Hello Everyone!
I'm glad to a part of this forum. I have been browsing through some of the posts, and I see you all are very supportive. I have been looking for a place to come to talk about everything that has happened to me for a long time.
I'm newly "unofficially" diagnosed with Crohn's. I am hoping and praying to the good Lord above that this will finally be the answer to my prayers so that I am finally able to be treated.
This is my nightmare: (It's going to be long. I'm sorry. I have never typed this out. The only people who know are my family and close friends.)
I had mostly normal bowel habits my entire life up until 2008. I started having quite a bit of diarrhea, but chalked it up to drinking too much coffee, so I didn't take meds for it, or complain too much. Then, in June of 2008, I became very ill with vomiting, diarrhea, abdominal pain, and fever. I thought it was food poisoning. When it didn't clear up after three days, I went to see my doctor. At the time, my husband (I'll call him John) was with a Special Ops unit in the Army, and we had our own on-call doctor and nurse. I had their cell phone numbers. I went in to see him and he gave me tummy meds, told me to rest, and I went home. A week goes by, and I'm no better. I insist to him that something is wrong. He says that it must be a virus and to just rest. Over the next few days, I do start feeling better until one night after I put my kids to bed. I started having terrible stomach pain, vomiting, and more diarrhea. At the time, John was on a three month depolyment rotation in Afghanistan, so I called my neighbors, who I was close to, to come and help me. One was a medic. He took one look at me and called 911. I was rushed off to the hospital.
A lot of military wives get a bad wrap for being attention-seekers, drug-seekers, and hypochondriacs. I was about to bear the brunt of this for the next several years.
As soon as I was wheeled into the E.R. The charge nurse leaned over me screaming at the E.M.T. for starting an I.V. on me because she couldn't put me out in the waiting room. I knew that this visit wasn't going to be pleasant. After an ultrasound, and several hours, I was diagnosed with gall stones. I was given an I.V. push of dilaudid, tummy meds, percoset, and sent home with instructions to follow up with my doctor. I called him the next day and he put through a referral for me to see a surgeon at our base hospital. Within the week, I was back in the E.R. several times for attacks and horrendous pain. My doctor initiated a Red Cross message for my husband, and John was brought home early from Afghanistan. My surgery was scheduled for July 7th. It was mid-June. The day after John came home, I was back in the E.R. with debilitating symptoms. They admitted me to the surgical floor to await my gall bladder removal. This time as an emergency surgery. I waited in my hospital room for six days. Every few hours or so, someone from surgery would come up and tell me that I was scheduled for surgery in 4 hours, 6 hours, at 2:00 A.M., at 4:30 A.M., and 3:00 P.M. the next day....this went on and on until 11:00 P.M. on the sixth night. A surgeon came up and told me I was going home without the surgery. I was being discharged. I called John, and he came and got me in the middle of the night. I went home very sick, and very confused.
A few more days go by, and I am getting sicker and sicker by the day. I have not been able to keep any food down in days, and was getting very dehydrated. I couldn't keep my pain meds down. Back to the E.R. we went, where I was admitted again. This time, at the end of June. I ended up staying in the hospital until the orginal day of my scheduled surgery. July 7th. The doctors and nurses told me that I would feel wonderful after the surgery and I would be able to eat and drink anything I wanted. I was so excited, I could hardly stand it. I wanted a milkshake more than anything in the world, but that didn't happen.
