referred to my incredible gynecologist, Dr. Lucas Minig, who connected us with Dr. Vicente Guillem Porta at Unidad de Oncologia Medica for a genetic consultation. The process was straightforward. The doctors were kind, thorough, and genuinely good at what they do. They prescribed bloodwork, we went to the lab, and we waited.

The waiting felt long. Not in an anxious, soul-crushing way, but more like the "are we there yet?" feeling on a long car ride with kids. She just wanted her results back. She was ready to know.

And now she does. She has her answers. Concrete, confirmed results. And she feels good about that. There's something powerful about a young person taking charge of her own health, asking the questions that matter to her, and getting the clarity she needs to move forward.

That's what matters at 18. Having agency. Having answers. Knowing that whatever comes next, she's prepared to face it.

I highly recommend speaking to a geneticist before any testing takes place. My family has been around these conversations since they were itty bitty. We've had lots of talks. They knew what they wanted, and they knew the consequences of knowing. If your children haven't had this history, seeing a geneticist and speaking with one thoroughly is a must. Don't rush this process for them.

A Follow-Up Conversation: Six Years Later

Back in 2018, I did an interview with Grey Genetics about my BRCA1 journey, losing my mother to breast cancer at 13, and the preventive choices I made for my own life. That conversation was important. It helped me process my story and, I hope, gave other people walking a similar path some perspective on what it means to be a previvor.

Six years later, I sat down with them again for a follow-up. A lot has changed. My kids have grown from 10, 12, and 13 into young adults at 15, 17, and 19. And they all decided they wanted to do genetic testing through 23andMe.

This wasn't a decision I pushed them toward. They came to it themselves. Curious about science. About health. About understanding their own genetic predispositions. They know my story inside and out. They've been by my side through every appointment, every surgery, every conversation about risk and choice. We've always been open and honest about what BRCA means for our family.

But I want to be clear about something: I'm not sharing their results on this blog. That's their story to tell if and when they choose to.

What matters here is understanding why I won't share those results. The truth is, genetic testing outcomes carry real weight no matter which way they go. If a child tests positive for BRCA, suddenly they're facing the same decisions I faced at their age. The worry. The choices about surgery, about timing, about their future. They have to figure out what prevention looks like for them, just like I did. That's a lot to carry, and it's deeply personal.

But a negative result isn't simple either. I've seen the guilt that can come with it. The "why not me?" feeling when a sibling carries the mutation and you don't. Or the complicated relief mixed with worry for someone you love. And if results are different across siblings, there's this new dynamic to navigate. One child worried about their future, another relieved but maybe feeling guilty about that relief. It changes family conversations in ways that are hard to predict.

My kids understand all of this. They were prepared for whatever the results would be. But preparing for something and actually living with the outcome are two different things. Those are their feelings to process, their choice to share or not share. What I can tell you is that we're talking about it openly as a family, supporting each other, and taking it one day at a time.

The full conversation covers so much more than I can fit here. If you want to hear directly about this next chapter, the full interview is available on the Grey Genetics podcast.

You can listen here: Spotify or Grey Genetics website

Losing My Mother, Previving For My Children

Thank you to Grey Genetics and Patient Stories for having me on to discuss my journey with BRCA and surgery, but more importantly, for allowing me to discuss my children, who were/are a big part of all the decisions I made along the way.

Please click the image below to hear this podcast.

Show notes from Grey Genetics

At just 13, Heather lost her mother to breast cancer. Fifteen years later, a mother herself, Heather had genetic testing done and learned that she carried a mutation in a BRCA gene. Heather shares her experience as a previvor–from genetic counseling to finding the right doctors to her continued involvement in the BRCA community and the many changes she’s witnessed since she was tested in 2005.

