Friday, March 7, 2025

Friday, March 7, 2025


Day 206

Good morning, everybody.

Just when I thought I had a grip on my emotions, the bottom dropped out early in the day.

I was reading a comment on the blog—a message from one of Cindy’s longtime high school besties. It was full of kindness, compassion, and encouragement. I had read it a few times already, and each time, it brought tears to my eyes. Cindy hadn’t seen it yet, so I tried to read it aloud to her. I barely got two words out before my voice cracked. Determined to power through, I kept going, even as my words turned into a mumbled jumbled mess. I could understand myself, but I realized Cindy probably couldn’t. I paused and asked, “You can’t make out a single word I’m saying, can you?” “Nope,” she said, shaking her head with a smile.

I laughed, wiped my eyes, and set the comment aside. Maybe I’d try again another day, or maybe Cindy would just have to read it herself.

Then off to do taxes. At 9:30 am, a client showed up without an appointment, and our greeter, seeing I was the only one available, sent him over. We were already overbooked, with a rush of clients expected any minute. But there he was, taking a seat and handing me a thick stack of tax documents.

I introduced myself, and he did the same—his name was Jim. I told him about our overbooked situation and that he was lucky to get a seat. No matter, he was in front of me and I was going to prepare his tax return.

As I asked about his tax situation, I learned that his wife, recovering from knee surgery, was a hospice nurse who had been in the field for 40 years. My mind immediately went to my “to-do” list from the ALS clinic—researching local hospice options. JourneyCare was one of them, so I asked if he’d heard of it.

Without hesitation, Jim said, “They’re one of the best.”

Then came the inevitable question. “Why do you ask?”

I told him about my ALS.

His voice softened. “I’m so sorry,” he said.

“Thank you,” I replied, and we continued with his tax prep.

A few minutes later, Jim shared that he had hereditary congestive heart failure. He had been managing it for years with a defibrillator, a pacemaker, and regular check-ups with his cardiologist.

“I’m sorry” was my reply.

And just like that, two strangers with life-altering diagnoses found themselves talking about more than numbers and tax forms. We talked about life, attitude, and the fight to keep going. It felt more like group therapy than tax prep, and for the first time, I didn’t mind.

At certain moments, we both teared up. I struggled to focus, making simple mistakes on his return and I knew I was going to have to review my own work. The conversation was easy, natural, and, in a way, healing.

Then I glanced at the clock—over an hour had passed. I looked up and realized the waiting area was nearly full. Yikes. Time to wrap this up.

I refocused, corrected my errors, and finished Jim’s return. When I handed him his paperwork, he extended his hand. The handshake was firm, warm—almost like a hug. It felt good. Hard to explain, but good.

“Glad I got to meet you,” I told him. “Me too,” he said.

I asked him to come back Tuesday with his wife so another counselor could review and file his taxes. “Take care of yourself between now and then,” I said. “I want to see you back here.” Earlier in our conversation, he had told me he could pass at any time. He made no promises and off he went.

Then I moved on to the next client, spending the rest of the day playing catch-up. Yeah, we shouldn’t have accepted the walk-in. But I’m really glad we did—and that I was the one who got to meet Jim.

Have a great day everyone.

Love you guys!❤️