There are lots of ways that I could have ended up my month on trauma. I suppose this one was as appropriate as any.
She was 67, thin, and otherwise healthy. She was a week away from her 40th weeding anniversary. And late that evening she took the family gun, held it to her temple, and pulled the trigger. The bullet passed clean through her brain and out through her skull on the other side. The cops found it lodged in the wall of her house, amidst a splattering of blood.
Amazingly, she wasn’t dead. Her blood had spread all throughout her head, but the two holes left by that bullet served to decompress her skull and stave off the high intracranial pressures that are usually fatal in this sort of instance.
We worked very hard over the next two days on this lady, while her family gathered at the bedside and slowly came to grips with what had happened and what the likely future would hold.
In medicine we often end up prolonging life under dubious claims. But it struck me that there could not be a clearer instance of someone telling us that she did not want to live. If you believe the statistics, women attempt suicide much more often then men do, but because they often choose less violent methods (e.g., overdosing on pills) they are less successful than their male counterparts. Needless to say, out patient chose as violet a way as possible to try to end her life, and so sent a powerful message as to her wishes. It didn’t dampen our efforts, but I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t on my mind.
We often hear suicide described as a selfish act. And this became obvious as I stood in that room and saw a husband, a brother, and a friend gather at her side, speaking words that fell on bloodied ears – who knew if she could hear? – the only response being the methodic beeping of the monitors and the eerily empty breathing of the ventilator. The police would pull them out one by one to question them – a final insult to the torture of the whole process. Who was suffering the most at that instant?
And what could have been so bad as to bring someone to that point? How do you get there? How is that even possible? How can you be that self-absorbed?
I started to write my explanation, but I erased it. Why even pretend that I really understand? Besides using the clichés of hopelessness and alienation, I would write only from speculation. And anger. I’m not suicidal and I never have been – I don’t have it in me, and for that I am grateful.
We see a lot of horrible things in surgery. But suicide, for me, is the worst. Nothing turns my stomach or puts me more on edge than an attempt at one’s own life. We are hard-wired to survive and preserve our life against all odds. There is nothing so unnatural as self-destruction. Maybe it’s because so much of what we fight is accidental, or by fate, or at least out our hands – suicide is just the opposite. It is intentional. Deliberate and purposeful, it is precise in its perverted meaning. It messes with my emotions more than I care to admit.
Ask anyone who’s worked in a hospital, and they’ll tell you that death has a certain look. She wasn’t dead when I walked out the door, but you see that it was coming. Just as she had wanted.
And that’s how my month ended.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Thursday, May 26, 2011
The Surgical Soul
Thoreau once said that talent writes with coffee, but genius writes with wine. Tonight, I write with gin.
What seems like a lifetime ago someone very special gave me a book entitled “Mortal Lessons.” It is written by a surgeon, Richard Selzer, and it’s less about surgery and more about his observations on life while being a surgeon. One of his more memorable essays is called “The exact location of the soul.” It raises probing questions about what makes us who we are.
Flash forward a few years and I’m now an aspiring trauma surgeon. One of the popular texts written by a giant in the field – Kenneth Mattox – has a chapter titled “The wounded surgical soul.” Mattox describes the “seat of the soul” as a “spherical area, not much larger than a silver dollar, centered on the head of the pancreas.” He calls injuries to this spherical areas soul wounds because “they are more lethal than any other type of abdominal trauma.”
The mortality of these wounds stems from the critical anatomy that is in this area. The portal vein, the superior mesenteric vessels, the pancreaticoduodenal arcade, the inferior vena cava, and the origin of the right kidney all converge here. Furthermore, accessing this area for the surgeon can be impossibly difficult under the chaotic circumstances likely present.
Last night a young man came into our trauma center having sustained a single gunshot to his surgical soul. We operated for hours, and nearly depleted the blood bank, but it wasn’t enough to save him. The multi-focal exsanguination was too much and he died with our hands inside him trying to stop the bleeding.
It’s interesting to think of a soul as something less abstract than we normally do, but rather to think of it as a space with defined borders. A space that, when violated, has predictable – and catastrophic – consequences.
Of course, the thing about our souls is that – unlike our bodies – they are eternal. Everything we do is not about building up our lives but more about building up our souls. Every action we do to one another, and everyway in which we react, and everything we preach in the process all serves to impact our souls.