I awoke from surgery expecting to feel better, but I didn't. I still could not keep food down. I let the doctors convince me that I was getting better anyway and went home the day after surgery. I spent the next few days in the bathtub, praying to God, and asking Him why He had forsaken me? I was beginning to think I was crazy. Was I really feeling this pain? Is it all in my head? I even asked my husband if he believed me, if he believed how sick I was. By the time Friday rolled around that week, I was in so much pain and so sick that I could barely move. John loaded me up in the car and took me back to the Emergency Room. They called me back right away, but left me in my exam room for a couple of hours without anyone coming to check on me. I was writhing around in pain and crying uncontrollably. John had had enough and went to find out what was going on. He went to the nurses' station and demanded to know why I hadn't been seen or why a doctor hadn't come in. He told them I was in an immense amount of pain and needed help right away. The nurse told him someone would be coming in to draw blood, but I was under no circumstances getting pain medicine because I was addicted and they were not going to give me my "fix". He was astounded and didn't know what to do. John spent the next few hours crying to our family on the phone. He had no idea how to help me. I was once again, after the blood draw, sent home confused, crying, and very, very ill. On Sunday evening, I got a call from the E.R. doctor about my blood work. He said something was very, very wrong and I needed to come in right away. I didn't get to back to the E.R. and, I don't remember anything else of that evening. I don't even think I told John what the call was about. I do remember waking up the next day, Monday, and getting up to go to my post-surgical appointment. I don't remember how I got there. I remember changing in an exam room, and telling John to take the kids to McDonald's. I remember asking the doctor not to touch my abdomen to examine me. I remember begging, crying, pleading with her because I was in so much pain. She said she was sorry, and did so anyway. She quickly left the room. The pain became so intense, I could no longer stay still. I began walking around the room crazily, throwing up blood everywhere. I was doubled over, and couldn't call for help. I kept pacing and waiting for the doctor to come back, but she didn't. It was probably only fifteen minutes, but felt like an eternity. I opened the door and could see a woman typing in an office across from me. I mouthed the words, "Help me." She got up, but I don't remember what happened after that. I came to in a wheelchair covered in a wet towel and soaking. I was being taken back to the post-op floor of the hospital. I remember writhing around in bed once they got me into a room, unable to speak and staring at a group of surgeons at the foot of my bed. They kept asking me what was wrong, but I couldn't talk. The pain was horrible. I was heaving blood and wetting myself. I looked down and saw my gown and bed sheets were black. My pee was black. I don't remember anything else until after they put me back on dilaudid. They immediately called a gastro doctor to come and consult. He did an ERCP with sphincterotomy the next day to cut a gall stone out of my common bile duct. The surgeon who did my original gall bladder surgery came to my room to tell me, after the procedure, that I had pancreatitus that was caused by the ERCP and having the stone removed. He said that this was a common occurence.
UH, NO BUDDY. You didn't do your job right, because you are a lame excuse for a surgeon and you didn't complete the procedure by flushing the ducts with dye and doing an xray to make sure you didn't leave anything behind, and no one listened to my concerns. You all accused me of being a drug addict.
I stayed on the post-op floor on high doses of antibiotics, having my blood sugar checked every few hours, and drugged up like crazy. I was not allowed to eat or drink. The nurses left emesis basins all over my bed, bedside table, on the floor, and on my tray filled with bloody vomit for days. My sheets were not changed. I was not offered help to shower. My mother called and complained at the nurses' station even though I begged her not to. They would come in with snide remarks and be mean. I finally asked her to stop complaining because it was making things worse. But, over the next several days, I started to get better. Finally and was able to go home. I had several bouts of pancreatitus over the next year but have mostly recovered from it. I had lost 50 pounds.
In the several months afterward, I noticed I had been short of breath quite a bit. Sometimes going into what I thought were asthma attacks. I went to the E.R. one night during a particularly bad fit. I was told they feared I had a pulmonary embolism. A few hours later, the doctor came in and told me that it was not, in fact, an embolism, but a 4mm lung nodule in the upper quadrant of my right lung. I asked her what a lung nodule is. She said she didn't know what it was, it could be a scar, a tumor, or cancer. Then she turned around and walked out of the room. I was TERRIFIED.
I followed up with my good ol' family doctor who told me there was nothing to worry about and didn't have an answer for my symptoms, but that he wanted another CT in 3 months. I obliged. All the while I am weak, fatigued, having the "coffee induced diarrhea" every day. 3 months come and I go in for another CT. There are more nodules, still no answers. Do another in 6 months they say. Again I oblige. More nodules, still no answers. New ones keep popping up, but the 4mm nodule has not grown. Come back in a year they say. By this time, my husband and I move to another state, and I start to feel much better. My breathing improves, but it takes another 6 months for me to get back to feeling more "normal". Still have diarrhea.
