2025 with the Tiny Mouse

I started this blog during the most frightening period of my life. I didn’t begin it with an audience in mind, or with any clear idea of what it would become. I started it because I needed somewhere to put thoughts and feelings that were too big, too constant, and too heavy to keep contained. Writing here was a way to breathe when everything felt overwhelming.

This space gave me a way to share updates with friends and family without having to repeat myself or manage conversations when I didn’t have the energy. It also allowed me to not be such a “bummer” to everyone in my life. No one wants to hear constant talk of fear or anxiety, and no one had answers that could truly calm my nerves or make things better. This was new territory for me, and it was just as new and frightening for my husband, my kids, my family, and my friends. I needed a place where I could pour everything out without burdening the people I love. Somehow, that was enough to help me survive and keep a good attitude.

More than anything, this blog gave me a place to be honest. I could write about fear, uncertainty, anger, grief, and the constant background anxiety that comes with serious illness without needing to soften things or make them sound better than they felt. That mattered more than I can easily explain.

There were moments when writing was the only way I could make sense of what was happening. Putting words to fear made it feel slightly more manageable. Seeing my thoughts on the page helped me find a path through days that felt impossible at the time. This blog became a record of survival in real time, not a polished story told after the fact.

As I move forward, I find that I don’t need this space in the same way anymore. That doesn’t mean the experience is behind me, or that it didn’t change me. It means I’m no longer writing from a place of constant crisis. I’m not closing this blog, and I’m not erasing what’s here. This writing mattered. It helped me get through something I never expected to face.

I’m also aware that this blog may outlive its original purpose in another way. Someday, someone may stumble across these entries while going through their own terrifying diagnosis or period of uncertainty. If that happens, I hope they find honesty here. I hope they see that fear can be spoken, that confusion is normal, and that it is possible to keep moving forward even when the path is unclear. I hope they can see hope, change, growth, and potential for themselves while reading about my journey.

This space existed because I needed it. If it can help someone else feel less alone, even once, then it will have done more than I ever expected. I have always hoped I could help someone going through something like this. At one point, I even considered applying for a job at the cancer center. Instead, I think I will look for a more local group to be part of. I want to give something back after everything that happened to me, everything I learned, and how much I have changed as a person.

On December 30, literally the final day I could see a doctor before the year ended, I visited my oncologist to go over a medication I am being asked to take for the next five years. I was experiencing side effects severe enough that I had to stop, and in February we will revisit the plan and decide whether something else might work better. It felt like a fitting end to a terrible year - one final trip to the cancer center.

The funny thing is that I was genuinely happy to go. I was glad to see everyone again. So many of the people I met there were kind, warm, and truly good at what they do. It felt nice to catch up, even briefly, and to walk through those doors feeling stronger than I had before.

For now, after just 62 entries, The Diary of a Tiny Mouse will be quiet. If I write here again, it will be because I want to, not because I need to survive the next moment. And that feels like a hopeful place to be.

December

Yesterday I had an appointment scheduled with a cosmetic and reconstructive surgeon in Jacksonville. He is not the usual type of plastic surgeon. He does advanced reconstructive work, microsurgery, and procedures that support lymphatic drainage. I had booked the visit because I thought it might be time to learn what my options were, both for reconstruction and for anything that might help my lymph system. To basically learn and maybe plan.

While I was getting ready to leave, I decided to call the office because I had received a text the day before saying the visit would cost more than three hundred and fifty dollars. At this point everything should be covered, since I have met all my deductibles. The girl at the desk tried to get my insurance information to load properly, but nothing she did worked, so the appointment had to be canceled.

And wow, I did not expect the wave of relief that followed. The truth is that I am tired. I have spent most of this year walking in and out of medical buildings, sitting in waiting rooms, taking calls, hearing results, and bracing for the next step. The idea of not adding another appointment to that list feels like a small breath of freedom. Maybe I can coast a little through the end of the year.

I am going to physical therapy tomorrow to help my lymph system, and I am hoping to get several sessions in before the year ends. I have some rib pain and swelling that linger from radiation, and I want to get ahead of it before it becomes something harder to manage.

One thing that irritates me is something simple and frustrating. Before all of this happened, I was doing well. I was losing weight, I felt stronger, and I finally had a little momentum. You would think that going through extreme stress and medical upheaval would make the weight fall off, but you would be wrong. Instead, I gained some of it back. Weeks of rest and recovery from surgeries and radiation have left my body feeling weaker than before. It feels unfair and discouraging.

