Now is the Summer of our Discontent

30 07 2018

Made impossible torment by this fog of humidity

And all the clouds upon the horizon looming

Lessen not the damp through lightning or storming

Now our brows are laced with gobs of sweat

Our pale-white arms hidden from the sun as we search for coolth

And fierce horns presage the coming of ships

Shrouded in fog – moistness made solid…

Okay, is it just me or would all of you out there like to wrap the climate change skeptics images-33in their bespoke suits and dangle them over the bayou of Louisiana without access to a/c? Or worse still – place them in the scorching hot cities of Europe – Paris, wreathed by concrete; Edinburgh, utterly unprepared for heat; London, on the tube surrounded by anxiety-sweating people suffering in polyester; Rome, in tourist season…again without any access to ice or shade or air conditioning…Or even Toronto. You know the perfect place.

 

images-29

Ideal shape for humid weather

I am melting melting melting, except not really because in order to melt one would require the ability to liquefy of which I can only dream. My cozy fat wrap seems a teensy bit dysfunctional at present.

 

It has set my MS off, so I am tripping over dust particles and dancing like a drunken soccer fan, looking for a fight like the same. I have fallen, not wisely, but too well, spraining my hand and denting a rib and generally mashing myself up. It’s not getting better, the hand or the MS or anything, and likely won’t until the mind-clearing breezes of fall. FML, as the word-impaired sorts say.

 

c09b97682e91775164f990fdfd5a2112

My parents didn’t believe in orthodonture until child #3

 

Truth be told, I have no right to complain. Life is overall good, and I am blessed with a loving son who has kindly arranged for house cleaning so I can spare my hand for more important things, like making blueberry sorbet or embroidering ridiculously small things. Or brushing my hair and chaining it back so that I don’t frighten young children…

 

images-30

After not doing a THING in the heat…

 

Today is their first cleaning day, and I only know this because the coordinator called me at ten last night to check if I was going to let the workers in. At the time, I was laying gasping on my chaise courte (in truth a meridienne)  like a beached cod, waving a plastic bag at myself for the breeze (and to keep the cat from eating it).  I looked around myself.

As anyone who has had official house cleaners knows, it ain’t so much the dirt as the clutter that fells us, though I am eternally grateful to said son for the help in scrubbing detail (not possible for me at present) (and truth be told, the idea of tumbling into my tub head first like Father William lacks a certain charm anytime, least of all in my current wounded state) (But I parenth).

085cf2013facbb3c3e02a2bbc017e5f7--alarm-clock-app-storeSo this morning, before all my %^*%$ “get up in a positive mood” alarms went off, screaming at me to ‘drink water’, ‘stretch’, ‘be grateful’, I was dashing about in a polka-like rendition of the IKEA ad ‘The People are Coming” 

As a side comment, who on earth has a kitchen that organized? Well, I do know of one person, but she is a superhero and we can’t all be like her, can we?(CV, you know I mean you…)

Also, note to self: delete said programs and alarms. They are just depressing you in this heat. New goal: breathe without falling over.

So I spin about, trying not to use sprained hand and failing, throwing things in drawers, which, unlike in the IKEA ad, I have very few of so it is likely I shall find the things again. Possibly. I have ordered tracking devices.

images-32Meanwhile, Bendicks, my cat, decides this, yes this, is the time to show how truly gobshite-y he can be – eating all plastic items, thrusting his head into cupboards and extracting feminine supplies on which to chew, pushing things off counters, standing just in front of me so I can step on him and he can look wounded, vanishing who knows where….

Hmm. It’s quiet. Too quiet…just a mo…

<extracts long partially chewed piece of plastic from cat’s intestine>

funny-cat-pictures-i-dont-always-chew-on-plastic-bags

Yep. Summer. Be kind to one another. Hide your plastic bags.

Reunite the separated immigrant families!!! Oh, and while you are out? Impeach Trump and jail all his cronies, will ya?

 

Advertisements




Oh, Mouse!

5 04 2018

220px-TheMousesTale-Original.svgI’ve been reading a lot of research results lately and I’m starting to get disturbed. There are millions and millions of little mice going the way of all good research animals to help us figure out MS, Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s, and lots and lots of other disease entities.

