It was 1998 and I had just moved to Louisville, Kentucky, very close to where I grew up as a child.  I was returning to my native state to care for my mother who was dying of ovarian cancer and her mother who was bedbound by a stroke.  My life had been interrupted and part of me was okay about that and part of me was not.  Caregiving can be hard.


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When I take a mental health day, I don’t generally curl up on the sofa with a good book (although during the winter that’s about all I like to do) but rather I draw a 150 mile radius around Washington, DC where I live and head for a hideaway that looks appealing.  With my mind on overload from another iteration of health reform legislation and trying to decipher whether the public option will kill the deal, I headed to


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