I keep telling myself that next year can be different. I want it to be the year where my body is not in crisis. I want space to focus on getting stronger, losing weight again, and feeling healthy. I want a stretch of time where I am not recovering from something. Hope feels fragile, but it is still there.

On Tuesday I got my hair cut. My hair has been so long that even taking off around four inches still leaves it long, but it felt good to have some of the weight removed. As it turned out, the girl who cut my hair went to high school with my daughter. I recognized her as soon as I saw her.

As we talked about how our year had gone and I told her what has been happening to me, she said something that shifted the whole conversation in an instant. Just before she graduated high school, she was diagnosed with stage two lymphoma. She went through chemotherapy and lost all her hair. We ended up talking for a long time about radiation, surgeries, fear, recovery, and how disorienting it is to have your life rearranged by a diagnosis. There was this unexpected sense of understanding between us. She knew exactly what it feels like to live through something that forces you to confront your own body in a way you never prepared for. It actually felt good to talk to someone who has been there and is still happy and thriving.

I will always be grateful that I did not have to go through chemotherapy and that I was able to keep my hair. Hearing her describe what she endured made that gratitude sharper. I also cannot imagine being only eighteen years old and having to face something that terrifying. She is incredibly brave. And somehow, after everything she survived, she is about to have a baby in just a few days. Life finds a way to keep moving forward.

January 18 will be my 60th birthday. I sometimes cannot believe it. I do not feel old, but the number sits in front of me as a reminder of how quickly life moves. I still cannot believe that all of this happened to me. The surgeries, the radiation, the fear, the endless waiting for results, the effort it took to stay strong and keep perspective while trying to live my life at the same time.

And now it is essentially over. I survived it. I am still here, standing in my own life. Yes, I will be taking medication for five years, and I will keep seeing the medical oncologist, but hopefully that is all that remains. Hopefully the worst part is behind me.

As I move toward sixty, I am starting to understand something I never fully grasped when I was younger. Life does not pause for us. It pushes forward whether we feel ready or not. I cannot control what has already happened to my body, but I can choose what comes next. I can decide how I want to live the time that is still mine. I can choose to care for myself, protect my peace, and rebuild strength slowly and steadily, without worrying about for the pace.

I survived an experience I never expected to face. I stood up to every terrifying thing placed in front of me, and I am still standing. That truth alone feels like its own beginning. I am ready for days that feel lighter, for a body that feels stronger, and for a future that feels steady and bright. For the first time in a long time, I can picture it.

In the end, what matters is that I made it through. I am still here. I am still healing. And I can feel the possibility of a calmer, healthier stretch of life opening in front of me. I am ready for that.

Sleepless

Sometimes I get a night like this. It’s Saturday, well past 2am, and sleep just won’t come. My mind won’t settle either. It drifts through everything I’ve endured this year and the fact that I’m still standing at all feels strange. Mortality is a hard thing to stare down, and I’ve spent the past eight months living with that reality pressed against me every day.

This year wasn’t one bad moment. It was a cascade. One thing after another. The kind of year that shakes a person down to the studs. I lived in a state of constant fear for months, and my body still carries the residue of all of it. The lumpectomy changed me. Radiation changed me. The side effects linger and I’m still trying to understand them. The laparoscopic surgery hit me harder than anything I expected. And now I’m tiptoeing around a tooth that had to be pulled on top of everything else.

Monday I start Arimidex, and I’m not going to pretend I’m calm about that. I know what those medications can do. I know the toll they can take. After everything that has already happened, the idea of adding another set of side effects feels heavy.

What I keep circling back to, here in the dark, is this question of what comes next. Am I allowed to hope for a future that isn’t shaped by fear. Am I allowed to believe the worst might finally be behind me. Somewhere inside me, I’m still waiting for the next blow, because that’s what this year trained me to expect.

I think about my dad and how young he was when he died. I think about the health issues I inherited from him. And it leaves me wondering how long I have and what I’m supposed to do with whatever time I get. It’s not dramatic. It’s honest. These thoughts creep in on nights like this when the house is quiet and the world feels too still.

