Everythings

Jenny here.

Day 7 has arrived.  It has been one week since the transplant.  The week, in general, has gone by pretty quickly.  There has not been much in the way of surprises.  It has been fairly "expected."  By expected I mean, fatigue, low appetite, weight loss, nausea, vomiting, diarhea, and dropping counts--just to name a few of the daily fun symptoms.  He's well medicated and it would be worse without them, but it only does so much.  So, it's going as expected, but not easy for Wil.  Although being with staff who we have had this whole journey, we often look back to December 2013, and it still feels remarkably better than what he has gone through previously.  

Most of the current symptoms are directly connected to the brutal chemo and TBI he had prior to transplant.  His WBC has been .01 for days now, with a dip to 0.0.  That's right.  No white blood cells to speak of...but this was the plan all along.  Hit bottom. After all, he needs a clean slate for the new cells.  Now he will start the slow climb up.  He needs a WBC of 1.0 (1000) for two consecutive days to be discharged home, which could happen in the next 7-10 days if things go well.  This level will still be neutropenic (4.0-11 is normal range) but good enough to go home and begin the recovery/outpatient follow-up, for the next 6-12 months, and our hermit exsitence.

So far he has only needed one platelet transfusion, but those counts hover right around needing one.  It's likely he will get blood products on and off until his body is producing its own.  Every day they check to see if he will need blood products and if he has any symptoms of graph vs host disease or infections.  We are told by staff, our online community, and patients up on the floor, that day 12 seems to be a turn around point where counts rise some and people start to talk about going home.

In my mind, over the past week, I have this cartoon vision of cells with suitcases, UHaul trucks, boxes, and roadmaps.  They are just driving along down the highway, off to a new job and adventure.  I'd like to think some of them have capes, will assume super hero employment, and truly save the day, save my husband, and protect this life we have together for years to come.  They don't know it yet, but we are counting on them so much.

Right now the cells are still consulting their maps and finding their way to his bone marrow where they will be setting up their new homes, moving into a new city called "Wil."  With any move, it takes time to get settled in, unpack, and get a feel for the new surroundings.  It will be weeks until they engraft into his bone marrow (although there is the possibility they could decide not to at all).  After they engraft (when counts really start to creep up) it will still be months to a year before the community is happily producing enough cells to be a normal immune system and a new blood type.  

Side note:  Eventually Wil will end up going from O+ to B+, and we are holding tight to the thought that that is exactly what we need to do--Be Positive--but it's not an easy feat some days.  Up here at UTSW, it's so cozy and supportive and safe. Staff cheer us on daily, validate the love we have for each other, tell me I am doing a good job (and tell Wil he is lucky LOL), empathize with all we have been through...So many times I just weep happy tears as they walk away.  I feel so visible up here, by people who we have known such a short time, but yet so intimately.  I will never have enough words to express my appreciation for them all.  But soon enough the training wheels will come off and we will be back at home...where we want to be, but where the life changes will really start again.

Just like any move to a new place, things can get broken along the way or go wrong or not be peaceful.  Without a proper "security system" (immune defenses) to fight off attacks, Wil will be susceptible to infections, from anywhere and at any time, all of which can be life threatening.  Some cell families may decide they don't like the new community and want out or decide to not be nice neighbors and attack Wil (failure to graft or graft vs host disease respectively).  The scenarios are varied and vast.  We are lucky to have treatments available to us, including the clinical trial drug, to deal with situations that arise.  At the end of the day, however, each of the what-ifs are scary and possible.  This 3rd chapter has only just begun and there's no way to cheat and read the last page of this book.

Except for clinic appointments, we will be at home for the next year.  Visitors could be OK, but with heavy restrictions.  Heavy enough there probably won't be many possible.  No plants or flowers please.  No outside food. If you have been around someone who is sick in the last 2 days or even have the sniffles, please reconsider.  Kids aren't a good idea right now...this one breaks my heart the most, but given its school time and soon to be flu season...I know this time will pass, but what an isolated time.  Please e-mail, write, Skype...Wil will be a shut in, and even for an introvert like him, I think this will be a very lonely time.  And invite me out...even though there is not a place I'd rather be than with him, my extroverted self, exhausted caregiver, will be withering away if I don't get out sometimes.