It is nice to think that I can sometimes help individuals whose surgical souls are wounded. But it’s nicer still to believe that my own soul is being mended by someone far greater than I.
My glass is empty - more gin?
What seems like a lifetime ago someone very special gave me a book entitled “Mortal Lessons.” It is written by a surgeon, Richard Selzer, and it’s less about surgery and more about his observations on life while being a surgeon. One of his more memorable essays is called “The exact location of the soul.” It raises probing questions about what makes us who we are.
Flash forward a few years and I’m now an aspiring trauma surgeon. One of the popular texts written by a giant in the field – Kenneth Mattox – has a chapter titled “The wounded surgical soul.” Mattox describes the “seat of the soul” as a “spherical area, not much larger than a silver dollar, centered on the head of the pancreas.” He calls injuries to this spherical areas soul wounds because “they are more lethal than any other type of abdominal trauma.”
The mortality of these wounds stems from the critical anatomy that is in this area. The portal vein, the superior mesenteric vessels, the pancreaticoduodenal arcade, the inferior vena cava, and the origin of the right kidney all converge here. Furthermore, accessing this area for the surgeon can be impossibly difficult under the chaotic circumstances likely present.
Last night a young man came into our trauma center having sustained a single gunshot to his surgical soul. We operated for hours, and nearly depleted the blood bank, but it wasn’t enough to save him. The multi-focal exsanguination was too much and he died with our hands inside him trying to stop the bleeding.
It’s interesting to think of a soul as something less abstract than we normally do, but rather to think of it as a space with defined borders. A space that, when violated, has predictable – and catastrophic – consequences.
Of course, the thing about our souls is that – unlike our bodies – they are eternal. Everything we do is not about building up our lives but more about building up our souls. Every action we do to one another, and everyway in which we react, and everything we preach in the process all serves to impact our souls.
It is nice to think that I can sometimes help individuals whose surgical souls are wounded. But it’s nicer still to believe that my own soul is being mended by someone far greater than I.
My glass is empty - more gin?
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Robbed
One of the amazing things about being a physician is getting to know your patients. This, I suppose, is obvious, but nonetheless it is one of the things that medical students look forward to.
Spending so much of my time in the world of trauma and surgical critical care has altered that aspect of medicine for me. For one thing, most of our patients are so sick that they are not able to talk or even capable of forming a relationship. And for another thing…a lot of our patients are, well, quite honestly, not people that I would normally befriend. A lot of our patients are not exactly stand-up members of society. It doesn’t mean they don’t deserve the best in care – hence what I do, and the hours I serve – but it does give one pause. The majority of our patients are drunk drivers, addicts who had an accident, or victims of violent crimes who are almost never as innocent as they proclaim.
The other night a bunch of kids got drunk, held up a store, and pulled a gun on the clerk. Shots were exchanged, and one of the kids ended up taking a bullet in the eye. We spent all night – and the next several days – taking care of him. He’s minus one eye, but should do fine.
Driving home yesterday (always an interesting task after a 30 hour shift) a homeless man approached my car at a stoplight. He held a sign that simply read, “I don’t rob, I don’t steal, I’m just homeless and need money.” Hell, if he’d only start robbing he may risk an eye but he would at least end up off the streets for a few days. Would it be worth it? I didn’t have any cash on me. All I could think of was that if I were homeless, I bet I would steal. God forgive me, but I probably would.
I recently remembered the French root for the word “bereavement” is “to have been robbed.”
Speaking of forgiveness, today is supposed to be the end of the world. Do you ever wish it would be so? Do you ever find yourself wanting to have things so completely taken out of your hands? So much of trauma surgery is about eliminating the mayhem that surrounds critically ill patients. It’s exhausting. The rapture of God’s creation is one scenario that I wouldn’t be expected to try to control. It’s a refreshing thought.
Well, I fully expect to wake up tomorrow morning and go to work. I’m sure my one-eyed patient will be waiting for me.
Spending so much of my time in the world of trauma and surgical critical care has altered that aspect of medicine for me. For one thing, most of our patients are so sick that they are not able to talk or even capable of forming a relationship. And for another thing…a lot of our patients are, well, quite honestly, not people that I would normally befriend. A lot of our patients are not exactly stand-up members of society. It doesn’t mean they don’t deserve the best in care – hence what I do, and the hours I serve – but it does give one pause. The majority of our patients are drunk drivers, addicts who had an accident, or victims of violent crimes who are almost never as innocent as they proclaim.