I am grateful for their (unwilling) service. I can’t say to stop the research on these poor wee things, because their contribution has been massive. But I am beginning to worry about the net karmic loss of snuffing out all those millions of mice for every year of study. Sooner or later, the balance has to shift and we’ll all start dropping from some mouse virus and it will all be fair, really, given how many tiny souls we’ve sent over that crowded rainbow bridge.

Every time I inject myself with my “disease-modifying medication” I send a wee thank you to the mice who squeaked their way through the multiple trials before we even dared to give it to humans. There’s even a special kind of mouse, bred to develop an MS type illness so then they can try to treat it. Mice bred to develop all sorts of other illnesses, too. So not only do they live their lives in clear plastic cages with little sensory input, but they get illnesses they normally would never have to deal with.

Upon such tiny lives are ours based.

Now, I know, your average wild mouse has an extremely short lifespan. We aren’t White-mouse-in-lab-009necessarily changing the length of the life of these mice. We’re just making them miserable for all their lives.

Of course, I may be wrong. Perhaps there is an inheritability acceptance of their sterile home. Perhaps, like families who refuse to leave Cape Breton or Gimli or the Eastern Townships for generations, these little creatures know nothing else and so think they are in paradise. After all, they get fed. Their nests are clean. I’m not sure if they get to mate with other sterile mousekins (but they must – otherwise where would new sterile mice come from?)

And there is hope. Mice don’t accurately represent human diseases after all, and they are pricey. So many doctors are giving them up as research subjects. Stem cells are making big inroads into the mouse subject market.

I do hope we stop using animals for research eventually. Maybe we could use those stem cells. Or Republicans. Or the Liberal government in Nova Scotia at present. Something with no feelings. Just sayin’.

33be0193642b0173e0606d42c825e298





Hanging out in a liminal space

6 03 2018

liminal-space-definition-ofI have a feeling of being in transition, of being in between the not anymore and the not yet. I’ve been chewing on it ever since I saw my dear friend incarcerated in his body from a stroke, and struggling in a nursing home.

The push onto the threshold is also because this is my 60th year. My parents were wrapped in end-stage cancer by this age. I’d been married for a few years by that time, my children born before my mother left us. It is so hard to believe this was so long ago; also so hard to believe that I am this old. In my head, I am still a rollicking 45 – not as spry as a young ‘un, but no way am I as old as my parents were!

In a real life and space, I’d be planning for retirement, I’d be managing some poor employees, I’d be all serious and such. Maybe I’d even have learned to play golf. Instead, on my “freedom 50 get MS plan”, I’m looking down the wrong end of the telescope at a life that seems very far away.

Not that I don’t have one now – lucky me with friends and family and a view of the harbour and almost my health! I am definitely NOT complaining.

6c6a49f23bf8b7fb1bcff4f50f1a1971--love-birds-for-the-birdsI’m sensing a change coming, though, like a fresh wind. Maybe it’s the birds doing their still-chilly spring romantic dance. Maybe it’s the fact that sometimes, sometimes, I feel a bit like I can play the ukulele. Maybe it’s the repetitive strain injury from stabbing wool for hours…or the look of my still not right bedroom, covered in wool and still-waiting-to-be-unpacked necklaces and clothes.

I’m tempted to throw it all out. Sell it, give it up, start fresh. It seems to be on the backward side of the threshold. But what is on the other side? What can I do next?
When I was in first-year university, I didn’t have any money to buy my parents a160503_BOOKS_Allegory.jpg.CROP.promo-xlarge2 Christmas present. So I wrote them a story, about a unicorn and a girl making choices at a fork in the road. It was so dreadfully heavy with allegory I’m surprised my parents could lift it, let alone read it, but never mind, I can do a good preaching when I set my mind to it. They cried. My English teacher read it and told me it was trash.

images-8In the story, the Unicorn was there to help the girl along the rockier path she chose. It was meant to symbolize the coming of adulthood and the need to take on responsibilities, as it were. It had capital-B Bears in it who were my parents, who were ahead of me on this treacly road, who provided support from afar; it provided sympathy for what they’d lost by taking on adult responsibilities.

It was gruesome, I tell you. Whenever I am feeling too full of myself, I get it out and read it, and then go brush my teeth. Three times.

But I’m feeling that split in the road now. The need to figure out what this later bit of my life will come to mean. The tasks that will keep me sane. The things that will bring me joy. Housekeeping just ain’t it.