I’m tired. Deeply tired. And still, somehow, I’m trying. Trying to stay positive. Trying to stay focused. Trying to figure out how to live in a body that’s been through more than I ever thought it would.

Maybe this is what recovery actually looks like - not a clean line, but nights like this where I sit with everything I’ve survived and try to understand what it means. Maybe this is part of rebuilding a future, even when I’m still learning how to imagine one.

A Little Brightness

Today brought an unexpected bit of light into my house. A delivery truck pulled up, and the driver handed me a vase filled with fresh flowers. They were beautiful right away - fall colors, a sunflower, a perfect orange rose, even little sprigs of wheat tucked in like a Thanksgiving arrangement. I set them down on the table and reached for the card, trying to guess who would send me flowers on a random Monday.

It was from the very last people I would have expected.

The card was from my oral surgeon’s office - Dr. Thayer and his team. The message was simple and thoughtful, and I was honestly deeply touched. They were incredibly kind to me during my procedure on the 20th. They knew exactly how worn down I’ve been this year. They saw me crying in that chair, not from fear of the tooth extraction, but because this year has pushed me to the edge more times than I can count.

One of the nurses held my hand while the other worked beside the doctor. They were patient, gentle, and reassuring at a moment when everything felt like too much. I left that day grateful for how they treated me, and I wrote a heartfelt review on their Facebook page because they deserved it. Maybe that’s part of why they sent the flowers. Or maybe they realized I was a fragile person who somehow found the strength to endure yet another medical procedure. Dr. Thayer did tell me he thought I was brave enough to be a Marine!

Either way, it meant something. More than I expected.

I called the office right away to thank them and let them know how much the gesture meant to me. After the year I’ve had, a small moment of kindness feels enormous. And this bouquet - bright, warm, thoughtful - really did help lift my day. And what a lovely addition to my Thanksgiving table, a gift from a team who really helped me in a scary time  

Some days the world feels too heavy, but then someone surprises you with flowers and reminds you that there are still good people out there.

One More Thing

Today was - I hope - the last awful thing on my schedule for this cursed year. I had to have a molar pulled. A trip to the oral surgeon, just to put a cherry on top of the worst year of my life. I still can’t believe it. After everything I’ve already been dragged through, there I was again, lying back in another exam chair, bracing for another procedure I never wanted.

Right now I’m sitting at home with gauze in my mouth and an ice pack on my face. They were kind, they were gentle, they did a good job. But none of that changes the simple truth that I am worn down to the core. As soon as I sat in the chair I started crying. Not from fear of the tooth extraction, but because I am so exhausted from 2025. My body is still reeling from the laparoscopic surgery ten days ago. That one completely flattened me. I’m still struggling with this recovery - but it is improving. And then I had to walk straight into another medical appointment and brace for more pain. It was too much.

At least the surgeon told me I made the right decision. This tooth had an old root canal and the tip of the root had fractured. There was infection deep in the bone that would never clear without pulling it. And the one tiny piece of good news - it didn’t go into my sinuses. If it had, I’d be staring down yet another surgery. So that small mercy is something I’ll take.

Even with that, I’m beaten up. I feel mauled by 2025, like I’ve been shoved from one crisis into the next without ever catching my breath. And I’m afraid to hope that this is the final hit. Every time I’ve thought the worst was over, something else has slammed into me.

I keep wondering what I did to deserve a year like this. Maybe nothing. Maybe the universe just picked a target and I happened to be standing still. This year feels cursed. So if someone has my voodoo doll or put a hex on me, I’m asking for a break. And today, with a swollen face, stitches in my mouth, and a body that still feels rearranged from surgery, that’s all I want. A break. A real one.

Surgery Day

The big day finally arrived. I was genuinely relieved when they changed my check-in time from 5:30am to 11am. Instead of stumbling around in the dark and racing out the door half awake, I was able to move through my morning calmly. I showered, got dressed in soft, easy clothes, and packed a little tote bag with a few comfort items. Aaron drove us to the hospital in the Tesla, which helped keep things feeling normal and routine instead of stressful.

Check-in was quick, and I was called back to a room not long after. The room itself was fine, but it was right next to an exit door and a bathroom door, so it felt like busy. Every time footsteps approached, I would perk up thinking, is that my nurse, is that the doctor, is it time for me. But it never was. My official check-in was at 11am, but no one came for me until about 2pm. Thankfully, I had woken up that morning at 4am and chugged a protein shake, because if I had waited all the way until afternoon without anything in my stomach, I would have been miserable.

Eventually they came to wheel me up. Once they started the medications, things moved fast. One moment I was talking, and the next I was waking up in the recovery room. My nurse there was very kind. I think his name was Travis. We chatted a bit, even though I could tell my brain was still sloshed around from the anesthesia. I always worry I’m saying ridiculous things and don’t realize it. But I’m sure those nurses hear a lot of wild things in that recovery area!

After surgery and spending some time in recover, they brought me back to my room where I could rest some more. Aaron handed me a red apple he bought from the cafeteria and I felt so happy to eat something fresh right away. The doctor came in with the surgical update. Everything looked good, the procedure went smoothly, and he told me I could go home whenever I felt ready. Hearing that lifted a weight off my shoulders.

Once I was able to get up, go to the bathroom, and prove that I was reasonably functional, they discharged me. We went home, and I settled into my spot on the recliner sofa with an ice pack over my abdomen. It did not take long before I felt fairly normal again. Sore and uncomfortable, yes, but not what I would consider true pain. I am always amazed at how my body can go through something so major and not leave me in agony afterwards. I took a couple of Tylenols and was eventually able to eat a little more.

Just like the last time I had surgery, sleep refused to cooperate that first night. I was not panicked about it, I just tried to rest and hoped my body would drift off eventually. I even took one of the strong pain pills mostly in hopes it would knock me out, but it barely made a difference. I think I finally started getting patches of sleep around 5am. Not ideal, but better than nothing.

Now it is the next day and I actually feel pretty good. I am up and walking around because the nurse reminded me that moving helps dissipate the gas they use to inflate the abdomen during laparoscopic surgery. The soreness is manageable and I can already tell that each hour feels a little easier than the last.

I had to be careful with the cats, though. They love to jump on me or try to sleep directly on top of me, which is adorable on any other day but definitely not ideal when you have fresh incisions. If I shut the bedroom door, they would just stand outside and meow like tiny, determined alarms. So I had to be a little more aware about them, and I’m sure that didn’t help with sleep.

And one funny thing. I brought my mice with me to the hospital, and while I was back in the OR, Aaron did a full photo shoot with them in my room. When he showed me the pictures later, I laughed - Leave it to him to turn a stressful medical day into something sweet and ridiculous.

All in all, surgery day went as well as I could have hoped. Now I just focus on healing, moving, and giving my body the gentle care it needs so it can recover fully.

Facing Monday

Monday, November 10 is surgery day. Bilateral oophorectomy due to the BRIP1 genetic mutation. I keep telling myself not to worry, not to let my mind run ahead into fear, but the truth is that I am scared. I think anyone who is about to go under anesthesia feels the same. There is something deeply vulnerable about placing yourself in someone else’s hands and trusting that everything will go the way it is supposed to.

I am trying to focus on the idea that this is the final step in the long and chaotic road I have been walking all year. At my pre-op appointment, I reviewed every detail with my surgeon, asked my questions, signed all the papers, and made sure everything was set. After that, I went downstairs to the hospital lab for blood work and a urinalysis. There is nothing left to prepare. All I can do now is wait for Monday to arrive.

The waiting is the part that gets inside my head. I feel stressed and nervous, even though I keep trying to steady myself. I hope I will come out of this surgery as well as I have come out of the others. I remind myself that my body has carried me through before. Still, I am afraid of pain and I am afraid that something might go wrong. Surgery never feels casual, even when the doctors call it routine.

I did get one unexpected bit of news today. The doctor’s office called to tell me that my surgery time has changed. Instead of checking in at 5:30 in the morning for a 7:30 procedure, I now need to arrive at 11:00 for surgery at 1:30. In one sense it is a relief. I had been stressing about the very early morning and the scramble to get ready before dawn. Now I have more breathing room. At the same time, it feels strange and a little unsettling because the later time means more hours of waiting. I asked if I could eat or drink and they told me I could have something up to eight hours before surgery. I am planning to wake up at five and drink a protein shake before the cutoff. It gives me at least a small sense of control on a day that otherwise feels out of my hands.

All of this is scary. I can admit that. But I am also hopeful. Hopeful that this is the final step in the hardest year of my life. Hopeful that when I open my eyes in recovery, this chapter will finally be behind me. Hopeful that the next part of my story will feel lighter than everything that came before.

For now, I am taking things hour by hour. I am scared, but I am still moving forward. That has to count for something.

Visit My Travel Blog

So Thankful for a Getaway

I’m deeply thankful that I was able to take a vacation after everything that’s happened this year. We recently traveled to Jackson Hole, Wyoming, to visit our daughter, who’s working there as a stargazing and wildlife safari tour guide.

After all the challenges I’ve faced, it felt wonderful to have a truly carefree vacation - a rare stretch of time without constant worries or appointments. The days in Jackson Hole gave me space to breathe, reflect, and just enjoy being surrounded by nature and family.

I also keep another blog where I share more about my travel adventures. I’d love for you to visit and join me in celebrating some lighter, happier moments:

👉 mitzigee.blogspot.com

Heading Toward the Final Step

The Eve of the Final Step

Earlier in the year, I found out that I carry a pathogenic mutation in the BRIP1 gene. It was discovered through genetic testing after my breast cancer diagnosis. BRIP1 is linked to an increased risk of ovarian cancer. My doctor and the genetic counselors explained that the safest course of action would be a risk-reducing surgery to remove my ovaries. It’s technically called a bilateral oophorectomy, and while the name sounds intimidating, it’s actually a fairly simple procedure.

I already had my uterus and fallopian tubes removed during my hysterectomy back in 2014, so this operation is the final step - the last preventive measure to lower my cancer risk as much as possible. It feels strange that something so small can carry so much weight.

This entire year has felt like one long nightmare of medical appointments, scans, results, procedures, and waiting. Each time I thought I could exhale, something else appeared on the horizon. The breast cancer diagnosis was already more than enough, but the genetic mutation felt like an extra layer I never asked for. Still, I keep reminding myself that this is the final step. When I wake up from this surgery, this chapter will finally be closed.

It’s almost time for my surgery, and I’ve been trying to let that fact sit quietly in the background instead of letting it take over my thoughts. I’ve already had enough of that kind of worry this year. Surgery day is November 10, just two months after my final radiation treatment.

I’m choosing not to worry about this too much. I’ve already been through so much trauma this year, and I don’t want to spend any more time being afraid. Even though this is a surgery, I keep telling myself that I’m not worried and I’m not stressed.

I found this surgeon through a web of trusted people: my old doctor, my nurse navigator, and others at the cancer center. They all said the same thing: he’s one of the best. He doesn’t use the DaVinci robot, but it sounds like this procedure is fast and straightforward, so it probably isn’t even necessary.

Back in 2014, my hysterectomy was done with the DaVinci robot, and I remember how amazed I was by how smoothly it went. No pain, no complications. My new doctor says this recovery should be even faster, which seems hard to believe, but I’m hopeful.

Mostly, I’m just ready to be done. This year has been overwhelming in every possible way, and this feels like the final step toward closing the book on it. After learning about the BRIP1 mutation, I’ve carried this weight of what-ifs for too long. Once this surgery is behind me, I’ll finally be able to move forward without wondering what else might be waiting.

And just to finish the year strong, 7 days after surgery I will start taking Arimidex and then 10 days after surgery I have to get my tooth pulled. More stuff to check off the list, more reminders that I’m wrapping up everything that’s been hanging over me.

It feels like the right decision. And I’m ready. 

One Month After

One Month Later

It’s hard to believe it’s been a month since my last radiation treatment. Wow.

I’m feeling good, healthy, and strangely normal. I did catch a cold recently, but I’m on the mend. Other than that, I feel genuinely well. I’m sleeping better and feeling more like myself than I have in a long time.

The cloud of depression and anxiety that hovered for so long has lifted, and I finally feel like I can breathe again.

I have a vacation coming up and I’m looking forward to a little adventure before starting the next chapter of my treatment. When I return, I’ll begin taking Arimidex - the estrogen-suppressing medication my medical oncologist prescribed. I’ll be on it for the next five years. The list of possible side effects is long, but I’m hopeful I’ll be one of the many who sail through it with minimal issues.

I’m also preparing for my oophorectomy surgery on November 10. It feels like one more step toward peace of mind - another layer of prevention and closure in this long process.

The Good News Is …

 The Good News Is…

When you hear the word “cancer,” everything stops. The room goes quiet. Your breath catches. Your thoughts scatter like birds. But once the dust settles and the doctors start talking in more detail, you begin to learn that not all cancer is the same. Even within a diagnosis, there’s good news to hold on to.

So today I want to talk about my good news.

The Good News Is… It Was Caught Early

I was diagnosed with ductal carcinoma in situ (DCIS), which means the cancer cells were still contained inside the milk ducts. They hadn’t spread. They hadn’t invaded surrounding breast tissue. That puts me at Stage 0, the very earliest possible stage of breast cancer.

That’s incredible news.

It means this was treatable and curable. We were ahead of it. And early detection probably saved my life.

The Good News Is… It Was Estrogen-Receptor Positive

My tumor was ER+, meaning it responded to estrogen. That might sound alarming at first. Who wants something in their body that thrives on hormones? But the truth is, this is one of the most treatable types of breast cancer. There are well-established hormone therapies, like the one I’ll be taking (Arimidex), that reduce the risk of recurrence.

We have tools. We have options. That’s good news.

The Good News Is… I Don’t Need Chemotherapy

One of the biggest fears people have when they hear the word “cancer” is chemotherapy. I had that fear too. The thought of losing my hair, feeling sick for months, and going through something that intense was terrifying.

But I didn’t need it.

Because my cancer was non-invasive, my lymph nodes were clear, and there was no sign of spread, chemotherapy was not part of my treatment plan. I didn’t have to go through infusions or deal with the harsh side effects that so many people face. I have so much respect and admiration for those who do. And I’m incredibly grateful that in my case, surgery and radiation were enough.

That’s not just good news. That’s life-changing news.

The Good News Is… My Lymph Nodes Were Clear

During surgery, they biopsied my sentinel lymph nodes. These are the first checkpoints where cancer often tries to spread.

All of mine were clear.

No signs of spread. No evidence of invasive cancer. That news was a turning point for me. It meant my prognosis remained excellent and I could continue forward with less aggressive treatment.

The Good News Is… My Margins Were Clean

When the tumor was removed in surgery, the goal was to get it all, along with a margin of healthy tissue around it. Mine were clear, with the closest margin being 9 mm. That means there were no lingering cancer cells left behind. I got a good surgical outcome, and I’m very thankful for that.

The Good News Is… I’m Probably Cured

This is something I didn’t fully understand at first. After treatment, I kept asking myself - am I cured, or just in remission?

The word remission usually means that a disease is no longer detectable, but it could still return. It is commonly used with invasive cancers or advanced-stage cancers, where there’s a higher chance that microscopic cancer cells might still be hiding somewhere in the body. Doctors often monitor patients closely during remission to see if the cancer comes back. So when someone is in remission, they are not necessarily done with cancer. They are in a kind of medical waiting period.

But remission doesn’t really apply to me.

My diagnosis was ductal carcinoma in situ (DCIS), which means the cancer cells had not spread beyond the walls of the milk ducts. This is considered non-invasive. My surgery removed the DCIS with clean margins, and my sentinel lymph nodes were clear. There was no invasion and no sign that the cancer had spread anywhere else. The radiation treatment helped reduce the risk of it ever coming back, and I’ll be taking hormone therapy to reduce that risk even further.

Because of all this, my doctors don’t say I’m in remission. They say I am cancer-free, I am cured.

Not “hopefully cured” or “maybe someday cured.” Cured right now. Of course, like anyone who has had cancer, I’ll stay on top of follow-up visits and monitoring. But I am not in limbo. I am not waiting to find out if the treatment worked. It already did.

I am past the cancer. It’s over. That is the best news I could ever share.

The Good News Is… I Have an Amazing Team (And I’m Part of It)

From my surgical team to my radiation oncologist, my medical oncologist, and the nurses who guided me along the way, my care team has been outstanding. But here’s something I learned through all of this.

I’m part of that team too.

I asked questions. I read my reports. I advocated for myself. I showed up. I took care of my body and my heart as best I could. I did the work. And I’ll keep doing the work, because surviving isn’t passive. It’s a choice you make every day.

The Good News Is… I’m Healing

Every day, I’m healing. Physically. Emotionally. Mentally. There have been some really hard moments, and I know there may be more ahead. But right now, I feel strong. I feel loved. I feel grateful. I feel hopeful.

That, too, is very good news.