Wil has been taking it mostly in stride.  He has felt sick and tired for almost 2 weeks now, but considering what his body is going through, what it will continue to go through in the coming months, he is coping OK.  Transplant day was emotional, as was the day after for some personal reasons, and enough change in his affect that his oncology team had the psychiatrist come eval him.  

If you know Wil well, you understand he takes just a little more time to process feelings, internally, before he can open up about them.  The months leading to transplant had a heavy price tag for him emotionally, in the way of relationships.  The mix of feelings and fatigue made for a few quiet days, as his body hurt and he spent time processing the past year.  For me too.  I'm happy to report that by day 3 he was coping better, talking, and more focused on the task at hand--building a new immune system and life--than the past issues he can't control.  (And he passed his psych eval...just as I had told his oncology team he would...with all he has been through, his responses and coping are normal.  Right now, however, every symptom, whether it be physical, mental, or emotional, has to addressed promptly to ensure him the best outcome.  All his energy this year has to be about wellness.  We are not in a place to turn away help these days and, in the end, the eval was a positive place for him to debrief it all).

And for me...I so appreciate the people who have reached out.  It's not that I can't call you or text you, it's just I'm distracted these days.  Each time one of you drops a line though, it helps hold me up.  Us caregivers won't be calling you to ask for help because we are weary, because we forget to take a break and take care of ourselves...because we know you are busy with your own stuff and feel so grateful for anything you have already done...we just won't ask often.  If you put us on the spot, we won't always know what we need. Anything that is in your heart to do, however small you may think it, feels really really good though and is much appreciated.

I spend most of my days lately very in touch with being scared.  Ugh.  I know that is not what people want to read.  Hopeful blogs are easier to read.  I don't even want to admit it to myself.  Faith, hope, love...YES!  All three.  Working on being mindful...check.  Take one day at a time...no other option there!  Lately I am just more aware of the fact that life is out of my hands, even in things that I CAN influence.  This usually makes my head spin.  To be or feel anything else than what comes up in the moment somehow doesn't seem to honor this experience though.  My real intention is to just get better at creating more space for all the dark emotions, not drowning them out to be something I'd rather be.  

I love the parable about the glass of water and the lake.  If you put a spoonful of salt in each, that glass of water will surely taste like salt.  The lake however, not noticeable.  Same salt, but different amount of water.  And so it is with feelings...stop trying to avoid the salt and just make a larger space for them.

The reality, and where my fear comes from, is this:  there is not enough of me to go around, to do everything I should do, and yet with so many restrictions, there are limits to what anyone can help me with too.  I know I will need to make priorties and do my best.  It's been the theme to the year.  The feeling of inadequacy, the knowing I can't do this next leg "by the book" for a best case scenario...it can be a little, ok I'm lying, a LOT overwhelming.

My next year looks a little like this (just a few examples):  

*Work 45 hours/week whenever I can (at this point I make enough to pay all but one bill--my student loans--if I continue to work full-time.  I've had to decide to let something go, and despite trying, the company that bought out my loans are not willing to work with me very much, so I am just doing what I can to pay what I can.  If you are someone who prays, I'd love to find a tender heart in that company somewhere to give me a break for the next 12 months).

*spend 10-20 hours a week at clinic with Wil (unless he has complications, then who knows!)

*grovery shop several times a week (Drink milk more than 4 days open?  Nope.  Let veggies sit in fridge more than 2-3 days?  I wish!)

*cook healthy meals daily, the immunosuppressed way.  (Leftovers? Outside food?  Sadly too risky)

*clean and sanitize every day (Not cleaning the tub after I shower and Wil getting in?  Too risky) 

Obviously, as a one woman show, I can't do each of those every time.  I have to make calculated risk decisions.  So I wrestle with the "what if I don't clean well enough or I cook something that wasn't clean enough and Wil gets an infection and dies?"  I get that I can't control it all, but there are both heavy expectations and heavy consquences for me as the caregiver, that won't change.  I will have to somehow figure it out as I go.   

And figuring it out has meant a few days not sleeping well, heart racing, over these variables...controllable to some extent but not altogether realistic if I am also working to support our household.  As much as Wil would like to help load a dishwasher or wash some laundry or vaccuum, he's off house duties for a year.  I have never been obsessive about cleaning...a little dust and clutter?  Fine by me if it means I did something else more fun or helped someone else!  That way of living is no longer acceptable.  I'm in a foreign land.  It makes me wonder, how do people not become OCD after caring for a loved one with a suppressed immune system? 

