EMOTIONAL SIDE EFFECTS

Part of the THIS IS THE MOMENT series

November 25th, 2018

 My understanding of what it means to sign on to a cancer research protocol is becoming clearer with every passing week. My nose is no longer glued to the window of treatments in the same way. I’m acculturating.

If I’ve understood correctly, the aim of the team of specialists who are shaping my life is to keep me in the full chemo protocol for a year, and then continue a second year just with Nivolumab, the immunotherapy drug.

Five weeks ago, I would have flinched at hearing this: only the first part would have registered. A YEAR of chemo? What human body can take that much abuse?

And then the first scan results came in, and I now know, for certain, that at least all of this isn’t in vain, and that modern science and my body have linked up and are giving me a fighting chance to stay alive a while longer. A GOOD while longer, is what I’m hoping and feeling.

Cast in this light, I think I can put up with whatever new side effects present themselves. Well…maybe that’s a bit too confident, but I do feel a renewed love of this carcass of mine, this sixty year-old body that has been asked to ascend the heights of Mordor. I’m so grateful for what it has accomplishing with the help of state-of-the-art medicine.

Rereading these paragraphs, I see how much Me-Me-My-I is in them, and it’s unsettling. Just a few days ago, I finished Nina Riggs’ The Bright Hour: A Memoir of Living and Dying. It’s a compelling, difficult book because Riggs wrote it while she was dying of metastatic breast cancer that spread to her bones and lungs over a period of two years. She barely reached the age of forty, and left behind two preadolescent sons.

I will not forget Nina Riggs, nor her challenging ordeal (her martyrdom, really): the early false hope, the rapid spread of her disease that became unstoppable, the painful treatments and myriad side effects she dealt with so courageously, so…adamantly. The last year of her life was a torment, and yet she held on.  I don’t know exactly what drove her to dig so deep, but I suspect that it was her inability to accept leaving her children, whose lives and cares she shares in the book.

Her story presented me with one of the many scenarios that might await me, or any of us really, except that I’m right at the portal—the entrance to the place where the end is. I think Nina Riggs hung on as long as there seemed to be a path to follow: a new drug, a different protocol, a new surgery, a better pain killer. Until these and her tortured body were exhausted.

Nina Riggs

Whatever awaits me, I’m in this new life for 2 years. That’s what I signed for. It isn’t a comfortable feeling, but there’s something reassuring about knowing that a whole medical team is committed to me and to treating my cancer for such a significant period.

And so it is that I’m tied to two-week cycles in a two-year experiment. Minus one eighth, because I’m now three months in. It’s all very rational, very professional.

But within this structure is a simple patient: me. And while the physicians go about their business at the CHUM, wearing white coats and monitoring my case on their computers, I only live in their world for very short spurts: one day for tests and seeing the doctors, and one day for chemo, with extra days for tests as new side effects manifest themselves.

Most of this research protocol, this medical study, I carry home with me. It’s lived with friends, family, acquaintances and strangers. And my life is largely devoted to finding ways to make it all fit together, and to overcome my sense of uselessness and incapacity.

The truth is, I can’t do what I was able to do just 4 short months ago. Before chemo began, I imagined a life regularly chopped up into a few bad days and a bunch of good days—normal days—when I would be able to do pretty much anything I wanted. But that isn’t the way it is. There’s no more normal. There’s just managing change.

I no longer have the energy to go from place to place teaching adults. That life feels so far away. I can’t depend on my legs to feel strong under me. They’ve lost their bounce and these days, I’m just happy that they can get me to where I want to go.

I’ve told you about my hands and feet, which are fragile things now, with skin that burns in some places, is numb and thick in others or peeling off in strips. Opening a bottle of Tylenol, opening a jar of jam, putting on socks, holding a cup, using a chopping knife…All of these hurt, and are not always possible. So I ask for help.

My eyes are experiencing changes and there are times when, well into a great book, they simply won’t focus and instead start leaking, and I have to stop. My reading glasses are always cloudy, which makes me wonder whether the eye goop is continually splashing somehow onto my lenses.  My gums burn when I chew gum and when I use toothpaste. My lips burn when I drink hot fluids. The inside of my mouth seems to always be coated with dead cells that make my mouth feel a bit like it’s lined with tapioca. My super dry nasal passages are permanently coated with bloody clumps of mucus that are sensitive and make my sinuses ache when I breathe, usually just when I’m trying to fall asleep. I pulled a square one-inch patch of thick white skin off the bottom of my foot yesterday, which came off like wax. No pain, and the skin beneath ready to take over. The undersides of my feet are a bruised red (where they aren’t snow white). The rims around my toenails are chocolate brown.