The other night a bunch of kids got drunk, held up a store, and pulled a gun on the clerk. Shots were exchanged, and one of the kids ended up taking a bullet in the eye. We spent all night – and the next several days – taking care of him. He’s minus one eye, but should do fine.
Driving home yesterday (always an interesting task after a 30 hour shift) a homeless man approached my car at a stoplight. He held a sign that simply read, “I don’t rob, I don’t steal, I’m just homeless and need money.” Hell, if he’d only start robbing he may risk an eye but he would at least end up off the streets for a few days. Would it be worth it? I didn’t have any cash on me. All I could think of was that if I were homeless, I bet I would steal. God forgive me, but I probably would.
I recently remembered the French root for the word “bereavement” is “to have been robbed.”
Speaking of forgiveness, today is supposed to be the end of the world. Do you ever wish it would be so? Do you ever find yourself wanting to have things so completely taken out of your hands? So much of trauma surgery is about eliminating the mayhem that surrounds critically ill patients. It’s exhausting. The rapture of God’s creation is one scenario that I wouldn’t be expected to try to control. It’s a refreshing thought.
Well, I fully expect to wake up tomorrow morning and go to work. I’m sure my one-eyed patient will be waiting for me.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Wrong
I recently heard an interesting presentation by the journalist and author Kathryn Schulz. In short, the talk was about being wrong. The part of the talk that most stood out to me was an analogy using Roadrunner and Wile E. Coyote. It seemed that in every episode there was that scene when the roadrunner ran off a cliff and the poor coyote followed. The roadrunner simply started flying, but the coyote kept running. And it took a few moments for him to realize he had just run off a cliff. In other words, there was a brief second when he was thought he was still running and in fact he was about to fall.
The lesson, Schulz tells us, is that being wrong doesn’t necessarily feel like that anything. Or more specifically, it feels exactly like being right.
And that got me thinking. There are so many parts of my life that could potentially turn into Wile E. Coyote moments of disaster that it’s simply terrifying. The trauma bay, the operating room, personal relationships, my faith…Am I about to fall off a cliff without even realizing it? Who is going to get hurt most in that process?
We’ve all heard that beautiful sentiment of the wings of faith: that when we come to the edge of all that we know, we must believe that we will either be given hard rock to stand on or wings to fly. Lovely – but it never seemed to happen to the coyote. How does that fit in?
Schulz argues that being wrong is fundamental to being human – it’s what makes us who we, as a species, are. She mentions that Saint Augustine – nearly a thousand years before Descartes wrote “I think therefore I am” – proclaimed “I err, therefore I am.”
I guess it’s comforting to realize that we live in a world full of mistakes, many of them our own. I don’t think it means that we have to accept them, but it does mean that, one way or another, we will encounter them. Lots of them.
I just went for a walk. It’s a lovely evening, so I figured I might as well enjoy it. I walked up long flight of steps leading to art museum and turned to gaze at the city skyline. I stared at those buildings and those lights, and as I did a warm breeze touched my face. How many mistakes, I wondered, had I made up until now and never realized it? What can I do to start realizing it before it’s too late?
The lesson, Schulz tells us, is that being wrong doesn’t necessarily feel like that anything. Or more specifically, it feels exactly like being right.
And that got me thinking. There are so many parts of my life that could potentially turn into Wile E. Coyote moments of disaster that it’s simply terrifying. The trauma bay, the operating room, personal relationships, my faith…Am I about to fall off a cliff without even realizing it? Who is going to get hurt most in that process?
We’ve all heard that beautiful sentiment of the wings of faith: that when we come to the edge of all that we know, we must believe that we will either be given hard rock to stand on or wings to fly. Lovely – but it never seemed to happen to the coyote. How does that fit in?
Schulz argues that being wrong is fundamental to being human – it’s what makes us who we, as a species, are. She mentions that Saint Augustine – nearly a thousand years before Descartes wrote “I think therefore I am” – proclaimed “I err, therefore I am.”