And then, today, I did the unthinkable, went against how I was raised, as well as my current bank account...and I hired a maid.  Deep sigh...and then a breath of calm.  Wil is my everything.  And I am everything to Wil, but I just can't do everything.

I don't know that I can afford it as often as I could use it, but at least for once and awhile, for a small break, and especially for getting ready for Wil to come home.  I still have boxes unpacked from moving last year, clutter from all the multiple hospitalizations (how do you always come home with more stuff than when you admitted?), laundry unhung...but guess what, for now, I just can't care.  So the undone is being delgated to the office we never use since cancer, with a sign that shall read "2015."  The year I *might* have time to go through it, organize, and purge.  But just not now.

And with that said, if you want to know how to help most right now?  I finally have an answer...sponsor a cleaning or help with cleaning or shop for groceries...these will always be accepted.  But really, more than anything, I will need people on the outside to be like the staff here--gently reminding me, when my head starts to spin, to take a breath and notice what I am doing well already.  I'm not sure how it will all get done.  And so the caregiving saga, that is entwined in conflicting feelings and mystery, of the next year begins.  Wil is just hoping, with all his might, to survive this year.  As a caregiver, so am I...so am I...

 

Snapshots

Jenny here.  There are moments in our lives, yet very rare, when we know at that very moment our life is changed forever.  Sure, we often look back and can pinpoint a life transforming shift--in hindsight.  But to know ahead of time, to feel the full throttle lead up to an event that will alter the rest of your life?  I feel that there are truly very few of those experiences.  College, marriage, becoming a parent...the major milestones are expected upheavels.  I'm not saying these are more influential to our growth or easier or harder.  They are just...different...the expected unknown, if you will.  Like when someone you love dies--it is hard, regardless, but it is unique depending on factors such as if they person was ill or was in an accident.  In our journey, Wil's diagnosis was mostly unexpected and we had to just jump right in, feet first at onset.  Today was a moment in the making for quite some time.

As most of you know, today was day 0 for Wil--stem cell transplant day.  Our expected unknown.

The rush of emotions, the build-up of feelings, the count down for the past weeks...it made today this expected, surreal climax.  Today, 3 small bags of ghostly white liquid, pulled down into Wil's chest catheter by gravity, equalled a moment of immune system rebirth--in a matter of a few hours.  Prior to transplant, as we said the cell blessing with the chaplain, wishing them a speedy travel to their new marrow homes, we felt gratitude and fear all at once.  For Wil, the knowing his body will be fatigued for the foreseable future as the life withint him fights to grow.  For me, not exactly knowing how I will do all the rest while he recovers.  For both of us, I can only think it was a cumulative landslide of emotions from the past year, flashes of seeing Wil immoblizied by his first month of treatment, glimpses, snapshots of the traumatic experiences (I don't often touch on the word trauma in regardless to our experience because generally we are OK most days.  Of course Wil has these moments with all his body and mind have been through.  But as a caregiver, there are moments I lose air and melt on the inside when memories are triggered as well, and I am not sure we recognize enough how traumatizing illness can be to the one closest to the patient).  

So today, day 0, knowing life will never be the same, but not sure how that will pan out...it was emotional, tense, raw, real, bizarre, and anxiety producing, yet, mixed with something we haven't felt in quite some time--a real, alive, and breathing hope.  

In the weeks leading up to transplant we have had time to laugh, relax, and do something we have gotten out of the habit of--talk about a future that doesn't *just* involve clinic appointments and the what-ifs should he die.  No, we have had moments of wishing, beyond what's just up close and in our face every day.  When you hope, however, you give space and air to an array of other feelings...all of which came flooding forward in the minutes leading up to transplant.

As we sat on his bed this morning, watching the Carter Blood lab tech who would be with us the entire time to prep the donated cells, we held each other and wept and agreed it was something we couldn't quite explain.  Wil's body shook.  The tech said this is what she enjoys most about the job--getting out of the lab and putting a face with the case name she has been working on for weeks, hearing the stories, and seeing the real reactions to a life altering event.  She said sees these complex feelings each time.  

His oncology team was excited.  They worried we were crying.  Medically, the process for stem cell transplant is something Wil was able to sleep through, a basic infusion experience.   But I told them, these were not JUST an infusion, not JUST cellls.  These cells had already changed relaionships, some for the better and some for the worst.  These cells were our new hope--real, living, breathing hope that was months in the making, the result of Wil's hard chemo days to prepare his body, of the universe aligning on our behalf to have the perfect clinical trial just waiting for him, because of an extraordinary treatment team, and because someone Wil loves said "yes."  Even though we had major and minor set backs along the way that made us doubt day 0 would ever arrive, Wil had his day.  Our life together had it's day 0.  And I just don't know how to describe that adequately.  Perhaps as time moves along I will have something more profound and eloquent in my heart to describe the forever change that happened in room 813, in the midst of staff, beeping machines, multiple checkoffs, and the smell of cream corn.  But not today.

Side note:  The preservation material used when cells are frozen, once entering the recipient metabolize in the lungs and when the patient breaths, coughs, or talks, all you smell is cream corn...for several days.  The housekeeping staff entered the room this afternoon and said "Somebody's been eating good.  Smells like corn!"  I then got to educate them on this "fun" transplant fact :)  

Days 1-100+ are somewhat unknown...but because of day 0, we have a chance to live them.  Below are snapshots of our day.  We are wishing you all well, grateful for our family--whether by blood or choice.  We are only here today because of each one that has played a role of support.  In the coming weeks I will try to put out a blog on Wednesdays, as a celebration for each week of this new life, so stay tuned.  

Happy "Birthday" Wil.  And many more...

Snapshots of Transplant:  Day 0

It's your birthday Wil!

We started out the morning reading a blog post from Dr. Rick Hanson, a neuropsychologist/therapist, entitled "Trust in Love."  I had brought a card (picture below) not knowing it would fall in line with the the his blog post dated for today.  The Universe conspired with him to give us words we needed.  My favorite quote:  "Love is woven into your day because it's woven into your DNA."  You can sign up for his blogs at www.rickhnson.net (and we recommend you do!  We read them to each other on our way to clinic appointments).

We had a Blessing for the cells with the Chaplain

A Carter Blood Care lab staffer came with the frozen donation cells and a water bath to thaw them.  She is the same person who has been working with the cells to prep them for transplant.  And so began the multiple checks and balances.

The oncology team came through to say Happy Birthday

Then the thawing process of the cells began

Transplant time...Wil was medicated with a total of 100mg IV Benadryl so, by the time it was over, he slept the rest of the day

We are hoping for many more memories in the years to come...for now, he has some rough recovery days ahead, but a few photos on his windowsill to look at while he's still admitted...

Evaporate

Jenny here.   We are at -3 days today until Wil's new immune system birthday on August 20, 2014. It's a rainy day, but I am excited to be cuddled up in Wil's room, Redbox movies and popcorn are waiting for me after I finish this blog!  I am so incredibly thankful to have this day of rest in my safe little BMT bubble.

It's been an up and down week.  Not medically speaking...that is well maintained...but more so emotionally.  

The chemo he is under going is strong, erase your bone marrow, stuff.  We are doing daily updates on the FB page, but in a nutshell, so far the side effects are minimal. This is "as expected" because the GI upsets (nausea, vomiting, diarhea, mouth sores, etc) are a cumulative result. What that means for Wil is that this coming week, 7-10 days post chemo, is when he will feel the worst effects.  Today concluded chemo and tomorrow is a treatment rest day.  In the meantime, although fatigued, he is active on the BMT floor, taking care of himself, walking, going to the gym, talking Dragon Ball Z to the clerk, entertaining the nurses with YouTube BatDad vidoes, and trying to eat well.  Tuesday, day -1, will conclude his pre-transplant treatments with one dose of total body irradiation.  

The day of admit was stressful.  Wil had been stressed and too quiet the few days beforehand. He couldn't hide his stress on his face or in his body.  He was worried, I was worried.  Worry was the word of the day.  His outpatient appointments that morning included genetics cousneling, blood draw, and his trifusion port placement in his chest (which ended up being delayed 3 hours, adding to the uneasiness).

I am still trying to balance work and counting on the fact I will need to use more PTO in upcoming weeks, so I had not taken off the whole day.  In retrospect, with all the emotions, I wish I had been off, but the money still needs to come in and Wil felt better with that in mind.  it just made for a hectic day.  I cried the whole way to my office after I left him.  He is in amazing hands.  Nothing big was happening.  Driving away alone never gets easy though.

So, to be honest, we were both on edge the morning of admit.  Wil and I rarely get into arguments, but like any couple, nerves get stepped on and words don't always come out in a loving fashion the first time around under stressful conditions.  I guess I say this to let you all know that 1.) We love each other and have an great marraige, but that 2.) Having cancer doesn't make you perfect or enlightned in your relationship all the time, and 3.) There are very few things in life that can't be re-done, tried again, talked out, forgiven, accepted...especially if you are open.

But it was one of those mornings when our feelings were spilling over and our thoughts were racing.  There were a few triggers for both us and, even though we knew we were not in a place of peace, understanding, and good timing for a heart to heart, we just didn't care!  And we broke.

Evaporation:  the process of a liquid or solid changing into a vapor by heat.  A cycle by which the earth's limited water supply is recycled through stages of transformation and renewal by way of molecular energy transfers.

As we drove around and around the crowded parking lot, looking for a space to park, the energy in our car was desperate.  As if a million thought molecules were bumping around, our feelings were colliding, expending energy.  We knew it, but the bubbling of the pot was set to boil.  Wil was getting ready to be admitted for so many unknowns, for a possible new life, but at what cost?  I was getting ready to check in my most loved and cherished human for an entire month of life saving, yet excruciating  treatment.  All we both wanted to do was escape, turn around, evaporate into the atmoshophere.

Condensation:  the process of vapor being cooled and changing back into liquid and forming clouds

Admit day was tough.  But the days following it have been soulful, playful, easy, and lovely with each other.  In some part, just getting going on the pre-ransplant process has made it finally real and given the opportunity for us to deal with the true underlying feelings of what all this means. 

We would not make it through this, however, without the nurses, doctors, and techs on the BMT unit.  Up here in the clouds, on the highest patient floor of the hospital, we have settled into this new part--a welcomed phase after feeling evaporated emotionally when we got here.  Somehow, things have cooled and condensed...we are focused and OK. 

Time and time again the staff up here saves us.  I try to tell them as often as I can how much they mean to us, how their few words or a smile are like little bursts of energy that ease us down this path.  As a therapist, clients sometimes tell me some of the same things I know feel towards these folks. Now...I get it at such a personally painful level that I am forever changed and forever grateful.  I have been on both sides now.   

There is no where we feel more affirmed than in the confines of these walls.  Not because we are not loved outside of the hospital and by our important safety net of people and cheerleaders.  No, it's just that there is a differnt level of understanding when you interact with BMT oncology staff and patients.  Unspoken understanding that is real.  No explanations needed. And in the moments I am under a pile of guilt for not being more, doing more, it's these special folks who tell me I'm ok...more than ok...and that Wil is loved...and that we aren't alone...and that they can see we really have something special between us...it's not that it means more from them, but it has some sort of sweet validation in it I can't get anywhere else.  They have seen it all, they have been with us through it all...every step, whether it was Dark December or now...they have been our witnesses.  

Precipitation:  the process by which there is so much condensed water that the air can no longer hold it, and water falls to the earth

We are moved to tears often these days, as expected!  My soul, however, is filled up and amazed when there are moments I see a glimpse of the staff's own parallel process, see their tears as they recount how scary and hard things were at first, feel the positive regard they have for us as people, and the prayerful hope they have for Wil.  They are just so genuine.  

I felt like a basket case on admit day and emotionally unstable...things were heating up...and then I hear from the ones who have spent nearly 90 admit days with us that we are more than OK.  That this HAS been crazy for us and them too.  That Wil's turn around is amazing.  And then I join in and feel the precipitation in my own eyes.  

This won't be our last cancer "water cycle."  But we are enjoying the warm stream of emotional H2O, letting it pool around us, soak deep into the ground of us, before transplant.  Most of us walk around thinking about the limited-ness of this life.  Water is limited.  Energy is limited.  I am limited.  But the process of life and love is actually cyclical. Evaporation is part of life.  But the rains will come again.  They are, in fact, already in process at the moment I no longer see the water. I hope I can keep that close to my heart the next time around.

Much love.

Threshold

Jenny here. We have been very busy prepping for transplant. Busy living life, as well as we can, in between appointments, exams, tests, and bloodwork. Busy sleeping, laughing, and honestly, feeling scared shitless at moments. To be prepared, by definition, means to be in a state of readiness. Sure. In some respects we are getting there. We have the info we need to know this is the right thing right now. Laundry is being done, bags packed, groceries for quick meals for me have been bought, last community outings to movies, restaurants, and seeing a few people along the way.  Yes. We are somewhere, somehow, at least partially in prep mode. 

The emotional groundwork is not quite as easy though. Wil is up against some harsh conditions that stand between him and hopefully his recovery. We are up for a busy, hold on to your hats, year. 

People have asked if we are excited. Whew. Gosh, I get it. I think 6 months ago I thought I would feel excited that this day, this opportunity, has finally arrived. We are 3 days until admit and about 10-12 days until transplant. Excited?  Tearful, fearful, grateful, empty, full, nervous, hopeful, madly in love, happy...maybe every word and feeling other than "excited."  We know, in terms of book knowledge and consents, what we are up against. What we could gain or lose. We know how hard the next year can be.  We know this is the potential cure. We know it is potentially not and what that means too.  It's a gamble, like so much of our journey. 

Life at home the past 2 weeks have been sweet. Couch time, daily naps, snuggling.  Eating fresh fruits and veggies without triple washing. No nausea or vomiting.  Limited meds.  More energy and more normal.  Wil's been helping with chores and holding dogs without fear of infection. I've still been working but trying to be balanced and use FMLA on busy clinic days instead of running around frazzled. PTO is limited, but I decided, with all the upcoming unknowns, to invest in now, the few good,  guaranteed days, with Wil...to be normal-ish before this transplant rodeo heats up. 

(Drive-in Movie earlier this week)

These few relaxed days we have had...I will miss this in the next year or so...when my sweet Mr. Clark is building a new immune system, when 3 clinic days a week are norm, being mostly home bound other days, shouldering the responsibility of keeping the moving parts of recovery together in motion.  I know what sick Wil looks like. Feels like. Acts like. He won't complain...ever. But I know his pained face and how exhausted his body has been in the past. I don't look forward to that at all. 

So excited for the next 13 months?  Ugh. Truthfully, not so much. But here we are. In a very real space, with a very real challenge. Prepping for much of what can only be described as...unknown. I envision us learning to be in the moments, appreciating what we have, because that is who we are at the core even when we get distracted by the what if's. I'm just not sure how this will feel, in the moment,  and that part is scary for me because I don't just want to survive this...I want to be present and focused and alive in the midst of it all. 

Current timeline (like always, subject to change!):  

Monday will be last minute meetings with the transplant team to sign consents and last bloodwork at the clinic. Tuesday will be an early meeting with genetics, followed by a central line being put in (yes, even though he has a power medi port, a chest central line with 3 lines into his chest will be placed in him for greater access over the next 100 days)...then admission on the BMT unit. 

Once admitted, chemo will start either that night or on Wednesday. Heavy chemo. One total body radiation session will happen the following week...and then day 0 of his new immune system (transplant day) the week of the 18th.  He will be monitored for a few weeks on the unit and discharge will happen once he is stable enough.  After that, clinic visits 3 times a week, unless there are surprises (infections, reactions, etc). 

While no website can describe an individual person's treatment, here is a link if you want a rough idea of what this process will most likely entail:

 http://www.nhlbi.nih.gov/health/health-topics/topics/bmsct/ 

Once Wil admits, I will be posting daily updates on our Fight The Big Fight facebook page that also links to our Twitter. If you haven't "Liked" it yet, and want to keep up, giving us a thumbs up will put our posts in your news feed. There will be blogs along the way too about happenings and my process. Wil may or may not answer his phone or be on Facebook as much. He may not want visitors at the hospital. Or he may!  Much is unknown, but I'm available and answering questions if anyone needs updates in between.  And the pups are up for extra loving while I'm scrambling between hospital, work, and sleep (if you are local and want to help, please let me know!). 

In so many ways, Wil's day 0 is my day 0 too. It is the threshold of what is to come for our life together. In the spirit of that, I will be making some intentions for the first 100 days too (more to come on that front). 

And we encourage you to do the same. Don't wait for a crisis.  

Want to reconnect with someone?  Start mindfulness?  Get back to the gym?  Cook more at home? Take up a new hobby?  Go back to school?  Love without holding back?  Forgive someone...or yourself?  Whatever it is, Wil says the time is always now, don't wait for your life to begin any longer. 

If you'd like to share an intention for yourself for Wil's first 100 days, and walk alongside us into a new life as well, we welcome you on the road to vitality. All are invited. The more the merrier and more energy we will all create for this turf we reside on. 

Much love. Much anxiety. But much hope.