Rest and Heal, Rest and Heal

That seems to be my mantra right now… rest and heal, rest and heal. All the signs are good. My last blood test showed everything within normal range, my red blood cells are going great… don’t change a thing you are doing the nurse says. As far as feeling better? That gets pushed further away. A week after treatments are completed (next Tuesday) you should start feeling improvement, I am told. Patience. So I rest and heal, rest and heal.

Yesterday we bought a boxed DVD set of old Peter Falk Columbo TV programs… the first series. They are wonderful psychological brain twisters and Columbo always gets the culprit, no matter how clever they are. Good watching. And I never watched the Anne of Green Gables (Prince Edward Island) series, so that is a good change of pace. And no matter that I am now here in the USA receiving excellent healthcare, Canada is always where I have most felt free.

Thank you all for your e-mails, comments, caring and support. It helps, especially now when I just want to feel like a human being again. Rest and heal. Rest and heal. Patience.

... PLM

Listening to the Silence

I cannot say that all thoughts that come to me now are entirely rational. I read, do online crossword puzzles, e-mail… just to keep my brain active. But there is another part of the brain that is working too, sending me images and mysterious messages. Over a year ago, I saw images of death in the form of black birds falling dead from the sky. And a dark specter beat and flung itself at my closed door. At the time, I saw no danger to myself… only a foreboding about what was happening to the natural world.

We went to the woods to learn, to be taught by the wild and all who live there. If you sit quietly and listen, you will gain wisdom; the wisdom to see all that is and can be. But of all the special places in my heart, it is the time I spent on Middle Rendezous Island, overlooking Calm Channel, that come closest to that absolute acceptance of me in what I consider the “real world.” I have written of these hermitages before, in pieces called “Silent Ground.” It takes on more meaning now. The last image I had was of a young mother who had just lost her baby girl. She wanted me to use “Silent Ground” as a memorial for her daughter. I will.

Make of this what you will. But I feel I must write about my connection to the natural world for those future generations who will never have the opportunity to experience it as I have, standing in the middle of a salmon bed, watching a wild wolf cross the meadow, listening to the pure calls of a varied thrush at either end of the day, hearing the soft breath of the tide as it washes into and out of Dearheart Cove.

…PLM

SPRING

No winter lasts forever; no spring skips its turn. ~Hal Borland

If we had no winter, the spring would not be so pleasant; if we did not sometimes taste of adversity, prosperity would not be so welcome. ~Anne Bradstreet

Spring has returned. The Earth is like a child that knows poems. ~Rainer Maria Rilke

If I had my life to live over, I would start barefoot earlier in the spring and stay that way later in the fall. ~Nadine Stair

... PLM

No Yam Enchiladas on St. Patrick's Day

The good news is that I am doing better than I feel. The bad news is that I feel wiped out, and that probably will not improve for about two weeks. But what can you say about a doctor that prescribes going to the Boundary Bay Brewery for lunch and ordering a yam enchilada? This is a doctor who knows there is more to surviving cancer than prescribing radiation treatments or chemotherapy. There is that fragile component called the will to live. The suggestion to have lunch may seem like a small thing. I assure you that it was not. I am at a very low point in my energy reserves. Everything takes such great effort. Today I needed more than my radiation treatment and I got it.

My doctor watched as I entered the Cancer Center, noticed how much slower I walked than last week; but he also noted that I was looking at birds building a nest in the porch rafters. “Obviously, there are still some things that call to your attention.” Yes, and two squirrels running across the parking lot. Something bright to break up a day that looked so dreary. That he could know that that was important… was important to me. I am grateful to have found this positive and enthusiastic doctor. It is that little extra that I need right now… plus a prescription for yam enchiladas with lots of sauce. But they will have to wait for later. We arrived at Boundary Bay Brewery on St. Patrick’s Day with a special St. Patrick Day’ menu, which didn’t include enchiladas. I wonder why?

... PLM

Courage and Compassion

Yesterday when I looked at the online Bellingham Herald, I found two items of immediate interest. One, the story of a 56-year old school librarian who is dealing with bone cancer, and the other is a story about a group of women called the Threshold Choir . I think you will find both interesting and inspiring.

Today I reach the half-way point (five of ten) with my brain radiation. It will be the fourth round for the lung tumor with ten yet to go. Another pebble goes into the countdown bowl.