I guess it’s comforting to realize that we live in a world full of mistakes, many of them our own. I don’t think it means that we have to accept them, but it does mean that, one way or another, we will encounter them. Lots of them.
I just went for a walk. It’s a lovely evening, so I figured I might as well enjoy it. I walked up long flight of steps leading to art museum and turned to gaze at the city skyline. I stared at those buildings and those lights, and as I did a warm breeze touched my face. How many mistakes, I wondered, had I made up until now and never realized it? What can I do to start realizing it before it’s too late?
Friday, May 6, 2011
Souls at All
Sometimes I just have to wonder.
Consider my two most recent patients. The first is a young woman, barely twenty. The father of her child found out that she had moved on to another boy, and so he quietly followed her one night. When he saw them coming out of his house, he ran over her with his car. He crushed her spleen, caused massive internal bleeding, and broke her neck. More specifically, he caused an atlantoaxial dissociation, which is a fracture at the very top of the spinal column. It’s what we call “functional decapitation” because, while the head is still attached, it has been severed from the rest of the body. These patients don’t do well.
Another young woman – this one just over twenty – got into a fight with her boyfriend. He simply pulled a gun and shot her in the neck. The bullet managed to blow apart her esophagus and trachea on its way to implanting in her back muscles. The five-hour surgery is an indication of how long her path to recovery will be.
And when I hear stories of my friend’s ensuing custody battle, I hurt – and get sick – on a totally different level. Anger, betrayal, deceit, manipulation…words whose meanings are so painful that even typing them unnerves me.
These days, I find myself spending much less time wondering about the eternal destination of our souls, and more time asking if we have souls at all.
The world changes when you start actually entering the idea that we are soul-less, purposeful-less, utterly useless creatures here for our own devices and desires. This world sucks. I hate it. I hate living in a place full of soulless creatures.
One of my favorite places in Philadelphia is the garden outside the Rodin museum. At the entrance to the museum stands his impressive masterpiece “The Gates of Hell.” Standing over twenty feet high, it depicts humankind’s ultimate condemnation. It’s inspired, in part, by Dante’s description of the gates of hell in his Divine Comedy, with the famous inscription “Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.”
But I know I have a soul. If not, then what am I feeling, and why is it so powerful? I’ve seen in so many others, and I know (think?) I’ve felt it in my own self. I don’t think it’s just my wishful thinking. As Annie Dillard writes in her essay An Expedition to the Pole, “What are the chances that God finds our failed impersonation of human dignity adorable? Or is he fooled? What odds do you give me?”
And maybe that’s just it. Maybe we do have souls, we’re just really, really bad at knowing how to use them. And as depressing as it may be to realize we’re not quite as good as life as we may think, at least – at least – we have hope.
And that is good enough for me for now.
Consider my two most recent patients. The first is a young woman, barely twenty. The father of her child found out that she had moved on to another boy, and so he quietly followed her one night. When he saw them coming out of his house, he ran over her with his car. He crushed her spleen, caused massive internal bleeding, and broke her neck. More specifically, he caused an atlantoaxial dissociation, which is a fracture at the very top of the spinal column. It’s what we call “functional decapitation” because, while the head is still attached, it has been severed from the rest of the body. These patients don’t do well.
Another young woman – this one just over twenty – got into a fight with her boyfriend. He simply pulled a gun and shot her in the neck. The bullet managed to blow apart her esophagus and trachea on its way to implanting in her back muscles. The five-hour surgery is an indication of how long her path to recovery will be.
And when I hear stories of my friend’s ensuing custody battle, I hurt – and get sick – on a totally different level. Anger, betrayal, deceit, manipulation…words whose meanings are so painful that even typing them unnerves me.
These days, I find myself spending much less time wondering about the eternal destination of our souls, and more time asking if we have souls at all.
The world changes when you start actually entering the idea that we are soul-less, purposeful-less, utterly useless creatures here for our own devices and desires. This world sucks. I hate it. I hate living in a place full of soulless creatures.
One of my favorite places in Philadelphia is the garden outside the Rodin museum. At the entrance to the museum stands his impressive masterpiece “The Gates of Hell.” Standing over twenty feet high, it depicts humankind’s ultimate condemnation. It’s inspired, in part, by Dante’s description of the gates of hell in his Divine Comedy, with the famous inscription “Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.”
But I know I have a soul. If not, then what am I feeling, and why is it so powerful? I’ve seen in so many others, and I know (think?) I’ve felt it in my own self. I don’t think it’s just my wishful thinking. As Annie Dillard writes in her essay An Expedition to the Pole, “What are the chances that God finds our failed impersonation of human dignity adorable? Or is he fooled? What odds do you give me?”
And maybe that’s just it. Maybe we do have souls, we’re just really, really bad at knowing how to use them. And as depressing as it may be to realize we’re not quite as good as life as we may think, at least – at least – we have hope.
And that is good enough for me for now.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Let it Rain
It’s raining today. A dark, heavy, steady rain – the kind that almost makes a wall. I was standing at a window in the hospital just now, and looking up it was like I was standing at the base of a great wall, one that extended from the hospital tower to the heavens. Only it was a wall of water, or rather, a wall of tears. Looking out, it was like I was staring at a wall of tears.
On Palm Sunday we sang one of my favorite hymns, “A Stable Lamp is Lighted.” It’s one of my favorites for so many reasons…I first heard it at the Christmas Eve service in my parish church when I was in third grade. I had a small solo that year, and I was incredibly excited. And I sang it well, to be honest. But later in the service – and unbeknownst to me – a slightly older girl sang “A Stable Lamp is Lighted.” She knocked it out of the park; it my have been the first time I experienced the raw power of music.
All these years later, in a different parish church, we sing this hymn on Christmas Eve and then again during the Easter season. Again I re-experience the raw power of it all, as I am forced to connect Christmas and Easter in a way that we are seldom asked to do. And even as I fight back my own tears, I sing:
And every stone shall cry
For thorny hearts of men
God’s blood upon the spearhead
God’s love refused again
And every stone shall cry! I see another wall of tears – a transparent wall between me and Christ crucified. A wall of water, but not one that is falling but rather one that is rising up, out from the crying stones on the ground.
On Palm Sunday we heard a sermon from an old friend of mine who loves to start things off with a story. This time around he recounted a Civil War tale. On a bloody battlefield in Georgia, a young Confederate soldier refused to kill. Amidst a torrent of bullets and knives and all manner of chaos, he stood there firing his gun skyward, unloading every last round into the heavens, refusing to shoot another man. He was exposed, defenseless, totally vulnerable…willing to take whatever came his way while refusing to do the one thing – killing – that might actually preserve his own life. And even now I see yet another wall – a rainy wall of bullets falling around that brave soldier. I picture him almost dancing as he empties his rounds – dancing to that haunting tune “A Stable Lamp is Lighted.” And every stone shall cry! The rain of bullets nearly forms a halo around him.
Sometimes I feel like that soldier – or maybe I just want to. With chaos and death and injury and hurt and sadness all around me, what choice do I have but to feel like I am simply firing my gun skyward and accepting whatever blows come my way? Or rather, what choice do I have but to fire my gun skyward?
There is something empowering, however, to think of myself as firing a gun into the air, and to say to the world that I can take the consequences. I’ll only go so far – I won’t kill – and I’ll take whatever comes from that. It’s very close to feeling totally defeated, but it is very different.
The rain has stopped, and the sun now shines. The buds of spring are all around – newness is thrust upon us.
On Palm Sunday we sang one of my favorite hymns, “A Stable Lamp is Lighted.” It’s one of my favorites for so many reasons…I first heard it at the Christmas Eve service in my parish church when I was in third grade. I had a small solo that year, and I was incredibly excited. And I sang it well, to be honest. But later in the service – and unbeknownst to me – a slightly older girl sang “A Stable Lamp is Lighted.” She knocked it out of the park; it my have been the first time I experienced the raw power of music.
All these years later, in a different parish church, we sing this hymn on Christmas Eve and then again during the Easter season. Again I re-experience the raw power of it all, as I am forced to connect Christmas and Easter in a way that we are seldom asked to do. And even as I fight back my own tears, I sing:
And every stone shall cry
For thorny hearts of men
God’s blood upon the spearhead
God’s love refused again
And every stone shall cry! I see another wall of tears – a transparent wall between me and Christ crucified. A wall of water, but not one that is falling but rather one that is rising up, out from the crying stones on the ground.
On Palm Sunday we heard a sermon from an old friend of mine who loves to start things off with a story. This time around he recounted a Civil War tale. On a bloody battlefield in Georgia, a young Confederate soldier refused to kill. Amidst a torrent of bullets and knives and all manner of chaos, he stood there firing his gun skyward, unloading every last round into the heavens, refusing to shoot another man. He was exposed, defenseless, totally vulnerable…willing to take whatever came his way while refusing to do the one thing – killing – that might actually preserve his own life. And even now I see yet another wall – a rainy wall of bullets falling around that brave soldier. I picture him almost dancing as he empties his rounds – dancing to that haunting tune “A Stable Lamp is Lighted.” And every stone shall cry! The rain of bullets nearly forms a halo around him.
Sometimes I feel like that soldier – or maybe I just want to. With chaos and death and injury and hurt and sadness all around me, what choice do I have but to feel like I am simply firing my gun skyward and accepting whatever blows come my way? Or rather, what choice do I have but to fire my gun skyward?
There is something empowering, however, to think of myself as firing a gun into the air, and to say to the world that I can take the consequences. I’ll only go so far – I won’t kill – and I’ll take whatever comes from that. It’s very close to feeling totally defeated, but it is very different.
The rain has stopped, and the sun now shines. The buds of spring are all around – newness is thrust upon us.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Alleluia! He is Risen!
Working on major holidays always makes for an interesting night. I’ve only actually ever worked on one Christmas Eve – and I’ll never forget it – but yesterday evening/this morning was the first Easter I had ever worked. I kept my fingers crossed.
Of course, on this day of new life and rebirth, the horrible tragedies just kept rolling in. A horrific set of injuries in a car accident; a husband whose wife had stabbed him in the neck and whom we have to take the OR; a young man shot through his car windshield into his arms, face, and back; a young women found floating in a creek near her wrecked car.
My God, my God – why have you forsaken us?
I forced myself to get a bite to eat before leaving this morning. The cafeteria was basically empty, and the options were slim. But I settled for a yogurt, juice, and a corn muffin.
It’s hard not to think of family on Easter Sunday, and as I ate that silly muffin my thoughts drifted to my grandfather. He attested that the Revolutionary War was won, in no small part, because of corn. Fresh, New Jersey corn on the cob, to be exact. According to him, the bloody Lobster Backs were so entranced by the fresh corn that they couldn’t help but to just keep eating it – and all the while with the Yankees shooting away, winning the war, one ear at a time!
And while telling that story always makes me smile, it somehow saddened me to tell it only to myself, with no one else around to hear. Still fresh in the wake of the destruction that was the night before, I felt lonely, even further from the message of Easter.
My prayer this Easter – for me and for you – is to feel the warmth of the love of the risen Christ. He is with us in the car accidents; he is with us during the shootings and the stabbings, no matter which side of things we find ourselves on. And he is with us during somber moments of reflection. May we never feel alone – because we are not.
Happy Easter!
Of course, on this day of new life and rebirth, the horrible tragedies just kept rolling in. A horrific set of injuries in a car accident; a husband whose wife had stabbed him in the neck and whom we have to take the OR; a young man shot through his car windshield into his arms, face, and back; a young women found floating in a creek near her wrecked car.
My God, my God – why have you forsaken us?
I forced myself to get a bite to eat before leaving this morning. The cafeteria was basically empty, and the options were slim. But I settled for a yogurt, juice, and a corn muffin.
It’s hard not to think of family on Easter Sunday, and as I ate that silly muffin my thoughts drifted to my grandfather. He attested that the Revolutionary War was won, in no small part, because of corn. Fresh, New Jersey corn on the cob, to be exact. According to him, the bloody Lobster Backs were so entranced by the fresh corn that they couldn’t help but to just keep eating it – and all the while with the Yankees shooting away, winning the war, one ear at a time!
And while telling that story always makes me smile, it somehow saddened me to tell it only to myself, with no one else around to hear. Still fresh in the wake of the destruction that was the night before, I felt lonely, even further from the message of Easter.
My prayer this Easter – for me and for you – is to feel the warmth of the love of the risen Christ. He is with us in the car accidents; he is with us during the shootings and the stabbings, no matter which side of things we find ourselves on. And he is with us during somber moments of reflection. May we never feel alone – because we are not.
Happy Easter!
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