I know a few things will have to figure. Since my fall yesterday, I know I am going to have to throw myself back into physical fitness. My body is quitting on me, but that doesn’t mean I have to help it. It’s time to really allot time to exercise as I have done before. I’d say I should give up scotch, chocolate, and cheese, but let’s not get crazy here!

That means less crafting time, as all of that takes time and space.

I’m going to work on friendships, because I love them so much and often don’t get to meet up with my friends. (or family – that has to change, too) I don’t want to end up alone. I’ve seen how that can go, and it’s nasty.

This can also mean less crafting time, though most of my friends gather to do crafts, so maybe not…

Creativity is important to me, too – so I’ll have to work that in somewhere, somehow,00f5dde1205620d312e1ccceeabc3210 using words or needles and thread or wool or both.

So I’m standing on a doorstep. Time to step forward…just have to push myself through all of these piles of wool first…(but wait – I still want to try this, and make that, and there’s Alice and other stuff I could try and even little things …)

Maybe I’m not quite ready to step over that threshold … seems like I’ll be liminal for a while yet.

289317e37ddb8e845afd591d5538eff3

 





Restless Legs cured?

10 12 2016

quote-i-haven-t-found-anywhere-in-the-world-where-i-want-to-be-all-the-time-the-best-of-my-life-is-the-sean-connery-41134Well, not the medical malady. More the moving all the time thing. My friends mock me for it, those who choose to stay put for years and years can’t understand it, even the local landlords have taken to asking me prying questions about my moving history.

It’s true. Since I left my husband, I’ve moved a lot. Partially because of work, partially because I rent and so don’t HAVE to stay put. And partially, as my kids say, because I seem unhappy and can’t settle.

I’m not unhappy. Clinically depressed, probably. But not unhappy. I’ve loved all of my surroundings for various reasons, and disliked them for various reasons. My youngest son thinks I’m crazy to move so often but he moves every few months; my middle son changes jobs frequently. I suspect we all have somewhat restless souls.

When I first had to stop work, I moved to Ottawa to be close to the kids and still be near supportive services. I didn’t know how long this MS would give me to play. I wanted to be somewhere with good public transit and medical services in case things went bad.

But, after a year in Ottawa, my ex remarried and all of a sudden I needed to be further away. I still loved my in-law family but it was time to make space for his new wife in the constellation. It was too awkward for both of us to be there, me knowing the history, she knowing the present. I thought carefully, and decided to return to the sea, the place where my heart had settled, the divine and magical Nova Scotia.

5cc883be42d2e36462ba6d1389c495daTo my astonishment and gratitude, the MS thing seems to be taking me away slowly. Yes, walking can be a challenge. Yes, I lose my ability to think concretely if I am in a crowd or if there is noise or if I’ve done too many things that day. Yes, I’m in pain a lot of the time and numb even more. There are those other things, too, not to be mentioned in a public blog. Unless I’m tired and have lost my filter. Which happens a lot and explains why so many people know of my misadventure with the peppermint foot cream….

My plan had been to write and become a locally-known author. Instead I’m a somewhat known crafter and sometime writer, former volunteer and somewhat snarky group member (I never hung out in groups as a kid or adult and it still feels itchy now).

view-of-halifax-harbour-from-the-dartmouth-side-with-ferry-in-foreground-bepyed

my favourite mode of transportation

I’ve dug a cozy nest for me here, lined with wonderful friends who are surrounded by yarn or tasty treats or fun conversations or interesting life stories or all of the above. I feel blessed, most of the time. (Except when that MS chews at my brain and makes me think it is all for nothing. Most of the time I can whip my thoughts back into shape and I’m getting help for the times when I can’t. And my MS friends here understand and we laugh about it together until I feel better.)

I miss my family (just a wee bit far away), and I long, occasionally, for the bustle of Ontario. I miss my fabulous cousins, many of whom for SOME REASON live in Ottawa… But I have the sea, and that is a tremendous comfort. There’s vast, changing beauty, just outside my door…

I’ve moved a lot since I 20130101-downtowndecorations-06came to Dartmouth – started in the suburbs because of my dog, moved in closer each succeeding move, and now I am exactly where I want to be, tucked into
friendly downtown Dartmouth, steps from the waterfront and the ferry, and Halifax is a 15 minute boat ride away. My apartment is wonderful, if a bit snug. I hang out here with my cat and his fish and I can see the world going on outside my window. I run down a flight of stairs and I’m in the stream, part of the streetscape.