Fast forward to 2011. March. The first day my husband is back to work after coming home from training in another state. It is 5:30 A.M. and he is getting ready to go to work. He is headed out the door and forgets his hat. I ran up the stairs to fetch it for him, and on the way down, at the very top step, my foot goes out from underneath me. I fall down HARD, sliding down all of the stairs. I tried hard to grab the banister, but I couldn't hold on. The moment my rear end hits the stairs I SCREAM in pain. I knew I broke my back. I held myself as still as possible, balancing myself on my hands at the bottom of the stairs. My husband heard my screams from the garage and runs in and tries to lift me. I said, "Stop! Don't move me! My back is broken. Call 911." So that's what he did. I was lifted on a stretcher and taken to the E.R. This hurt, but was no where near the pain I had felt before. After xrays, the doctor comes in and tells me I am fine, gives me a pain med shot, and sends me home. He said there was some degeneration in my lumbar area, which I knew about since 2003, but no other problems. I wasn't convinced, was in a fair amount of pain, but went home anyway. Over the next couple of weeks, the back pain got much worse, and I would sit with my head in my husband's lap and he would rub my back while I cried. After a month, I finally convinced my new family doctor to get an MRI of my lumbar spine. A few days after the test, her nurse calls me and asks me to come in for more xrays. At the top of the MRI, in my T11 and T12 discs, they see terrible compression fractures that are not stabilized. I was told that the E.R. doctor only x-rayed my lumbar spine and didn't see them. When I questioned him, I was told that "Those types of injuries don't show up right after they happen on x-ray. It takes a couple of weeks to see them." BULLCRAP. Anyway, they put me in a back brace and I begin months of physical therapy. All this time, no pain meds. I was able to get my doctor to give me Tramadol on a regular basis after a lot of argument.
So, six months go by, and here we are, moving again to another state. During our move, we stop in our home state to visit family. We stay for a month. At this time, my diarrhea isn't so bad. The Tramadol helps a lot. It slows down my bowels, and makes me feel better, taking away some, but not all of my pain. Enough to handle anyway. One afternoon, my husband and I snuck away leaving our kids with my parents to go out to dinner. We ate at a seafood restaurant. Not an hour later, I was in the bathroom with horrible cramps, and an occular migraine. EVERYTHING I ATE CAME OUT. Then lots, and lots of blood. Just blood. I went to the hospital and was examined. They acknowledged that I was bleeding, gave me oxycontins, put "abdominal pain" on my discharge paperwork, and I was out of there in half an hour. My family was very angry and encouraged me to see a local doctor. I saw him a week later, and he scheduled a colonoscopy that I had the following Wednesday. They found nothing even after a barium enema.
So, here I am now...30 years old. I have a good local doctor. I have gone over my history with him, and he assures me that we are still trying to figure out what is going on. He prescribes Tramadol to me each month. I take two tabs twice a day...sometimes three times depending on pain levels. In June of last year, I noticed a rash popping up on my right leg. After a couple of months of using cortisone cream and athlete's food cream and whatever I could think of on it, I showed it to my doctor, who thinks it's eczema. It's raised and is pink bumps that are itchy and feel like really deep blisters. It will not go away and is spreading now. I have a few bumps on my left foot too. Still having diarrhea which he thinks is diverticulitus. He sent me for an abdominal ultrasound and discovered I have problems with ovarian cysts as well. I saw him on Dec. 31st because I started having mysterious arm pain. It's killing me now. My hands hurt all the time like crazy. I have a lot of pain in the center of my back that feels like I am getting hit over and over again with a lead pipe. I can't even lift my coffee cup up into the microwave. It hurts to type. My hands and arms, back, knees, everything hurts so much. It is very hard to get out of bed in the morning. I have lost ten pounds in the past two weeks, and feel very weak. The Tramadol doesn't really help anymore at all.
Last Wednesday was my two year follow up CT for the lung nodules. I saw a new pulmonary specialist. The nodules in my lungs are stable now, but I had filled out forms for her with my history on them. She took one look and said that she is sending me to a gastro doctor right away because she is almost 100% sure I have Crohn's. I called my mom at work and we both started to cry. I have seen many pulmonary doctors, cardiologists for palpitations, multiple visits to the E.R. for bloody diarrhea. I have lost hope in the medical community and I don't trust anyone. I AM HOPING TO GOD I HAVE AN ANSWER.
I've been a lot more ill these past few days, and the pain is really getting to me. I am waiting to hear back about seeing the gastro doctor. I have to travel to see her, but I am willing to go as far as I need to, to finally get help.
There are a lot of other events that have happened between now and back then, but I just can't type anymore tonight. I'll add what I can with time...anyway. Thank you for reading this. I apologize again for it being so long. I know you guys will understand me more than anyone does. Thank you.
Michelle
I'm glad to a part of this forum. I have been browsing through some of the posts, and I see you all are very supportive. I have been looking for a place to come to talk about everything that has happened to me for a long time.
I'm newly "unofficially" diagnosed with Crohn's. I am hoping and praying to the good Lord above that this will finally be the answer to my prayers so that I am finally able to be treated.
This is my nightmare: (It's going to be long. I'm sorry. I have never typed this out. The only people who know are my family and close friends.)
I had mostly normal bowel habits my entire life up until 2008. I started having quite a bit of diarrhea, but chalked it up to drinking too much coffee, so I didn't take meds for it, or complain too much. Then, in June of 2008, I became very ill with vomiting, diarrhea, abdominal pain, and fever. I thought it was food poisoning. When it didn't clear up after three days, I went to see my doctor. At the time, my husband (I'll call him John) was with a Special Ops unit in the Army, and we had our own on-call doctor and nurse. I had their cell phone numbers. I went in to see him and he gave me tummy meds, told me to rest, and I went home. A week goes by, and I'm no better. I insist to him that something is wrong. He says that it must be a virus and to just rest. Over the next few days, I do start feeling better until one night after I put my kids to bed. I started having terrible stomach pain, vomiting, and more diarrhea. At the time, John was on a three month depolyment rotation in Afghanistan, so I called my neighbors, who I was close to, to come and help me. One was a medic. He took one look at me and called 911. I was rushed off to the hospital.
A lot of military wives get a bad wrap for being attention-seekers, drug-seekers, and hypochondriacs. I was about to bear the brunt of this for the next several years.
As soon as I was wheeled into the E.R. The charge nurse leaned over me screaming at the E.M.T. for starting an I.V. on me because she couldn't put me out in the waiting room. I knew that this visit wasn't going to be pleasant. After an ultrasound, and several hours, I was diagnosed with gall stones. I was given an I.V. push of dilaudid, tummy meds, percoset, and sent home with instructions to follow up with my doctor. I called him the next day and he put through a referral for me to see a surgeon at our base hospital. Within the week, I was back in the E.R. several times for attacks and horrendous pain. My doctor initiated a Red Cross message for my husband, and John was brought home early from Afghanistan. My surgery was scheduled for July 7th. It was mid-June. The day after John came home, I was back in the E.R. with debilitating symptoms. They admitted me to the surgical floor to await my gall bladder removal. This time as an emergency surgery. I waited in my hospital room for six days. Every few hours or so, someone from surgery would come up and tell me that I was scheduled for surgery in 4 hours, 6 hours, at 2:00 A.M., at 4:30 A.M., and 3:00 P.M. the next day....this went on and on until 11:00 P.M. on the sixth night. A surgeon came up and told me I was going home without the surgery. I was being discharged. I called John, and he came and got me in the middle of the night. I went home very sick, and very confused.
A few more days go by, and I am getting sicker and sicker by the day. I have not been able to keep any food down in days, and was getting very dehydrated. I couldn't keep my pain meds down. Back to the E.R. we went, where I was admitted again. This time, at the end of June. I ended up staying in the hospital until the orginal day of my scheduled surgery. July 7th. The doctors and nurses told me that I would feel wonderful after the surgery and I would be able to eat and drink anything I wanted. I was so excited, I could hardly stand it. I wanted a milkshake more than anything in the world, but that didn't happen.
I awoke from surgery expecting to feel better, but I didn't. I still could not keep food down. I let the doctors convince me that I was getting better anyway and went home the day after surgery. I spent the next few days in the bathtub, praying to God, and asking Him why He had forsaken me? I was beginning to think I was crazy. Was I really feeling this pain? Is it all in my head? I even asked my husband if he believed me, if he believed how sick I was. By the time Friday rolled around that week, I was in so much pain and so sick that I could barely move. John loaded me up in the car and took me back to the Emergency Room. They called me back right away, but left me in my exam room for a couple of hours without anyone coming to check on me. I was writhing around in pain and crying uncontrollably. John had had enough and went to find out what was going on. He went to the nurses' station and demanded to know why I hadn't been seen or why a doctor hadn't come in. He told them I was in an immense amount of pain and needed help right away. The nurse told him someone would be coming in to draw blood, but I was under no circumstances getting pain medicine because I was addicted and they were not going to give me my "fix". He was astounded and didn't know what to do. John spent the next few hours crying to our family on the phone. He had no idea how to help me. I was once again, after the blood draw, sent home confused, crying, and very, very ill. On Sunday evening, I got a call from the E.R. doctor about my blood work. He said something was very, very wrong and I needed to come in right away. I didn't get to back to the E.R. and, I don't remember anything else of that evening. I don't even think I told John what the call was about. I do remember waking up the next day, Monday, and getting up to go to my post-surgical appointment. I don't remember how I got there. I remember changing in an exam room, and telling John to take the kids to McDonald's. I remember asking the doctor not to touch my abdomen to examine me. I remember begging, crying, pleading with her because I was in so much pain. She said she was sorry, and did so anyway. She quickly left the room. The pain became so intense, I could no longer stay still. I began walking around the room crazily, throwing up blood everywhere. I was doubled over, and couldn't call for help. I kept pacing and waiting for the doctor to come back, but she didn't. It was probably only fifteen minutes, but felt like an eternity. I opened the door and could see a woman typing in an office across from me. I mouthed the words, "Help me." She got up, but I don't remember what happened after that. I came to in a wheelchair covered in a wet towel and soaking. I was being taken back to the post-op floor of the hospital. I remember writhing around in bed once they got me into a room, unable to speak and staring at a group of surgeons at the foot of my bed. They kept asking me what was wrong, but I couldn't talk. The pain was horrible. I was heaving blood and wetting myself. I looked down and saw my gown and bed sheets were black. My pee was black. I don't remember anything else until after they put me back on dilaudid. They immediately called a gastro doctor to come and consult. He did an ERCP with sphincterotomy the next day to cut a gall stone out of my common bile duct. The surgeon who did my original gall bladder surgery came to my room to tell me, after the procedure, that I had pancreatitus that was caused by the ERCP and having the stone removed. He said that this was a common occurence.
UH, NO BUDDY. You didn't do your job right, because you are a lame excuse for a surgeon and you didn't complete the procedure by flushing the ducts with dye and doing an xray to make sure you didn't leave anything behind, and no one listened to my concerns. You all accused me of being a drug addict.
I stayed on the post-op floor on high doses of antibiotics, having my blood sugar checked every few hours, and drugged up like crazy. I was not allowed to eat or drink. The nurses left emesis basins all over my bed, bedside table, on the floor, and on my tray filled with bloody vomit for days. My sheets were not changed. I was not offered help to shower. My mother called and complained at the nurses' station even though I begged her not to. They would come in with snide remarks and be mean. I finally asked her to stop complaining because it was making things worse. But, over the next several days, I started to get better. Finally and was able to go home. I had several bouts of pancreatitus over the next year but have mostly recovered from it. I had lost 50 pounds.
In the several months afterward, I noticed I had been short of breath quite a bit. Sometimes going into what I thought were asthma attacks. I went to the E.R. one night during a particularly bad fit. I was told they feared I had a pulmonary embolism. A few hours later, the doctor came in and told me that it was not, in fact, an embolism, but a 4mm lung nodule in the upper quadrant of my right lung. I asked her what a lung nodule is. She said she didn't know what it was, it could be a scar, a tumor, or cancer. Then she turned around and walked out of the room. I was TERRIFIED.
I followed up with my good ol' family doctor who told me there was nothing to worry about and didn't have an answer for my symptoms, but that he wanted another CT in 3 months. I obliged. All the while I am weak, fatigued, having the "coffee induced diarrhea" every day. 3 months come and I go in for another CT. There are more nodules, still no answers. Do another in 6 months they say. Again I oblige. More nodules, still no answers. New ones keep popping up, but the 4mm nodule has not grown. Come back in a year they say. By this time, my husband and I move to another state, and I start to feel much better. My breathing improves, but it takes another 6 months for me to get back to feeling more "normal". Still have diarrhea.
Fast forward to 2011. March. The first day my husband is back to work after coming home from training in another state. It is 5:30 A.M. and he is getting ready to go to work. He is headed out the door and forgets his hat. I ran up the stairs to fetch it for him, and on the way down, at the very top step, my foot goes out from underneath me. I fall down HARD, sliding down all of the stairs. I tried hard to grab the banister, but I couldn't hold on. The moment my rear end hits the stairs I SCREAM in pain. I knew I broke my back. I held myself as still as possible, balancing myself on my hands at the bottom of the stairs. My husband heard my screams from the garage and runs in and tries to lift me. I said, "Stop! Don't move me! My back is broken. Call 911." So that's what he did. I was lifted on a stretcher and taken to the E.R. This hurt, but was no where near the pain I had felt before. After xrays, the doctor comes in and tells me I am fine, gives me a pain med shot, and sends me home. He said there was some degeneration in my lumbar area, which I knew about since 2003, but no other problems. I wasn't convinced, was in a fair amount of pain, but went home anyway. Over the next couple of weeks, the back pain got much worse, and I would sit with my head in my husband's lap and he would rub my back while I cried. After a month, I finally convinced my new family doctor to get an MRI of my lumbar spine. A few days after the test, her nurse calls me and asks me to come in for more xrays. At the top of the MRI, in my T11 and T12 discs, they see terrible compression fractures that are not stabilized. I was told that the E.R. doctor only x-rayed my lumbar spine and didn't see them. When I questioned him, I was told that "Those types of injuries don't show up right after they happen on x-ray. It takes a couple of weeks to see them." BULLCRAP. Anyway, they put me in a back brace and I begin months of physical therapy. All this time, no pain meds. I was able to get my doctor to give me Tramadol on a regular basis after a lot of argument.
So, six months go by, and here we are, moving again to another state. During our move, we stop in our home state to visit family. We stay for a month. At this time, my diarrhea isn't so bad. The Tramadol helps a lot. It slows down my bowels, and makes me feel better, taking away some, but not all of my pain. Enough to handle anyway. One afternoon, my husband and I snuck away leaving our kids with my parents to go out to dinner. We ate at a seafood restaurant. Not an hour later, I was in the bathroom with horrible cramps, and an occular migraine. EVERYTHING I ATE CAME OUT. Then lots, and lots of blood. Just blood. I went to the hospital and was examined. They acknowledged that I was bleeding, gave me oxycontins, put "abdominal pain" on my discharge paperwork, and I was out of there in half an hour. My family was very angry and encouraged me to see a local doctor. I saw him a week later, and he scheduled a colonoscopy that I had the following Wednesday. They found nothing even after a barium enema.
So, here I am now...30 years old. I have a good local doctor. I have gone over my history with him, and he assures me that we are still trying to figure out what is going on. He prescribes Tramadol to me each month. I take two tabs twice a day...sometimes three times depending on pain levels. In June of last year, I noticed a rash popping up on my right leg. After a couple of months of using cortisone cream and athlete's food cream and whatever I could think of on it, I showed it to my doctor, who thinks it's eczema. It's raised and is pink bumps that are itchy and feel like really deep blisters. It will not go away and is spreading now. I have a few bumps on my left foot too. Still having diarrhea which he thinks is diverticulitus. He sent me for an abdominal ultrasound and discovered I have problems with ovarian cysts as well. I saw him on Dec. 31st because I started having mysterious arm pain. It's killing me now. My hands hurt all the time like crazy. I have a lot of pain in the center of my back that feels like I am getting hit over and over again with a lead pipe. I can't even lift my coffee cup up into the microwave. It hurts to type. My hands and arms, back, knees, everything hurts so much. It is very hard to get out of bed in the morning. I have lost ten pounds in the past two weeks, and feel very weak. The Tramadol doesn't really help anymore at all.
Last Wednesday was my two year follow up CT for the lung nodules. I saw a new pulmonary specialist. The nodules in my lungs are stable now, but I had filled out forms for her with my history on them. She took one look and said that she is sending me to a gastro doctor right away because she is almost 100% sure I have Crohn's. I called my mom at work and we both started to cry. I have seen many pulmonary doctors, cardiologists for palpitations, multiple visits to the E.R. for bloody diarrhea. I have lost hope in the medical community and I don't trust anyone. I AM HOPING TO GOD I HAVE AN ANSWER.
I've been a lot more ill these past few days, and the pain is really getting to me. I am waiting to hear back about seeing the gastro doctor. I have to travel to see her, but I am willing to go as far as I need to, to finally get help.
There are a lot of other events that have happened between now and back then, but I just can't type anymore tonight. I'll add what I can with time...anyway. Thank you for reading this. I apologize again for it being so long. I know you guys will understand me more than anyone does. Thank you.
Michelle