Wednesday, March 12, 2025 - Day 211

Wednesday, March 12, 2025

Good morning, world!

Yesterday was another exhausting tax day. My “God wink,” Jim, returned for his review. The moment we saw each other, we both smiled. A brief chat, a warm connection—then he sat with another counselor while I tried to refocus on my own client. But my mind kept drifting back to Jim—his health struggles, his compassion for mine. When he finished, he made a point to come back, leaned in, and whispered, “Keep fighting and keep your spirits up. I’ll be praying for you.”

That kind of support is comforting, but when it happens all day long, it becomes mentally exhausting. It felt like there was a sign at the entrance announcing my ALS, inviting an endless stream of well wishes. I appreciate every one of them, but by the end of the day, they weigh on me.

Then came my breaking point. Cindy, a 65 year old widow I’ve known for years, sat down across from me. She beamed, saying she’d hoped I’d be the one doing her taxes. It’s a complete toss-up who gets assigned to whom, so it felt like fate. We got down to business, but as soon as she noticed my cane, the focus shifted. I told her my story, and she melted. Tears streamed down her face—so many that she had to get up and grab a napkin from the table where the donuts sat untouched. (No one has time for a break anyway.)

I pressed on, trying to stay focused, but she kept asking questions. All while still crying. I answered as best I could, repeating to myself: Stay strong. Hold it together. An hour passed as I paged through her mountain of tax documents, including a 75-page broker statement. My barely functioning thumbs struggled to flip through them, and I came close more than once to dropping the whole pile on the floor.

Then, I made the mistake of mentioning Alex’s wedding in September…which I told myself…don’t do it. My voice caught, emotions surged, and suddenly, I could barely get the words out. I don’t even know if she understood anything I said. I’m not sure I did.

She apologized for my situation, saying, “It’s not fair.” I replied, “Life isn’t fair to so many people.” And then I reminded her, “It wasn’t fair when your husband was senselessly killed in a robbery at his “little neighborhood store.” (This store is a mile down the road from out home.)

She brushed it off as if 25 years had erased the pain. Maybe that’s how she copes. Still, unfairness isn’t exclusive to me. I’m not alone in my struggles.

I finished up her taxes, and as she got up, she asked for a hug. I didn’t mind—it was good for both of us. Thirty minutes later, after her review, she returned for another hug, her eyes still wet.

I love seeing my clients, some of whom have become friends, but the emotional weight of these conversations is making each day harder. Maybe I need a different version of my story—one that doesn’t always break hearts.

The day ran late again. I rushed out, exhausted, to meet the usual group at Sew Hop’d brewery. By the time we got home at 6:00, my legs wobbled as I struggled inside. I collapsed onto the couch, threw my feet onto the coffee table, took a deep breath, and closed my eyes. A long day. A short nap. Then dinner, and finally, bed.

Eight more tax days to go. I hope I have the strength to get through them.

Have a great Wednesday.

Love you guys!❤️