It’s strange to be comfortable here, especially as it is wonderfully noisy in the summer,

lakebanookf

Follow the ferry back and you’ll end up at my house!

hot and humid for months, and now I am currently freezing my tail feathers off * because of a heating system that is NOT geared to people who don’t work. High electricity rates during the day do not a warm DA make! But…it’s home.

Every once and awhile I think about buying property, but when I am sensible I know that this place is just enough for my energy level – easy to tidy, nothing too strenuous to accomplish, walking distance to everything. Heck, I rarely even have to cook, with places to grab a bite all over the place!

Can it be I am finally settled?

quote-there-came-a-time-when-you-realized-that-moving-on-was-pointless-that-you-took-yourself-stephen-king-51-62-59

hmm

*(I rather suspect I feel at home in the chill because my mother used to turn the furnace down to sub-zero to manage the bills on our huge house, especially during the oil crisis…my dad took to wearing a heavy wool hat in the evenings in protest. Maybe I should try that?)

 





On the Tragically Hip, terrible diagnoses, and the joy of embracing life

22 08 2016

CjOMqSUWUAAHMwpThere was a moment at the end of last Friday’s epic Tragically Hip concert when Gord Downie broke down in tears. No one made a comment. No one has commented since, as far as I can tell. But he was sobbing, his face spasmed in grief, his chest rising with deep, gut-wrenching sobs.

It was a moment. He flipped, made a face, motioned to the audience, and was ON again.

I am curious. Of course he has lots of reasons to sob – his diagnosis of terminal brain cancer, the end of a tour filled with love and affirmation of his life’s work, pure fatigue. He must be exhausted after such a tour, coming fast on the heels of surgery and radiation.

But the rest of the evening, he was so obviously enjoying himself. What turned his emotions on their heel at that moment? I wanted to send him a hug and chicken soup and some dark but not too dark chocolate and some really good whiskey all at once.

I’ve kind of been there, a bit. Before I was finally diagnosed with MS, they thought I had his very same cancer. The doctors told me it was probably a glioma, in my cerebellum. Those who know brain anatomy know that this is a sudden death sentence. I was 49 at the time.

Use_of_High_Field_Intraoperative_Magnetic

Not my brain but apparently a “low grade glioma”

In retrospect, I handled it badly. I had just separated from my husband of 23 years. My kids were still in shock at that. I couldn’t, in all conscience, visit this upon them, so I joked about it. “Hey,” I said to my youngest, “You’re good with graphic design. Could you make me a ‘Catch her before she croaks world tour’ shirt?” I told them my plan was to cash in all my savings and travel as long as I could. I didn’t tell them what I told my friends – that my plan was to kiss men in every country I went, to see if they tasted different.

My goal in joking about it was to make the kids not take it seriously. I don’t think they did, and in that respect I think I was successful.

But I grieved alone. Grieved the potential loss of seeing the kids grow up, see how their lives went. Grieved the loss of accomplishment I could have had,  the joys, the sorrows, the fun, the CHOCOLATE. On the other hand, the dieting I have done my whole life in spasms seemed unnecessary now. I knew the cancer would eat my body, pare it away.

Of course, I looked up gliomas on the internet. I figured I had six months before the vomiting and horrors started. I knew I wasn’t going to do chemo – had seen both parents through this and it wasn’t going to happen, ever. I did all of this research alone, numb, unable to take it on, not really.

I waited. Waited for the MRI that would let me know what was going on. I waited for two months – an impossibly short/long time. Short enough to make me worry I really WAS going to die. Long enough to give me time to chew my stomach raw. In Canada, our tests are rationed by degree of necessity. Usually, MRIs take over a year. The night I had gone to emergency with my vanishing vision, when they found the spot, they wanted to do an MRI that very night. Terrifying. I didn’t show it, but I was gazing at a precipice then, seeing darkness open in front of me. I didn’t show much to my dear friend Bob, who was there, or my ex, who came. I’d called them when I had to sign for the dye in the CT scan, thinking that if I did react to it, it might be good to have someone explain things to the kids.

Eventually, after I’d just gotten to the idea that perishing in six months might not be so horrible after all – no more icy winters, no more work, no more responsibilities – I got the results. Nope, I wasn’t dying. They had no idea what that spot was. They still don’t know. It is still there, probably has been there since I was a kid.