PLM

The Waiting Room

There were sounds of laughter coming from the hallway. Someone holding a little girl’s hand, “How big you have grown.” Activity. Talk of a wedding. Meanwhile I could hear the sound of wheezing coming from the man who sat across from me in the patient’s lobby. Probably in his sixties, he wore plaid pants and a baseball cap squarely on his head. He seemed agitated, anxious, and I wanted to say something but there was no eye contact. Occasionally he looked to the jigsaw puzzle on the table next to him, touched a piece or two. He coughed, clearing his throat. I wondered if he had lung cancer like me, sitting in a room waiting to lie on a table for magical zaps that come out of a machine with the hope that we can stay alive a little longer. It’s not easy to let go. We cling to life with all the tenacity of a pit bull, while life really continues down the hallway, with laughter and little girls growing bigger.

... PLM

Counting Down

In the patient’s lobby there is a brass bowl filled with glass pebbles and beach glass, mostly in shades of green and blue. There are small empty drawstring bags arranged around the bowl and a sign inviting the patient to take a bag, fill it with the number of pebbles that equal their radiation treatments. Each time they come for a treatment, they take out a pebble and return it to the bowl. This way you can see the progress you are making and a successful completion is in sight. I choose a bag and place thirteen pebbles inside.

My treatments are concurrent. Approximately ten minutes for the brain, ten minutes for the lung each day, five days a week for three weeks. Two down, thirteen to go. I was told yesterday that not everyone sees the blue flashes. Aren’t I lucky?

... PLM

Serf Liberation Day

Over twenty years ago I stood on the roof of the Jokhang Temple in Lhasa, speaking privately with a young Buddhist monk. At the time, few foreigners were being allowed into Tibet, and the Chinese routinely suppressed all information concerning their activities in Tibet. In the monk’s own words, “Many monks leave Tibet now because it is not so good for us here.” He spoke sadly of the October 1987 demonstrations, where Chinese soldiers had arrested a classmate of his along with other monks as they took refuge in the Jokhang Temple, locking them selves in. The Chinese forced their way in, breaking the locked doors and dragged the monks away. No one knew where they had been taken or if they were still alive. These events happened frequently, including a demonstration during the time I was there on May 17, 1988. A small group of Buddhist nuns and monks were protesting the arrests and secret imprisonment of other monks, holding signs, “Free Tibet,” and walking around the Barkhor with the pilgrims. Soldiers appeared and began pushing the nuns and hitting them with the butt of their rifles. When this happened bystanders tried to come to the aid of the nuns by throwing stones at the soldiers who then began firing rubber bullets, injuring two monks. They also fired a tear gas grenade. They took the nuns and monks away and arrested any foreign visitors with cameras, confiscating their film.

When we left Tibet, we carried a secret communiqué with us to send to Dharmasala from Katmandu. It was a report on the unrest in the Kham region of eastern Tibet and the recent arrests of eighty people… continued unrest and discontent in Lhasa… the May 17 demonstration, which resulted in twelve arrests, one man shot dead, and two in the hospital. There was great concern over the “Restoration Team” being sent from Bejing to restore the Potala. They think they are really archeologists who are poking holes in the walls of the unrestored rooms, trying to find treasures or documents secreted away in the walls. The letter concluded, “Do something about this.”

Fifty years ago the Dalai Lama fled into exile in India as Chinese troops attacked. The anniversary of that event has the caused the Chinese authorities “to impose an unofficial state of martial law on the vast highlands where ethnic Tibetans live, with thousands of troops occupying areas they fear could erupt in renewed rioting on a momentous anniversary next week. And Beijing is determined to keep foreigners from seeing the mass deployment.” Meanwhile Chinese authorities have proclaimed a new holiday, SERF LIBERATION DAY for March 28. “Communist Party mouthpiece the People's Daily carried an editorial on Tuesday extolling Tibet's development in the last 50 years and slamming what it called the misery of the old feudal society, in which people fought dogs for food and illiteracy was widespread. Nobody hopes to go backwards in history, and only a few slave owners dwell on the life that once was. Tibet's happiness today is the happiness of the people, not that of the slave owners.”

The truth is far different. As the Dalai Lama said on Tuesday, "Today, the religion, culture, language and identity, which successive generations of Tibetans have considered more precious than their lives, are nearing extinction. In short, the Tibetan people are regarded like criminals deserving to be put to death." This is a tragedy that should never have been allowed to happen.

