It was a colder and rainy night when we nestled in...

to our new digs. If someone says "move" or even suggests it, I stress. "Move" is a four letter word and the process involves too many phone calls, a cost analysis, re-arranging schedules, dumping clothes and books in boxes-and that is enough, but not a complete list.

The last time I moved was from Columbus, Ohio to Frisco, Texas in 2011. I accepted my dream job that I longed for. The blessing came with challenges. In October, my grandfather passed away. It hit me harder than I anticipated. Watching a loved one pass away while their spouse (my grandmother) looked on was painful. Dementia is like watching someone die twice. I was close to my grandparents. In late November, I had bronchitis and walking pneumonia. In December, on prednisone and antibiotics, we moved one cat that my buddy said he could take, but ended up not being able to take and the matching grey girls. That illness was the beginning of true descent into the seventh circle abyss of six years of autoimmune hell.

My previous move was paid for this one was not. The movers packed up my stuff. This move, the movers packed up and moved everything. Fortunately, most of my stuff is clothes and books, which can be dropped into boxes without messing with my health.

This move went smoothly. In fact, all conditions taken into account, it went smoother than the last move. I owe a debt of gratitude and the rest of my restaurant gift certificates to the man who reinforced the move idea that I previously mulled over. I am so grateful as is my family. My allergies and fears have subsided.