MS-MRI_gadolinium_535x314-01

More like my brain

Instead, they found lesions and holes all over my brain and spinal column. I had MS. Instead of spending all my money (and to be fair, my ex’s) in a wild play spree, I would have to hoard it, guard it, keep it safe so I could afford a good care facility should my disability take hold. Because MS doesn’t kill you. It just takes things way bit by bit until your body gives up, lets infection take hold, and you die in septicaemia, riddled with infection and unable to wipe your own runny nose.

It’s funny, but at the time, that seemed worse than the alternative. I remain undecided. But merciful gods have made my progress slow, and I’ve had lots of good times since the diagnosis.

So Gord, I hear you, man. I liked the way the announcers said “what MAY be their last concert”, offering that thread of hope that you, like me, might be offered a lifeline, a chance to see more, live more, sing more, write more. I so hope so, for you, though at some times the rapid exit might seem like a blessed release.

And thank you for letting your emotions show for that second. All of us who have been in your position, even partly, appreciate your openness.

Wishing you good times, however things go…

gord-downie-quotes-5





On porn, or the decidedly awkward moments of writing about sex

22 04 2016

As you may know, I have MS. As you also may know, I am writing a book about MS and relationships, particularly intimate relationships. Why? Well, they say, them as can’t do , teach…

Seriously, though, I started this project (to my children’s everlasting squeamishness) when I was first diagnosed with MS. I am single, and dating, and I wondered. So many of my friends with MS have given up sex, or have such difficulty with it. Their relationships suffer from these difficulties, or other problems with communication and touch.

I asked my neurologist about it and got inappropriate giggling. I asked the MS Society, and got the advice, “Talk to your partner”. My MS nurse said “Well, some people use a bag of frozen peas.” Giggling was demeaning, I didn’t have a partner, and I like to eat frozen peas, but not after using them for, ahem, other things.

It wasn’t enough information for me, and I wondered what others felt. We held an information session in Ottawa on sexuality and MS and it was a packed room, with people staying on to ask many questions. I did an online survey and over 100 participants had challenges and questions about sex and MS. They wanted information.

Girl-Hiding-Behind-BooksSo in I plunged, as it were. I’m a public health nurse by background, so a bit middle class and vanilla and of course have no experience in the darker arts of intimacy, so suffice to say it has been an education for me (and my long-suffering friends).

I’ve investigated all sorts of equipment, I’ve spoken to experts, I’ve looked at the scanty research. My borrowing history from the library is slightly embarrassing. For the most part, it has been fascinating – new information to me, some things I would never have known. Things like how people with MS may have difficulty interpreting facial expressions, or how we can lose concentration right in the middle of things through no fault of our own or our partners. All about sensory overload or underload and the challenges of incontinence and muscle spasms and the glories of sex furniture…(I’m saving up for a Liberator lounge, but primarily because it looks like a perfect place to curl up with a good book).

I’ve been to sex shops, played with the toys, found much to inappropriately giggle at. Investigated safe and unsafe nipple clamps and binding equipment, lifts and DIY vibrators. Wandered the aisles of Dollar and hardware stores with a titillated eye, looking for ticklers and sensation increasers.foodporn_july1

But what about porn? Some people find it arousing, so I figured it was something I should include for those who need a bit of visual help. Most porn is, to my mind, degrading and boring, but perhaps that’s just me. I asked at the sex shop – I didn’t want the icky stuff you can find online, I wanted the stuff that was deemed “female friendly”, the stuff that didn’t feature brutality and that maybe had a plot. My counsellor there was unenthusiastic. But she was a girl, and I honestly think it’s unusual for girls to enjoy porn – women seem to need more context, prefer a storyline, like Diana Gabaldon’s fantasy series. So I asked some guys of my acquaintance.

They sweetly, and shyly, shared their DVDs with me.

And nope. Still gruesome, still blah, still all too frantic and yet uninteresting for me.  Three thoughts occurred to me – first, honestly, why do people watch this stuff? Secondly, do people actually think sex is like this? And third, I can see immediately the urge to escalate.

See, it’s all pretty boring. In out in out. Same old. I always think of the late great Alan Rickman as the Metatron in Dogma,

Bethany: What’s he like?
Metatron: God? Lonely. But funny. He’s got a great sense of humor. Take sex for example. There’s nothing funnier than the ridiculous faces you people make mid-coitus.
Bethany: Sex is a joke in heaven?
Metatron: The way I understand it, it’s mostly a joke down here, too.