The people of Tibet deserve to be free. Will you stand by and allow the sun to set on these people?

... Text and Photos by P. L. Morningstar

Blue Flashes

“Breath normally, hold as still as you can, and try to relax.” Try doing this lying on a hard table with a plastic support bar under your knees, holding a cloth “dog bone” in your hands… and with a closely molded mesh face mask fastened down to keep your head immobilized and all the targeted spots carefully marked with a magic marker. “We have audio and video going, so if you have any difficulty after we leave the room, just wave your hands around and we’ll see you.” It’s not really as bad as it sounds. A warmed blanket covered me, and a towel was folded under my lumbar area for my comfort. My eyes were closed and when the technicians left the room to do their thing, I was alone in an unfamiliar world of bright blue flashes, and accompanying sounds of the Tomography device. In the background I could hear an AM/FM radio playing. I started counting the blue flashes… two to the left, three to the right, larger and longer one forward. Then I realized these were the targeted zaps to each of my ten brain tumors. “Good to go.” Someone comes into the room, adds a few more marks to the mask, readjustments. Leaves. Then “Set Two.” Or something like that. Another blue flash. The next thing I know, the mask is being removed, I’m putting on my jacket, and the little wool Nepalese cap that everybody seems to like. “See you tomorrow,” I am told. It was only twenty minutes and I relaxed by paying attention to the details.

Today will begin the back-to-back brain and lung radiation treatments. The bottom line here is that they can get the brain mets, but the lung tumor is still growing. We have gone through the first line and second line chemos, and while they worked for a while to prevent growth from occurring, they have ceased to be affective. Now we’re getting down to the Hail Mary Pass approach. The radiation will not cure my lung cancer. It will only knock it back enough to give me more time to try third line treatments or clinical trials. It is palliative; to alleviate symptoms so that what time I have left will be comfortable. I hesitate to use the term “quality of life,” because that can mean different things to different people. Especially to me.

... P. L. Morningstar

Every cloud has a silver lining

People sometimes say that every cloud has a silver lining to comfort somebody who's having problems. They mean that it is always possible to get something positive out of a situation, no matter how unpleasant, difficult or even painful it might seem. (UsingEnglish.Com)

Yesterday I met with the people I will be seeing almost daily over the next three weeks. A mask was made to fit over my face for exact positioning during the brain radiotherapy. Today will be my first outpatient treatment and will take approximately twenty minutes. But the real news is that there is a new plan of treatment for me. Kind of like the “Big Bang.” My medical oncologist and radiation oncologist spent almost two hours Monday night going over the status of my disease and discussing what the best line of approach would be at this time. Stop the chemo, both infusion and oral – they’re not being affective. Go for the lung tumor with radiation. The cancer is contained in the lung and the brain… so that is where the plan of attack will be. Go get it! Ten treatments for the brain, and fourteen for the lung. Radiating near the esophagus is the short-term sensitive area and it will most likely be very painful to swallow for a few weeks. But given that I have had no weight loss over these months of cancer treatment, I am in good shape there. I complain that I weigh more than I want to, and they tell me that it is to my advantage, and a good sign of my overall health.

So I see all of this as a silver lining. My best chance. The doctors are realistically optimistic and so am I. It is ironic though, that just when I got my new Port implanted, my infusions are discontinued.

... P. L. Morningstar

The Options

If you do nothing, you have one month. If you only take steroids to reduce the brain swelling and inflammation, you have two months. If you undergo whole brain radiation treatment, you have six months to a year, or longer, depending upon the status of the lung tumor. Straight to the point. I like that. It puts it all into perspective.

Only that morning I had written this: “There is an added urgency to my days. That book unread on my bookshelf needs to be opened. It isn’t something I can read “someday.” The stories I wanted to write need to be written now, the photos organized and labeled, last reflections made. I may yet become one of the 1 to 2% who survives Stage IV lung cancer, but at the moment it does not look promising. My worry is that I may continue to live, but without the capacity to do the things that make my life worth living. What if I cannot write a poem, capture beauty in a photograph, become lost in reflective thought, have a stimulating conversation with Bob, or complete a crossword puzzle? My worry is that I will lose myself before the cancer takes me. That is what brain metastasis and its treatment can do, and it scares me.”

If you do nothing, you have one month. If you only take steroids to reduce the brain swelling and inflammation, you have two months. If you undergo whole brain radiation treatment, you have six months to a year, or longer, depending upon the status of the lung tumor.

There will be short-term memory loss. I write at night… in my head… will it still be there in the morning? It is 5 am. I cannot sleep. So I am writing this all down now. The creative process happens in the here and now, in the moment, spontaneous, inspired, serendipitous. Can that happen with short-term memory impairement? My eyesight might be affected, either through increased cataract formation or blindness. (At least the cataracts can be surgically removed.) Art, photography, travel, seeing the world through the lens of a camera or my own eyes opened wide in a sense of wonderment. Will I lose that too?

If you do nothing, you have one month. If you only take steroids to reduce the brain swelling and inflammation, you have two months. If you undergo whole brain radiation treatment, you have six months to a year or longer. Is there a choice?

The amazing thing to me is that given the bad news about finding ten brain mets, and the dire prognosis if treatment isn’t begun immediately, I left the Cancer Center feeling hopeful. The radiation oncologist gave that to me. It felt like he was on my side, my advocate, and that I could trust his choice of treatment for me. Knowledge and information gathering is essential when dealing with a disease like this, and we have done that, but sometimes it just comes down to trusting gut instincts. But it’s not always easy to know if extending life is worth the risk of losing self. My hope is that I can have both.

... P. L. Morningstar

Follow-Up

Today we met with the radiation oncologist. He gave us more detail on Morningstar's condition and outlined a treatment plan. We were able to ask a variety of questions and had what seemed like a very good and straightforward discussion of alternatives and likely outcomes. On reviewing the MRI it turns out that Morningstar has at least ten metastatic tumors and is not really eligible for either of the stereotactic radiosurgical techniques currently in use. He suggested instead that she get a variation of whole brain radiotherapy. Of the possible alternatives available, this appeared to be the best. It is also possible that treatment with the Gamma Knife can then be used on any recalcitrant tumors in follow-up. Tomorrow she goes back for a simulated run and measurements. She will start treatment on Wednesday.

We went to this meeting feeling apprehensive. We left the meeting feeling hopeful and confident in his plan and in the genuiness of his concern. There are very real risks and there are definite concerns about the likely side effects of the whole brain radiation approach, but given the alternatives we are going to take those risks and learn to deal with the side effects.

... Bob Weimer

Yesterday's News

Yesterday afternoon Morningstar had a CT scan of her lung and an MRI brain scan. Barely a half-hour away from the Imaging Center, we received a phone call from her oncologist. He told us that brain metastases had been identified on the MRI. He had already called in a prescription for a steroid that would help reduce the brain swelling (we think is causing Morningstar’s dizziness and loss of balance), and wanted us to make an appointment with a radiation oncologist. Before we had a chance to do that, Mary, who works at the Cancer Center, called to say that she had made an appointment for Morningstar to see a radiation oncologist for consultation on Monday. Tuesday Morningstar will have measurements taken for radiation treatments. Suddenly it feels like we have a team, with everyone working to get the best treatment in place as quickly as possible. Morningstar has already started the steroid medication, and we are looking forward to Monday and the next steps.

A small note of good news: The initial report on the lung tumor is that it appears to be stable… no new growth.

... Bob Weimer

We live because you remember

My Uncle Roy died last week. A World War II veteran, he was eighty-eight years old. He and my Aunt June, who is still living, were married for sixty-six years. Aunt June was the youngest of eleven children born to my Morningstar grandparents, and is now the last living relative of my father’s generation. She is the only one left who can tell me about my father who died when I was four years old, and the Morningstar grandmother I never knew. Two years ago I received a letter from my aunt. We were living in a log cabin in northern British Columbia at the time, and our experiences reminded her of her own mother’s (my Grandmother’s) life on their homestead in the Coast Range foothills outside of Drain, Oregon. Aunt June wrote:

“What a hard life your Grandmother Morningstar must have had, having eleven kids… no water but for a spring above the house, no electricity. Can you think about washing for eleven kids? She had to cook on the wood stove, and one thing she taught all of her kids was to be great cooks. Your Dad was so good at making baking powder biscuits that he told us kids to stay away from the oven door because they were so light they would be flying out of the oven!” There was an old log cabin on my Grandmother’s place. Aunt June remembers she and my Dad going there in the spring time “when the lady slippers and water lilies were in bloom; we could find lots of them. When I was in school we used to see how many kinds of flowers we could find and name. When we were down in the woods at the cabin, the owls would hoot and scare me. Also bobcats, cougars, and sometimes a bear.”