Pearce, Rodney; Mother Figure; Cheltenham Art Gallery & Museum; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/mother-figure-61968

When the thermometer plunges, being outside triggers not only neuropathic pins and needles in my feet and hands, it also causes small spasms under any skin that’s exposed to the cold and wind, such as the tissue around my eyes, or else my cheeks or my chin, and I feel as though I’m grimacing, even if no one seems to notice. It forces me to bundle up like a fragile old woman.

Side effects of chemo. All of them. They’re predictable and monitored by the oncologists and nurses and usually, they can be alleviated enough that my “quality of life” (this is their great preoccupation) isn’t too negatively affected.

But what of the other side effects? There are so many parts of their chemo experience that patients keep to themselves—the interpersonal, intimate side effects that are also borne by the people they love. Sometimes, physical and emotional side effects become entangled.

For example, as the weeks of chemo have added up, Christian has taken to coming to my room now and then at bedtime, once we’ve both washed up and have put on our pajamas. The first few times, he asked me if I minded (of course I didn’t), and after that, he just text messaged from his room: “Can I come over?”.  All he does is lie down on the bed beside me—I’m usually propped up and reading—and snuggles. Me and my 27-year-old baby.

Dewan, Indra; Mother and Child; Art & Heritage Collections, Robert Gordon University; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/mother-and-child-105357

There are times when we’ll just lie there quietly, our foreheads touching. Mostly though, we’ll talk about anything and everything but sometimes about small, meaningful things, like the fact that for most of his life, the thought of losing me was his worst nightmare (now that he has wonderful Vickie, those thoughts are waning). A simple phrase, but one that conjures the pain my illness is causing him. Or, on another evening, he told me how difficult it was when he first had the thought that I might not be the grandmother his children know.

There’s a special kind of awfulness to those kinds of thoughts spoken aloud when you’re in chemo. They hurt in an acute, specific way. They’re words that you can’t step out of the way of, they always hit, and that’s because their intention is sincere, and the bullseye is love. The thing is, I can’t always hide my reaction, and so, when I cry, my face scrunches up in a particularly ugly way because crying hurts my face since I’m in chemo. But what can I do? I cry. Then it passes.

McCall, Charles James; Pensive Woman; York Museums Trust; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/pensive-woman-8323

I worry too about Simon, and what will happen if I die too soon, before he’s ready to handle all of the expenses of our new home. I think about him alone in this big place. I mentioned this once, and he told me that he had friends—a couple I know—who would perhaps share in a new multi-family configuration. Reassuring words. But awful words too, because they told me that his mind has had to go there more than once since my diagnosis, to the future place where I no longer live.

All of the thoughts and worries and practicalities that my sons are dealing with, and the responsibility I bear for them…No one told me about side effects like these.

 

AT THE END OF THE DAY : recent observations from chemo base camp, part 2

PART OF THE THIS IS THE MOMENT SERIES

September 20th, 2018

Last Sunday, a full 11 days into my second chemo cycle, when my energy and spirits should have been restored, I tumbled into sadness again. It started in my bedroom, at day’s end, just like the previous time. It wasn’t as easily shaken off. It stayed longer. The next morning, as our paths crossed in the kitchen before he left for work, Simon asked me how I was, and I started to tell him what had come over me the previous night, and then, right there in the kitchen, with no means to stop them, the tears started pouring out again.

Imagine behaving in such a way with someone about to set off to a heavy, fairly stressful day? (there was lots going on at John Abbot College this past week). I couldn’t help it, but it didn’t last long, in part because Simon stopped and spoke to me in a way that was immensely helpful—a mixture of empathy and scientific objectivity— and also, I think, because before finally falling asleep on Sunday, I’d had time to do some self-interpreting.

I’d had a happy, gorgeous Sunday. It was warm and sunny, and my son Jeremy, daughter-in-law Anne and Penelope and Graeme, my 6 and 4-year-old grandchildren, were coming for the day.