So what I got to wondering is, for the people who use porn as a stimulant, wouldn’t you get bored? Wouldn’t you want to up the ante, as it were? Wouldn’t you want to seek the more challenging sites? The ones with force or whatever? And how does this fit into our rape culture? What does constant exposure to porn do to our minds, our hearts, our sense of ourselves and others? What does it do to the image of loving connection?

I’ve got a list, from an expert, of possible okay movies and links to include in my book as a reference. I’m glad I had an expert to consult because I don’t want to take my brain there.

My dad once told me about how you have to be careful what you put into your mind. (He was right – I can still see the opening sequence of Friday the 13th Part 2, which I saw when I was in university back in the 80’s. To this day I look around before I open my fridge at night.) I don’t want to have images of women and men faking sexual enjoyment fill my head.

Right now I still think of sex as fun.

And funny. Where is the Metatron when I need him?

97232372366e55d0e7ee8bc0911e1b58





Well, F*** it all, anyway.

29 03 2016

img_1503-1I’m in a mood. I get in a mood whenever my MS takes a little bit more of me away.

When I’m IN that mood, the following things make me furious:

Statements like, on the Shift.ms website: “MS doesn’t mean giving up on your ambitions, just rethinking how to achieve them.” HA!

Statements like: “My XXX has had MS for years and she still walks five miles a day. Healthy living, you know.” GRR!

Statements like: “Oh, you don’t have spasms like XXX has. His are really bad.” OH REALLY???

Or anything that either suggests I can’t possibly do something, or, alternatively, that of course I can do something. Or people telling me I have it good, or people feeling sorry for me.

It’s an angry, crotchety place, my current locale, surrounded by thorns. Can’t move in any direction without being offended or put out or frustrated or angry. I’ve been in it for a few months now and I don’t like myself in this spot. I much prefer to be the cheerful, “Well, tomorrow is another day” kind of gal. The one who copes well all the time, the one who LIVES her life instead of dragging from one day to the other.

The one who doesn’t feel like ripping the throat out of anyone who says anything about MS or life or feeling or anything. Mine or their own.

My excellent counsellor tells me I am grieving. That I need to allow mys11855132-largeelf to grieve to let things go. Well, I don’t know how to grieve. I’ve never learned. I can fake it, yes I can, I can look moodily out into the middle distance, etc, etc, but grieve? Nope. Not in my makeup, not anymore. Too much has gone by ungrieved I have a bloody ice jam in there and the surroundings will likely be flooded if I chip away at things. So it just piles up in huge lumpy blocks of coldness…

So much hurt, so much loss, so many things I’ve tucked away into their own personal hurt lockers and slammed the door. Everything from when I gave out Valentine’s Cards in grade eight and the boys who received them put them on the floor and stomped on them, to when my brother called to tell me my dad had died and I was just pulling the turkey out of the oven for a dinner with friends and I sat there and made polite conversation like I didn’t care. From being a married mother of three to being a divorced mother of distant children. From living with the loss of my job and identity through MS through constant struggles to find meaning in the new life I deal with every day.

But then I give my head a shake. First world problems, I tell myself. You have enough money to have a comfy home, good food, can go out and have fun occasionally, you have friends who put up with you and the occasional more-than-friend who holds you close. Your cat loves you. So what if every action requires days of recovery? No one is bombing you or starving you (alas) or hurting you. You have nothing to complain about.

And truly, I don’t. I am grateful for so much, it seems churlish to complain.

So I’ll just try this grieving thing and hope I can undo the ice jam, just a bit. Time to think about my blessings. Time to do some “aggressive self-care”, as my lovely cousin puts it. Beware of flooding. And maybe take a page out of Roald Dahl’s theory of life and try to think happy again. If only to look lovely…

 

blogger-image-1098011542

 

 








Multiple Sclerosis Research Blog

A blog for people affected by Multiple Sclerosis. Interpreting good, bad and other research news

Destination Humanity

Chasing big dreams one photo at a time

Ingridphilipp's Blog

Just another WordPress.com weblog

*UNBREAKABLE QUEEN'S LIFE LESSONS DIARY*

Breaking Free From The Past, In Hope For A Bigger & Brighter Future

Christ a poet

one word at a time

%d bloggers like this: