Archive for the ‘Help for Alzheimer's’ Category

 Several years ago, when the husband of my friend, Madalyn, was well into severe Alzheimer’s and Ken’s disease just beginning, the two of us went to several support group meetings.   The speaker one evening was a health-care professional; the title of her presentation was dementia.  How often both Madalyn and I had heard the word interspersed with Alzheimer’s, making us wonder if our husbands had Alzheimer’s or were they demented, having dementia.  Were the guidelines established enough that we could tell one disease from another?

“Dementia,” the speaker explained, “is the umbrella, and under that umbrella the medical community is placing what they believe to be related diseases, even though some people are diagnosed as having dementia.”  She went on to explain dementia as a group of symptoms caused by changes in brain function, or a decline in cognition.  Though defined, it still left us a bit baffled.  However, with so little known about the actual workings of a diseased brain and other neurological disorders, dementia as an umbrella seemed to make sense, especially when the speaker placed Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s, Lou Gehrig’s disease (ALS) and MS (multiple sclerosis) under the umbrella.  No doubt she included other diseases lesser known to Madalyn and me totalling more than 75 in all, but the link placing them under one umbrella made good sense.  Whether the dementia symptoms may later change and develop into any of the encompassed diseases wasn’t a part of her topic, nor am I a medical person who could make such a determination, but it would seem reasonable to presume that the answer could be “yes.”

Over these past six years, as I have journeyed with Ken into the fog of Alzheimer’s it seems as if the cases under the umbrella are becoming almost epidemic.  I often hear people say, “It’s because everyone is living longer.”  That observation conjures up another burning question.  Is it inevitable that living longer will bring the majority of four score and younger people into the hopelessness of brain disease?

When Ken and I first married we were best friends with three other couples.  We were not a group, but they were best friends, nonetheless, with us, and we have kept in touch with all of them through the years.  Today, two of the women and two of the men are under the umbrella diagnosed with short-term memory loss, two with Alzheimer’s and one with dementia.  All of the disorders began somewhere in their mid to late 70s.  Yet, with our large circle of friends and acquaintances I have also observed early-onset of Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s, and one death from ALS.

The mother of Barbara, my friend with short-term memory loss, was sent off to a state mental hospital in her mid 50s with what they diagnosed as brain deterioration.  Was it actually early-onset Alzheimer’s?  Earl, who has dementia, is the son of man who suffered most of his life with severe Parkinson’s.  Our  daughter, Debbie, had a favorite beau during their teen years who tumbled dramatically into full-blown Parkinson’s in his early 30s, as did celebrity Michael J. Fox.

With the power of his celebrity Fox brought world-attention, and hopefully more research, to his disease.  Of course, the 40th president of the United States, Ronald Reagan, brought the same extraordinary attention to Alzheimer’s during his 10-year battle with the disease, as did movie great Charlton Heston.  People no longer talk about a second childhood, senility, brain deterioration or sun-downer’s disease.  These umbrella diseases — with people of all ages becoming victims — are no longer swept under the carpet to be ignored as just some old folks’ ailment.

If there is a question here it would be:  Will there be a breakthrough in finding a cure, or at least management for these dreadful diseases?  If so, when? And, if a reliable treatment for AIDS was found in a relatively short period of time, what’s holding up research for The Dementia Umbrella?   According to a recent paper from Johns Hopkins the future looks alarming for 1 out of 2 people who will get Alzheimer’s if they live long enough.  That’s 50 percent.  Research and solutions are musts for the coming generations.

Presently, there are no real answers, but there are some quiet observations.  In watching my friends and reading about Fox, Reagan, Heston and others, their spouses are incredible as they walk with, sit by, and worry about those they love.  Collectively, they have all remained devoted which is not only inspirational, but encouraging to all of us caregivers traveling that same unfamiliar path.  The battle which goes on under The Dementia Umbrella can bring out the worst in people or it can bring out the best.  I don’t know everyone struggling under this covering, but those I see, read about and know are phenomenal human beings. Kudos to these caregivers everywhere.