Aunt June’s memories give me something to hang onto. They make a living, breathing person of my grandmother and father, rather than the solemn faces that peer at me from sepia toned photos in the family album… my father is baking biscuits, my grandmother is washing clothes, my Aunt June is scared when the owls hoot and a bobcat is near. We live on in the fragmented memories of others. And when we cease to be a memory, we cease to exist. So tell your stories to your children and grandchildren. Pass your memories on.

Charles and Jennie Morningstar with eight of eleven children.
My father is in front row, extreme right. Aunt June had not been born yet.

My father (top center) and his students at Dearhorn School, Oregon, 1936

... PLM

She Speaks In Whispers

“It is only when we silent the blaring sounds of our daily existence that we can finally hear the whispers. ….K. T. Jong

It is fortunate that I can write, because at least for now that is my voice. Last week I became hoarse, and now I speak with a whisper. Other things have been happening too. My blood pressure has been inching up over the past few months, and now requires high blood pressure medication. A bladder infection popped up this week… more pills to take. A note from the pulmonologist to my oncologist has prompted the scheduling of a CT Scan to check the status of the tumor with regard to possible radiation treatment. A brain scan is also scheduled because of dizziness and loss of balance that I have been experiencing of late. Friday is the big day for both the CT and MRI. The good news is they won’t have to poke around looking for a good vein. The port that was implanted in my upper chest last month is working well, making infusions, blood draws, and procedures like CT Scans easier on everyone. Meanwhile, don’t call me. I’m afraid it would only result in a one-sided conversation. Although I guess my breathy whisper could be considered sexy. Nah. Forget that! Just write. ... PLM

“What I like in a good author isn’t what he says, but what he whispers.”

… Logan Pearsall Smith (American Writer, 1865-1946)

What am I doing here?

This morning I combed through the box of travel journals and finally found the very first one lying at the bottom of the box. When I found it I was disappointed. Shouldn’t the heart of Africa deserve more than little half-page entries for each day? Victoria Falls, the Zambezi River, Livingstone, wild elephants, lions, giraffes, and zebras? My handwriting is large, so here are these cramped little notations that say so little about a trip that started it all. There are my photographs, thank goodness, and I can still remember that wonderful, scary feeling that comes from doing something out of the ordinary realm of day-to-day living. The first words for the April 26, 1982 entry were, “What am I doing here?”

I had accompanied my former husband to South Africa where he had business. From there I flew to Zimbabwe (formerly Southern Rhodesia), traveling on my own for the first time in my life. A small town girl from Oregon. The fact that the road from the airport carried mostly military vehicles, and an armored tank with soldiers kept a roadside surveillance, might have had something to do with my wonderment at what I was doing there. I also experienced what it was like to be a minority, a white woman in a sea of black male faces. “I feel very uncomfortable and strange,” I wrote. What I thought was, this must be what it is like to be a black person in Oregon (in the 1980’s).

An older British couple had flown in on the same plane as I had. They too had ridden the bus from the airport to the Victoria Falls Hotel, a grand old Edwardian hotel built in 1904. When I entered the hotel dining room that first evening, they saw me and invited me to join them. They were independent travelers, as many older British people are, exploring what was once the far-reaching British Empire. Their names were Elsie and Victor Cherry from Manchester, England. We joined forces for the next few days, holding umbrellas over our heads as we walked in the mist of Victoria Falls, enjoying a Zambezi River Sunset Cruise, and crossing the bridge over the Zambezi River into Zambia. Elsie was a little scattered - absentmindedly leaving a bag of money at the border crossing in Zambia - and Victor stoically soldiered on. They were a delight and we exchanged Christmas cards for the next few years. When I went on to the Safari Lodge at Wankie National Park, the Cherry’s flew to the archeological ruins of the Great Zimbabwe.

My journal does little more than mention the mist-soaked paths, lush vegetation, and wet hair plastered to my head as I hiked beneath the roaring Victoria Falls… also called “The Smoke That Thunders.” I saw elephants and zebras, giraffes and gazelles, but all I wrote was, “Up at 5 am and out in the Range Rover by 6:15. Highlight was seeing male and female lions come to a drinking hole.” How boring is that for detail? Thank goodness my later adventures grew beyond a half page description.

... P. L. Morningstar (Photos by Morningstar)

Climbing Mountains

Mt. Everest, Chomolungma - Goddess Mother of the World, 1988
(Photo by P. L. Morningstar)

The thing about truly remarkable people is that they make no effort to impress you. That was the case in 1988 when I met Mo Anthoine at the British Expedition dining tent on Mount Everest. It is said that Mo Anthoine was probably one of the most well known British climbers to the climbing fraternity, and yet a complete unknown to the general public. I had never heard of him before my trip to Tibet. What I remember about him now is that his head was partially shaven. Three months earlier he had undergone brain surgery to remove a tumor. Now here he was at the 17,000-foot base camp, preparing for an ascent of Everest’s north ridge. When a friend was asked how advisable it was for someone who had just had brain surgery to be attempting to climb at these altitudes, he replied, “Better to die on a mountain doing something he loves than rot in a hospital bed.”

Base Camp at Rongbuk Glacier, Mt. Everest, 1988
(photo by P. L. Morningstar)

Mo Anthoine was the same age as myself. He was full of life and humor as we shared a dinner of soup and momos. He entertained us with stories about other climbers, yet never mentioned his role in saving the lives of Chris Bonington and Doug Scott on the Ogre (Pakistan) in 1977. Teamwork was more important to him than reaching a summit, and he never lost a team member. “No peak is worth a mate,” he would say. The 1988 Everest climb was his last. He died of cancer the following year at the age of fifty, planning yet another assault on the North Face.

Mo’s biography, written by his good friend and fellow climber A. Alvarez, was published that same year. It is called Feeding the Rat, an expression Mo used when trying to describe his obsession with climbing mountains. “Feeding the Rat is the story of an extraordinary man: climbing legend Mo Anthoine, who found his greatest joy in adventures that tested the limits of human endurance. That passion for "feeding the rat" made him the unsung hero of dozens of horrifying epics in the mountains, including the famous Ogre expedition that almost killed Doug Scott and Sir Chris Bonington. The book is also the story of the extraordinary friendship between Mo Anthoine and A. Alvarez — the distinguished poet, journalist, and critic — whose deeply moving portrait of his longtime climbing partner is a classic of adventure literature.” (Amazon.com)

Morningstar in Tibet, 1988

Sometimes climbing to a 10,800 foot mountaintop can take as much courage and willpower as a mountain climber’s assault on Mt. Everest. Our good friends Lee and Melanie have just done that. Though both have years of outdoors and hiking experience, each has experienced serious health issues this year... Lee is in his eighties and was experiencing a painful foot before leaving on their trip to Mexico. Melanie was still recuperating from a knee injury, and dealing with ongoing heart problems. But they made it up the mountain to see the more than 150 million Monarch butterflies from North America that winter in the Michoacan's El Rosario area of Mexico. Here is Melanie’s description of their climb.

We did take the four-day bus trip to Morelia and several other wonderful sites, including one whole day dedicated to the Butterfly Sanctuary at El Rosario. It would have been nice to have had a day at the little town of Anganguero at 8,300 feet to help acclimate ourselves to the altitude before embarking on a hike that begins at 9,600 feet!

It was well worth the monumental effort it took us to reach the mountaintop at 10, 800 feet - a 1,200 foot vertical gain in only a mile! (The butterflies were hanging out at the top this year.) We began the trek with 750 stair steps followed by a steep switch-back with more stairs here and there. We had NO idea that such a short distance would be that difficult! Never mind our out-of-shape muscles and assorted pains - it was the lack of oxygen that made it so exhausting. Our guide (included in the $3.50 admission) stayed with Lee and me the whole time, let us rest as much as we needed and talked us through the times we wanted to give up and go back down. Both of us had spells of light-headedness and tingly arms and feet - whatever that means, but we plodded on like baby ducks waddling through thick, sticky mud. (No, we had no mud – it just felt that way) It took us three hours up and one hour down which we learned was not too unusual, so we DID MAKE IT which surprised everyone -especially US!

It doesn’t surprise me. I knew you could do it.

… P. L. Morningstar