We had fun! They were so delightful, so happy to be here with their parents and uncles and me, their grand-maman. But Penelope was nursing a cold from her first few weeks back in school (grade 1), which meant that I wouldn’t be able to touch her or hug her; and even though this was apparently explained to her easily enough, it stuck with me. It hurt.

A little later, maybe because she was watching Graeme doing something physical outside in the yard, I heard Penelope say: “Oh mama, what if this cold never goes away?”

Sigh. The flash of a child’s anxiety whose tiny echo reached me in a way that it couldn’t have reached anyone else.

And then, very soon after, Graeme retrieved a small dragon stuffie that had been left by accident in the toy box at our house after his last visit. When I told him that he could just bring it back home, he looked up at me and said: “It’s okay Grand-maman, I want to leave it here. You can take it and put it in your bed and when you wake up, you’ll think of me.”

Graeme’s stuffie

 Sigh. Well, I did it of course, and since then, I often hold it close to my chest when I’m curled up in bed. Yesterday, it travelled to chemo with me.

The prescience of children is astonishing. They know deeply, without knowing all.

My hair is falling out— “thinning” is what my nurse and my hairdresser say, but at this rate, there’ll be nothing left in a matter of days or weeks—and it’s having a demoralizing effect. On that day, it got me thinking that it’ll soon be necessary to tell P&G something about what’s happening. The thought of causing anyone I love pain is a constant torment these days.

The view from my bed

At bedtime on Sunday night, these thoughts got all tangled up with the medical experiment that my life has become, and it occurred to me that contrary to the experiences of my mum, whose chemo 5 years ago lasted 3 months; and to the journey of a former neighbour and friend, whose chemo lasted 6 months, I still had no idea when my chemo will end. In spite of all of the love and support I receive EVERY DAY, there is still a knot that forms itself inside me: a mixture of fear and fatigue and a sense of somehow still being alone in this drama, and of regret, too, that any of this might infect the wellbeing of anyone around me, and anyone who stays in touch, no matter the distance that separates us.

Haircut, in hope of saving it!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Receiving chemo , cycle 3

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I found a Frida Kahlo quote the other day that describes the human journey perfectly:

At the end of the day, we can endure much more than we think we can.”

HERE’S MY CHEMO COCKTAIL MENU AND THE ORDER IN WHICH IT’S ADMINISTERED TO ME EVERY 2 WEEKS:

  1. Nivolumab 240 mg, IV
  2. Decadron and Zofran  : 2 capsules each, orally, pre-emptively, to control the nausea that’s cause by Avastin
  1. Avastin 320 mg , IV
  2. Leucovorin 704 mg, IV
  3. Oxaliplatin 150 mg, IV
  4. 5 FU (Fluorouracil) bolus *
  5. 5 FU (Fluorouracil) 4224 mg, IV /46 hours **

Notes:

*A bolus is a single dose of a drug or other medicinal preparation given all at once.

The infuser of 5 Fu (hidden below) is attached to the port-a-cath in my chest, with lots of bandaging to make sure it stays on.

**I also receive a huge dose of the same 5 FU. An infuser bottle is filled with it and hooked up to the port-a-cath in my upper right chest. From the moment I leave the hospital, to the moment it is removed 46 hours later at my local CLSC, it will continuously pump 5 FU into my body. So really, my chemo lasts 3 days. The infuser is with me everywhere I go for those 2 days, in a fanny pack I wear just below my breasts, in a kind of reverse-geisha look. It infuses best at body temperature and so stays very close to me, except to sleep, when I then must sling the fanny pack over the bed post, and kind of hide it behind my pillow, without moving too much and accidentally pulling on it in my sleep. This seemed like something impossible to adhere to, or at least a guaranteed insomnia inducer, but so far, it hasn’t been as bad as it sounds.

The last three drugs on the list are part of what is a standard protocol for treating colorectal cancer, nicknamed Folfox (which is less of a mouthful!).

Simon keeping me company (and correcting tests) 🙂

Because my cancer is a wanderer, I’m also being given Avastin (that’s the name it’s sold under, but it’s actually Bevacizumab, which, frankly is a terrible tongue-twister and sounds even nastier when you try to say, in rapid succession, Nivolumab / Bevacizumab, which I honestly couldn’t manage at first but which the oncology team were just whipping out like nobody’s business).

The view from my chair at chemo

But the central piece in the research protocol I’m participating in is Nivolumab, which is nothing like the other drugs, as it is an immunotherapy drug:

It is a human IgG4 anti-PD-1 monoclonal antibody. Nivolumab works as a checkpoint inhibitor, blocking a signal that would have prevented activated T cells from attacking the cancer, thus allowing the immune system to clear the cancer…” (from Wikipedia). The science on Nivolumab is high level but largely inaccessible to most people, because the papers are far too technical. I rely on my son Simon and his PhD in biology, to vulgarize it for me. What he’s read is very exciting so far.

One of the chemotherapy rooms at the CHUM

This is given to me over a 5 to 6-hour period, depending on how efficient the hospital lab is on that day. It’s a massive chemical blow, and some of it, like Oxaliplatin, is really just pure poison. Though I’m called in at 9 am and usually arrive there at 8 am to signal to the pharmacists that I’m present (and can they please get cracking preparing the prescribed drugs?), I have never begun my infusions before 11 am. It’s a long day, but I’m in such good company—with Christian, or Simon, or both, and next time, my friend Louise— and the environment itself is so bright (all the exterior walls are windows) and brand new, and actually quite convivial, that though the hours pass slowly—there’s just no getting around that—they pass peacefully. I feel that I am in good hands.

I always travel there by train, and usually get home the same way, except that Simon’s car or my car are waiting in the parking lot at one of three stations (depending on circumstances and schedule and weather and parking availability), and that’s how we finish our journey home from the CHUM. A 60 km trip from door to door.

A lot is sacrificed to the beats of a life in chemo. Work, insouciance, freedom, wellbeing, energy, personal vanity…

The days are not expansive. They are calibrated and limited by the physical energy that’s available.

The needs of the body are merciless and will not allow neglect.

I am at basecamp, in full view of the mountaintop.

Innes, James Dickson; Arenig Mountain; Glynn Vivian Art Gallery; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/arenig-mountain-227067

 

EXPRESSIONS OF RESISTANCE

I arrived home yesterday depleted. That’s really the only word for it despite the fact that it was a good day. Wednesday is my hardest and longest teaching day. Paying such close attention to people who are nestled so closely around me for hours on end may, in fact, draw out of me more than it does some of my colleagues. Perhaps more than I’m really able to give.

November Sunset, photo by me
November Sunset, photo by me

At the end of such a day, it makes sense that I just wanted to head home to lay low, to have several cups of steaming tea and soothe my vocal chords.

I dropped all of my bags, set the kettle on the stovetop and opened this laptop. I do this to reconnect with the world that I’m drawn away from by my work and my absences. I move from my email inboxes to Facebook, seeing what I’ve missed (or briefly caught on the screen of my IPhone before it flitted away).

It’s a highly interactive but quiet world that is both a highway of engagement with others and one of my favourite places of retreat.

November 17th, the sun through my kitchen window
November 17th, the sun through my kitchen window

I discover brilliant sites online that I subscribe to happily and which now fill my Inbox every day with notices. I skim through the online papers though there are too many.  I visit the surface of the lives of the people I care about, wanting to see the evidence, through pictures, posts and messages, that they’re well, that they’re still there. I’m apprehensive about letting any of them fall through the cracks of my awareness.

 

When I got home yesterday, Christian and my husband were sitting together watching something on Netflix. Everything about the scene and the feeling in the house was benign and calm, except me.

Victor Hugo, La Pieuvre

I couldn’t bring myself to go sit with them; it was too soon. So I opened up this laptop. And scrolled. And scrolled. And scrolled. And was inundated by posts about the Trump presidency. Facebook’s algorithms saw to it that all of them—from the most considered and balanced to the most polemical and shrill—were unrelentingly distressing, worrying, disturbing, depressing and alienating. This stream was magnified by the posts of friends and their friends from both sides of the border who are, as I am, in agony.

 

This election year in the country of my neighbours to the South has filled me with a sense of dread. There’s a darkness in the world that has revealed itself and that clings to me.

I know how this sounds. But I also know that I’m a healthy and emotionally balanced, level- headed, very intuitive woman and I trust what I’m feeling.

I’ve been alerted.

Warned.

I feel the breath of something that wills ill. Something that’s tearing the social fabric in an unendurable manner. Something that it may take decades to heal from. Something that seeks to separate us from each other and divert us from what we must do and become.

More immediately, it’s a dark energy that will envelop and endanger the people I love: my students from all around the world, my children and grandchildren who will be more wounded than I because they’re still headed into the biggest portion of their lives.

There are so many voices crying out these days. Some of them (many?) screaming painful, ugly, vile things that infect everyone. But many, too, yelling out like sonar beacons in search of kindred minds and spirits and the reassurance of these connections. People of kindness and conscience.

I don’t feel that there is an US and a THEM.

This dark thing that hovers over us all is about inequality, despair, fear, tribalism, malice, innocence, ignorance, corruption, rapaciousness, cynicism, greed, misfortune, selfishness, the degradation of modern life, insecurity, exploitation, and a sociopathy that normalizes and institutionalizes everything that breaks down the connections between us and the planet which is our shared home.

Surveillance, by Levalet

Facebook has hugely amplified my bewilderment and sadness in the wake of the rise of Donald Trump and his entourage. It’s true. Sometimes, what I read there makes me queasy.

I think maybe that’s part of what was happening to me yesterday when I sat down after work. I just felt sad. It was a heavy and cold feeling. It was that longing for a good cry. It’s what creeps in when my energy is low.

In recent weeks, I’ve come to understand that maybe suffering is part of what I’m meant to experience. When there’s little else a person can do to effect immediate change in the face of a terrible wrong, owning the suffering that emanates from that darkness is something. It’s a valuable first step.

This seems to be a shared sentiment because, beyond the unrelenting stream of post-election news online, there are the cries of many voices expressing pain and distress. And also a desire for something good and just and universal.

Melancholy, by Alyssa Monks

From the pain comes resistance. I’ve felt this too and I watch its myriad expressions and modulations appear online every day, especially among artists and writers.

I’ve recently been invited to join other writers searching for a means to combine their voices in an expression of resistance to the darkness, certainly, but also, hopefully, to build pathways of understanding and unity between us.

I want to be part of this movement, but I know that I’m not a political writer. I hope I’ll be able to find a way to contribute something that’s meaningful and useful even though it’s personal.

On the table yesterday, I found a package from Amazon addressed to me (most of them are and most of them contain books). Inside, I found three volumes of Mary Oliver’s poetry. Lean, lovely books that weigh nothing in the hand but somehow have such import.

I opened the smallest one first, A Thousand Mornings, and read one poem after another. At first, I thought that I would break down and cry—her work is so beautiful—but I couldn’t stop reading. There was such grace and truth in the short poems I pored over that I felt them lifting my spirits almost immediately. I can only describe this as a moment of quiet bliss.

The ones I found most beautiful are the ones that spoke to the pain inside me yesterday. Who knows which will resonate in a week or a month from now.

Here are two of them:

 THE MORNING PAPER

By Mary Oliver

Read one newspaper daily (the morning edition

is the best

for by evening you know that you at least

have lived through another day)

and let the disasters, the unbelievable

yet approved decisions,

soak in.

I don’t need to name the countries,

ours among them.

What keeps us from falling down, our faces

to the ground; ashamed, ashamed?

 

POEM OF THE ONE WORLD

By Mary Oliver

 

This morning

the beautiful white heron

was floating along above the water

and then into the sky of this

the one world

we all belong to

where everything

sooner or later

is a part of everything else

which thought made me feel

for a little while

quite beautiful myself.

MOVING ON

It has begun surfacing once again— intermittent, sudden, fleeting.

Something that I can best describe as an internal lurch; a quick and uncomfortable dropping feeling in my belly that catches me off guard.

And I’m reminded that though I’m absorbed in what I’m doing: preparing to teach, heading off to teach or actually in class with my adult students, my body knows that change is just around the corner, and sends tiny internal depth charges to remind me.

It’s a very familiar feeling of apprehension mixed with a drop of dread that’s part of a cycle that I’ve lived with for the past 7 years.

 

It’s almost time to move on.

 That’s my body’s message. For five of the ten groups that are mine right now, our story ends next week.

That’s because all of the contracts that allow me to go to students working in companies around the city eventually come to an end—usually after five to eight months.

  

When I start a new contract and meet a brand new group of students, strangers all, it always feels fresh and hopeful, the way beginnings should feel, and the road ahead feels clear and promising. It’s the luxury of time.

Though I’ve had many dozens of such groups since I began teaching French, and come to this point of parting with them time and time again, it’s still as hard as it was the first time.

 

When you care about things, it ends up wearing you out.” 
― Sakisaka Io

 

I first started in my school board’s adult education centre. It was a real boom period then, and classes were filled with people committed to learning French thirty hours a week. Imagine that. Thirty hours. Groups of twenty to twenty-five people brought together, full-time, hoping to emerge speaking a new and essential language.

I was always given the beginners, the newbies, which is a fantastic privilege because it gave me the chance to welcome them into this new French-speaking world. To set the tone. To make them forget all of their fears and previous experiences of school. To relax and trust themselves, and trust their classmates, and trust me.

It has always felt important that my students enter class with a smile, but even more so that they leave smiling.

 

Oh! the insanity of it. Because each level lasted only eight weeks. Intense as it was, our time together was a mere two months. Sometimes I got to take them a further 8 weeks, but not always. And so, that last day of each term was a big, messy, bittersweet party that included an international (and delicious!) pot luck lunch.

It was incredibly gratifying and also just exhausting for me and I always came home feeling wrung out, a bit low, and relieved that the pressure of parting had been released.

11150706_10155502217315111_1921453005573105199_n

Parting with friends is a sadness. A place is only a place.”– Frank Herbert

 

The special allure of adult language education is that each student in my class is a peer. And each is a potential friend. Could be. Might become one.

Going into companies to teach changed things around for me because in most places, I only see my students once a week for two to three hours—just a drop in the bucket—but we journey together this way for four or six or nine months at a time.

 

 IMG_3111

The average size of a group is usually six, though it can drop to three or go as high as a dozen; and this has freed me. In the intimacy of a small group, no one is ever looking at another person’s back—we are always in a circle, always face to face. In a small group, names are learned quickly and a far more personal tone is set. Also, the possibilities of what I can bring to them and what we can discuss and undertake isn’t as rigidly structured as the Ministry of Education program. Everything is fodder for conversation in French.

You can’t hide in a small group.

IMG_20160427_143023

 

Each develops its own, unique chemistry that leaves a distinctive imprint on my memory. I remember them in feelings. I remember the interplay between them: the unexpected pairings of personalities that emerged in class. I remember what made them laugh. And which of them made me laugh. I also remember what made them fearful and stressed—lay-offs and company closings are the darkest possible clouds that we’ve travelled under.

 

Also, I suppose I wanted to say goodbye to someone, and have someone say goodbye to me. The goodbyes we speak and the goodbyes we hear are the goodbyes that tell us we’re still alive, after all.” 
― Stephen King
Wolves of the Calla

 

When I say goodbye to five of my groups next week, it will be without knowing how long these goodbyes will last.

IMG_3416

Just two days ago, in the company cafeteria, a man tapped me on the shoulder and said Bonjour Madame, and I recognized Luren, an intense and interesting man who had been my student in 2012 at a different company location. He was starting his day and only had a minute, but he wanted me to know that he had been back to Peru and had married a woman that he had known since childhood, and that he was very happy. When we parted he said, smiling, that perhaps we would meet again in a French class.

These are special moments in my life, when I feel how lucky I am that my work brings me into this stream of humanity.

 

Album art work for Pink Floyd’s The Endless River 

Next week, we’ll say hopeful au revoirs. Maybe classes will begin again some time next year, and many of these wonderful people will re-register. In an ideal world, we could pick up where we left off.

Maybe some will find me on Facebook and I will be given a different window into their lives.

Maybe that’s it, and I will never see them again.

Or maybe, like Luren, we will meet unexpectedly one day.

When that day comes, even if it’s years down the road, please, may I remember their names.

Here’s to:

Paola, Leon, Ying Yao, Anita, Liang Yu, Leonardo, Georgi, Graham, Chih Tao, Daniel, Yun, Azer, Leo, Keith, Jun, Pramod, JiaCong, Hong Ming, David, Manish, Stephen (Big Steve), Amira, William, Cristinel, Calin, Azadeh, Emanuele, Veli, José, Li, Yan et Manmohan.

IMG_3436

There is no real ending. It’s just the place where you stop the story.” 
― Frank Herbert