Interview Reference Points: 

Heather learns that she carries a BRCA1 mutation @ 1:20

Making major medical decisions and finding the right doctors @ 7:54

Heather’s children’s books @ 19:59

Heather remembers her mother @ 22:19

Heather’s surveillance today and memories of scanxiety @ 27:24

The Breast Advocate app @ 29:14

Life after an oophorectomy @ 31:30 

Heather’s children’s and their BRCA risks @ 36:07

BRCA resources: then and now and the shift toward shared decision making @ 41:00

Heather’s advice to individuals considering genetic testing @ 43:35

Heather’s advice to individuals looking for the right doctors @ 45:08

My BRCA Story (Heather’s blog)

The Breast Advocate app

Breast Reconstruction Resources:

Terri Coutee on Twitter: @6state

The Diep C Foundation

The Diep C Journey Facebook Group

Heather’s books on Amazon:

Why is Mommy Having Surgery? She Looks OK to Me: For families with BRCA risk and undergoing prophylactic surgery and implant reconstruction

This Much I Know

Long Term Surveillance...Yes or No

This past week, I was fortunate enough to be asked to sit down for an interview and discuss BRCA as an expat.  One of the questions I was asked focused on the choices out there for women who find out they are BRCA+.  The one I always discuss, is the preventive prophylactic mastectomy, because, well, I had one and that was the topic everyone was curious about!  I didn't focus as much on the 10 years I spent doing surveillance due to having babies and being an expat.  But I feel that needs just as much discussion these days, because there are a lot of women out there who want nothing to do with surgery...just yet.

I look back, and I think about how crazy it is that I went through all this testing and getting my BRCA+ results before the Angelina Jolie Effect.  I had nothing to read online, no one to guide me and certainly no one to see photos of who had had a mastectomy and direct to implant surgery.  What I did have was a great team of doctors and a genetic counselor at Huntsman Cancer Institute in Utah, who were able to talk to me about my options at the time.  

Because I had just had a baby when I got my results, and I fell pregnant again, it was recommended to delay any surgeries for a while, and because I was breast feeding, even my mammograms and MRIs would be delayed.  That was the hardest part for me.  I knew for sure that I was BRCA+, but I still couldn't do anything about it.  I honestly would have had the surgery that day if I could have.  I was on self breast exam surveillance mode, and as soon as I could, I'd begin alternating MRIs and mammograms every six months.

Photo from Pixaby

I finally had my first mammogram in 2007, 2 years after learning I was BRCA+.  That was a long time to keep wondering, will I get cancer before I try to prevent it?  I was done breastfeeding my second child and I hadn't yet fallen pregnant with my third.  I held my breath before, during and after as I waited for results.  Luckily, it was negative.  After my third child was born and I was done breastfeeding, I had my first MRI, in 2009.  I hated every minute of it, and wished more than anything that I would never have to have another one again.  That began my surveillance, on a regular six month cycle, for the next six years.  Why did it take me six more years to finally have surgery?  Because we decided to pick up the family and move to the United Arab Emirates for a teaching position in 2010.

So, there we were, plopping down in the middle of the desert, and the first task I had was to find a new medical team, let alone, how to get a mammogram or MRI under my new, foreign insurance.  It took A LOT of talking, A LOT of doctors offices, and A LOT of panic.  I was an anomaly.  Doctors in the Middle East didn't have much experience with BRCA in 2010.  They honestly didn't know what to do with me.  

Thankfully, persistence paid off, as I found Tawam Hospital in the Emirate of Al Ain, a partner of Johns Hopkins.  Finally, people who knew what I needed.  They set me up on my six month schedule of MRIs and mammograms, and actually told me NOT to have reconstruction surgery in the UAE, as they just weren't proficient in it yet.  I couldn't go back to the States for it, due to insurance, so surveillance it was.  I continued my six month routine, holding my breath before, during and after every scan, developing scanxiety, and just worrying more and more that I was playing with fire.  Would I develop cancer before I could actually do something about it?  It wasn't a way to live.

I felt like a clock was ticking as entered my 30s.  My mother and grandmother were diagnosed by 40.  I was getting closer and closer to that age with each passing year and each passing scan.  From 2010-2014, I lived in the UAE and had no choices for preventive surgery.  But, in 2014, we moved once again, to Singapore.  I found a doctor who referred me to my first MRI and mammogram in Singapore.  Unfortunately, it was my first abnormal scan, they found a cyst.  All that went through my mind was how I waited too long and I shouldn't have done surveillance for so long.  I should have been more proactive.  As I discussed the results of the scan with the doctor, her response was to do a lumpectomy or watch it for six months to see what happens.  WHAT?  I'm BRCA+ and you want to "sit on it"!  I was out of there and began a furious search for an expat doctor.

It was here that I met a phenomenal expat doctor who trained in genetics and oncology at UCLA.  We discussed my recent scan and my history, and he was shocked that I had lasted this long with surveillance.  He was putting wheels in motion after our first meeting.  Luckily, my husband's new insurance covered me in the States, and I could pick the doctor of my dreams and have the surgery I had been waiting for after 10 years.  In 2015, my six month scans were over, and I had my preventive prophylactic mastectomy.

Surveillance isn't for everyone.  As I mentioned earlier, I wished I'd had my surgery right away.  Those 10 years were awful for me.  I hated wondering and not knowing.  I hated taking that risk of waiting.  It's an internal conversation you need to have with yourself, but also with your genetic counselor and doctor.  Do what's right for your situation.  If you have questions and are wondering about how to navigate all this information, please download The Breast Advocate app.

Grandma, It's Going To Be OK

In a 1991 LA Times article, my grandmother was interviewed about breast cancer in our family.  She sadly passed of heart surgery complications in 2006, right after the birth of my second child.  The two quotes that stick with me from the article are the following:

"I thought I was helping my daughter do all the things that were necessary. And she followed all the rules. What is frustrating is that the results from treatment now are not a heck of a lot better than they were when I had cancer. I am watching her two daughters, ages 22 and 14. I'm hoping the outlook will be better for them, but I'm not sure it will. Twenty-five years after my cancer, why should I still be worried about my granddaughters?" 

And in speaking about my mother...

"At one point, she asked her doctor if she could undergo a prophylactic mastectomy--a procedure where the breast tissue is removed and replaced with implants to lessen cancer risk. She was discouraged from taking that radical step." 

LA Times

I would LOVE to be able to sit face to face with my grandmother right now and show her just how far results from treatment have come since she and my own mother were fighting the disease.  I've gone from a 14 year old to 38 year old and I've been given a wonderful outlook on life with my own children.  I was able to get the BRCA genetic test thanks to my grandmother taking the test months before me, and as a result, I qualified for a prophylactic double mastectomy, no questions asked.  


You don't have to worry anymore grandma.  I've been taken care of by the best. 

My Grandmother

My Mother

Me

Emotions: At Risk

  24 years ago today, my mother passed away from breast cancer.  Today, I’m sitting here in my home, alone.  No kids to tend to, no husband to talk to.  Just me.  Well, just the dog and me.  I’m not going to work, I’m not taking care of anyone else, and I’m going to try and deal with some emotions I apparently need to get out.  I haven’t done this in a very long time.  I always go to work, I always push through the day, I always keep it inside.  But when you start cracking in public, breaking down your wall when friends ask you simple questions, you know you need a break. 

“We all need a daily check up from the neck up to avoid stinkin thinkin which ultimately leads to hardening of the attitudes.” –Zig Ziglar

  When I need to get things out, I write.  I’ve always been a writer at heart.  I loved making story books as a kid, I took as many elective courses in writing as I could throughout college, and I’ve always been able to write my feelings down on paper better than I could ever say in words.  I don’t think writing is a bad thing, I think it’s actually quite therapeutic.  But when writing is all you know how to do when it comes to expressing yourself, I begin to see the problem.  I don’t cry when I write.  I don’t get hugs of support when I write.  I don’t get feedback when I write.  I don't even get eye contact when I write.  I put it all out there, on paper or on the Internet, in hopes of getting it off my chest, helping someone else and moving on with my life.

  I’m home today because I was told, just yesterday, that I need to cry.  Not a tear here and there, but a full on cry.  A bawling your eyes out, mad at the world, scream in a pillow cry.  A cry for my mother.  A cry for my father.  A cry for BRCA.  A cry for a list so long that it hurts…but I stay strong.  I cry when moving away from friends and family, I well up with tears when I see my children hurt and I quietly shed tears in sad movies, wiping them away in secrecy.  But I hardly ever cry for my thoughts, my experiences and my memories…myself. 

  Over the many years of sickness my parents went through while I was quite young I can’t remember someone telling me to just cry.  Of course I cried in my bedroom, or at a friend’s house or with a teacher at school when any of them asked my about my mom or dad, but I didn’t cry with my own family.  Instead, I remember family asking me if I was “o.k.”  At that age, I didn’t know what o.k. meant, so I just said yes.  I’m not the one sick.  I’m not the one in the hospital.  I’m not the one dying.  So of course I’m ok.  I stayed strong because I thought that was what I was supposed to do for everyone else.  For my mom.  For my dad.  I stayed strong because it was my mom and dad who were not ok…not me.  I didn’t cry for fear of making someone else cry and be more upset.  Turns out, this was called avoidance and little did I know, I’d later be ridiculed and slandered by some of my own family members for NOT handling death appropriately at the ages of 13 and 17.  So, today, I may or may not cry, it’s yet to be seen, but I’m going to let it all out...right here. 

  Today, for the first time, I’m realizing where so much of my recent pain and sadness are coming from.  After the passing of my mom, I have had years of worry, agony and constant reminders of death right on my chest.  I’ve always had a love/hate relationship with my breasts. But mostly hate.  I’m sitting here today, home and alone, reflecting on my mother and all she went through.  I’m thinking of how scared she was.   How unfair it all was.  I'm thinking of her and how on Earth she was dealing with the thought of not watching us grow up.  How I wish she had today’s opportunities back then.  My mother actually asked for a prophylactic double mastectomy back then…but it was deemed “too radical” by doctors.  My grandmother was quoted in an LA Times article written in 1991 saying;

"I thought I was helping my daughter do all the things that were necessary. And she followed all the rules. What is frustrating is that the results from treatment now are not a heck of a lot better than they were when I had cancer. I am watching her two daughters, ages 22 and 14. I'm hoping the outlook will be better for them, but I'm not sure it will. Twenty-five years after my cancer, why should I still be worried about my granddaughters?" 

LA Times

 

I’m now, at 38, preparing to save my own life, and it’s all just too real.  My mother was 40 when she was diagnosed, my grandmother was 40 when she had her double mastectomy, and here I am, 38, trying to beat a family curse by two years.  Of course today is especially hard.  I’m wishing my mom had the same fighting chance I’m being given and am preparing for, and it’s taking me on an emotional roller coaster.

  I decided to take control of my life and hopefully, stop the worry back in 2005, just after having my son.  I was going to have the BRCA genetic test at Huntsman Cancer Institute in Utah.   I had heard mumblings about it here and there, but it was nowhere near as talked about as it is now.  This was years before Angelina Jolie…and I’m thankful someone like her could use her platform and get the message out to the masses today.  I thought long and hard about getting the test, even meeting with a genetics counselor and a surgeon, Dr. Saundra Buys, at Huntsman who helped guide my husband and me through the process and come to terms with what the results of the test could do to my family and me…emotionally.  I remember the series of questions that hurt the most and made me well up with tears…”You have a beautiful boy now.  Are you done having children?  What if the next one is a girl?”  You see, each of my children now has a 50% chance of getting my BRCA gene.  Those questions were the most in your face, hardest questions I’ve ever have had to answer, and probably ever will.  For me, I had seen how far options had come along to help myself, and I had faith that there’d be even more options for them as they grew up. 

  I had the test, and tested positive for the BRCA1 gene (Breast Cancer), as did my grandmother, who took the test first which helped open the doors to a cheaper test for me.  On average, if you took a random sampling, about one in 400 would carry a BRCA mutation.  Testing positive, and having a long line of breast cancers in my family, meant that I had a 65-87% chance of developing breast cancer over my lifetime, that’s hard to swallow.  Why the large spread?  Depending on the doctor and the comparison group used, I got the answer of 65% risk as compared to large average population sample, to 87% because of my very strong family history being compared to other very strong history family cases.  I was not surprised by the results as I think I always knew, but it doesn’t mean I wasn’t mad either.  I also learned that with a BRCA diagnosis, IF I were to ever get cancer, doctors would fight aggressively, as the genetic mutation makes it very difficult for my body to fight cancer. But we’re not done there!  Thanks to this BRCA gene, I now increased my risk for ovarian cancer!  What?  This whole time I’ve been focused on my ticking time bomb breasts, and now I have to worry about my ovaries? I was angry-mad.  I did the “why me” for a while…still do on occasion.  But I also knew that having the results would somehow help me with the “next step”…whatever that was at that time. I wanted more children and I wanted to breast feed, so immediate surgery, breast or ovary, was not in the cards for me.

  At the age of 28, I was beginning mammograms and ultrasounds, every 6 months.  This was a hard time for me, as I couldn’t have anything done while pregnant or nursing, so my scans were few and far between for the next 4 years.  During that time, I kept wondering…am I developing cancer and don’t know it?  Am I going to have to go through what my mother went through?  Once I had my youngest, and I knew I was done having children, my regular 6-month screens began.  I was being steadily proactive and that was going to ease my mind, right?  Wrong. 

  I’d go in for mammograms, holding my breath both for the scan and for the results, every 6 months.  The MRIs were worse.  First I had to face my fear of needles, a fear that began from an overnight stay with my mom in the hospital.  Then, the banging, clanging God-awful noises that came out of that machine, no matter how loud the music in my headphones, lead to an incomplete MRI and me to having my first panic attack in the Fall of 2013.  30 minutes of the 45-minute procedure…wasted.  What was I doing?  I felt like a hamster on a wheel, jumping from the mammogram wheel to the MRI wheel and driving my self completely crazy twice a year.  And what were these scans doing to me overall?  Surely living my life like this couldn’t be healthy.

  November 2014 turned out to be the turning point for me.  I went in for another routine mammogram, on Thanksgiving Day.  The same day my youngest was having a tonsillectomy and adenoidectomy.  I had prayers flying out left and right that day.  My husband took my daughter to the hospital to get her settled in for surgery (he’s the strong one), while I took the older kids with me to get my mammogram.  Everything was supposed to be normal, another mammogram, in and out.  But this time, I went in, came out and went back in.  I had never been called back into the mammogram room…ever.  My heart raced, tears came to my eyes, and I was texting my husband ferociously while holding back the utter panic welling up inside me.  Once again, I couldn’t let those around me see me cry.  Once again, I held it all back in order to be strong for my own kids.  Not because anyone told me to hold it together, but because its what I was used to doing.  Because it was just...me.  So, another few squeezes of the machine and I was dismissed with a follow up appointment that night at 5pm.  That night?  When have I ever had results immediately read and met with the doctor on the same day?  NEVER. 

  This was it.  This was when it was happening.  This was the day that would change my life forever.  I left the building with all of my worst nightmares coming true in my mind.  I was in a haze of fear while traveling in the taxi from my hospital to my daughter’s hospital.  I remember texting my BFFs on the way, not for them to panic with me, but to just let someone know I was scared.  Luckily, I made it to the hospital just in time, as my daughter was just released from surgery and moving into recovery.  I put on the scrubs, went into the OR recovery area, and held my little one’s hand.  Everything disappeared at that moment.  I was completely in the moment as I listened to my groggy daughter talk through the anesthesia.  I was completely there…for her.  And I was thankful.  I was thankful for her surgery that would help her live a better life.  I was thankful for the chance to be her mother.  Sure, I knew I had an appointment later that night and I was scared, but I kept it all inside.  I didn’t even have time to talk to my husband about it all as we were so focused on the kids for the next few hours at the hospital.  As my daughter recovered from surgery and my husband left with the three kids in a taxi heading home, I made my way to the doctor’s office, one I'd never met. 

  Behind the desk sat a cold, expressionless doctor.  The room was small, tiny actually.  She fluttered with papers from her appointment before me, opened a new, empty folder, grabbed a pen and looked at me.  “So, tell me why you’re here.”  I’m sorry, did you not read the report from the mammogram I just had?  I must have said something to that effect in my out loud voice, as she opened another file and simply stated, ”Looks like you have a cyst.  It’s nothing to be concerned about.  You’ll come back in 4 months to check on it.”  Really?  That’s how we’re leaving it?  You’re summing up my last five hours of panic into that?  I don’t want to “check on it” after 4 months!  What is it?  What are we going to do?  Where’s that preventative prophylactic mastectomy option?  Again, I must have uttered words close to these as she then pulled out her iPad and all of her research she’s presented.  Basically, what I got from her lecture was that she’s not a believer in the procedure and IF I do get cancer, we’ll do a lumpectomy and figure out a course of treatment from there.  OH.  MY.  GOSH!  Get me out of here…now!  I found another doctor, Dr. Tucker, by referral and scheduled an appointment with him a few days later.  Thankfully, he became the voice of reason, the voice I needed and the voice I listened to.  He knew I didn’t want to even GET cancer.  He knew that I couldn’t handle hospitals.  He knew I had seen the effects of harsh cancer treatments first hand and how badly I didn’t want to ever experience them.  And he knew I never wanted to leave my beautiful children because of cancer.  Dr. Tucker knew.

  In a matter of weeks, I was in overdrive mode.  Friends who know me well just call it “Heather mode.”  I’m an information gatherer.  I’m a planner.  I’m an organizer.  I have been consuming my free time with nothing but surgery related tasks.  I’ve been researching doctors in the US, talking to women from my online forum about their doctors and results and getting as much information as I could about which type of surgery I wanted.  Implants?  Stomach tissue?  Keep my nipples?  Tattoos?  I haven’t even stopped to really process it all.  I just keep moving forward.  I’m doing it.  This is it.  10 years later, from my initial BRCA1 diagnosis, I am going to do something about it.  I’m making a choice to take my risk from 87% to 1-5%...that’s a big deal.  And my future has now fallen into the hands of Dr. Chrysopoulo in San Antonio.

  The hardest part of the process has been trying to figure out how I’m supposed to feel.  That doesn’t even make sense, right?  One day I feel like I want a “goodbye to these ticking time bombs party” with my friends, celebrating my chance at never getting cancer, and the next day my eyes are welling up, wondering why I have to go through all of this at all.  One day I’m sharing information with friends in a casual conversation and the next day I’m crying at the slight mention of the impending surgery.  I imagine this will continue, long after my surgery.  You see, I get told all the time, “at least you’ll get awesome boobs out of all of this!”  I’ll be the first to admit that those words come out of my mouth too, but I think I use them in avoidance of not talking about what we’re really talking about.  I mask my emotions pretty well, much of the time.  Remember the no crying thing?  My husband knows not to joke about me having a “boob job”, he takes my lead on the conversations and my mood at the time.  If I have a moment of “it might be nice having perky breasts again,” my husband follows with supportive comments.  But then I follow with a moment of me punishing myself for being so insensitive the real situation and how dare I joke about something so serious.  But it’s my life to comment on, my emotions, my feelings towards my breasts.  But I’m not having a boob job!  I’m having breast reconstruction.  Wait, I’m having a mastectomy and breast reconstruction.  Nowhere in any document I’ve read has it said “Congratulations!  You get a free boob job because you're BRCA+!”  I’m not going into the details of the differences between breast reconstruction and breast augmentation, nor am I diminishing the fact that both involve surgery, but if you’re curious about the differences, please Google it.  They are very different roads traveled. 

  Yes, I will be proud that I’ve taken this drastic step towards saving my life and being around for my children.  Yes, I’ll try my best to embrace my new breasts and be proud of those, too.  And yes, I’ll wish that my mother could have had the same opportunity that I’m about to get.  No, my breasts won’t be the same, hell, I probably won’t be able to even feel them anymore, but they’ll be mine to live with.  They won’t be perfect either, and I’ll probably always find faults that no one else sees, but they’ll be mine.  I’ll have a constant reminder, again on my chest, but hopefully I’ll have taken all the fear away...the ticking time bombs will have been detonated.  Hopefully I’ll be able to see them as the new me, the healthier me. 

  So there you have it.  24 years ago today my mother passed away from breast cancer.  I’m home today to try and reconcile some emotions I’ve had bottled up.  I’ve taken the time to examine the path I’ve traveled, the ups and downs, the curve balls and the road ahead.  I realize that there is no right way to react to some of life’s hardest events.  There’s no perfect way to handle the topic of breast cancer.  Everyone is going to have a different perspective, based on his or her own life experiences.  My view on my surgery and my outcome may be very different to someone else’s, and that’s ok.  I just might have that “goodbye to these ticking time bombs” party…and that’s ok.  I guarantee I will document and share the entire surgical and recovery process as well, because it’s a way for me to talk, a way to share, a way to deal with my emotions.  For me, writing is my crying for now.  Some day I might begin to really weep as my friend wanted me to today.  Maybe when this is all over, I’ll sob like a baby, thankful that its over…for now.