Read Full Post »

Ken, Mabel and his daughters Julie and Debbie and daughters-in-law, Mary and Sabina at his 80th birthday 2005

This is, possibly, my last guest post. My mom should be back here writing next week – or soon thereafter.  Debbie Schultz

One of the blessings that came from my turn at caregiving was a chance to become reacquainted with my dad. Obviously he is not the strong, but gentle man, who raised me, helped me through a divorce, get back into school, and proudly watched me graduate from college at the age of 41. This man is definitely different, interesting in his babbling, making sense only in fragments. He was always a great storyteller, but even that aspect is gone from his tangled brain. I see his personality in layers. Some of the facial expressions I remember as a little girl, the mannerisms are still there. When I first arrived here from my home in Utah, he was lying in a hospital bed, mumbling in heavily sedated sleep. He seemed so very old and vulnerable to me. I softly stroked his head and muttered my good byes, thinking that might be the end. But like my mother, he has a tremendous will to live, and two weeks out of the hospital, he is gradually becoming his old pre-accident, self.

The disease is horrifying, taking a person a bit at a time, but in a somewhat detached way, it is also fascinating. What makes a personality? What bits and pieces of one’s history stick, and why do they stick? What jogs memories? Why do some things stand out, while others are forgotten? When asked, he will say he has no children. He confuses me with my mother, but I correct him and tell him that I am his daughter and I love him. I  especially use the technique when I am doing things he doesn’t want done, like showers. Looking in his eyes and telling him seems to calm him. I call it speaking spirit to spirit. And when my daughter goes to move something of mine, he says, “Don’t touch that, it’s my daughter’s.” For a brief moment I am remembered.

He knows he was in an accident. The first few days he was home from the hospital he complained about being stiff and sore. He told me that he hurt because a truck hit him. He knows, when he remembers, that my mother is in the hospital. His love for her, despite the forgetfulness is so evident. Besides often asking where his wife is, there is wistfulness in his wanderings. He sleeps on his side of the bed, waiting for her to come. He asks me if she is working and if so, when will she return home?   Although my voice may sound the same, my reactions are different than hers. He is confused by the similarities.

I am grateful for the opportunity that I have been given to get to know my father all over again. I have more feelings for him as I have served him these past few months. I miss the man that he once was, but I love this frail, funny, shuffling person he has become. Who knows why we go through the things we do in this life? As hateful as this disease is, it often brings out the best in the people that it touches. I have gained a new appreciation for my mother and all she has gone through as she cared for the other members of our family, who were also struck down by Alzheimer’s. The positive side of this negative situation is the opportunity I have been given to serve my father and make some effort to understand what has happened to change him. Without caring for him, there would not have been the reconnection I have felt.  When he is truly gone I will not only mourn the man my father was, I will also mourn who he has become. I am indebted for the chance that I got to know that other man.

Read Full Post »

Every time I pick up a current magazine, there is an article claiming some new health tip about Alzheimer’s.  There is just one little catch, the dramatic pull quote from the text of those early article sometimes often carried one tiny disclaimer:  “may.”  The most recent was all about broccoli and how if you managed to eat enough of it with all of its vitamins and other good stuff, you may be able to avoid the onset of Alzheimer’s.

Personally, I have always liked broccoli and have served it raw, boiled, baked in a casserole and roasted.  During the first Bush administration, it was announced on the evening news the succulent vegetable would not be served at the White House because President Bush (senior) did not care for the green stuff.  At the time, Ken playfully said, “I’m on his side,” pushing away his portion of tiny trees with thick stumps still swimming in a dash of butter which I had just served.  “No, no,” I replied, pushing everything back in place and adding a couple more spears to his plate.  Knowing he was kidding, I went along with his joke reminding him that we would be eating broccoli a few times a week until he was elected president, then he could select the menu.

Years ago, I wasn’t looking for a food culprit when I received a note from the school nurse advising us that our first grader, Kevin, had tested poorly during a hearing exam.  I didn’t know what to think.  Nevertheless, we were advised to see a hearing specialist and immediately made an appointment.  The specialist was a no-nonsense kind of doctor, well-respected and the top in his field.  That was good.   However, his bed-side manner was the pits.  That was not good.  Doctor Grump told us Kevin’s problem was common but rather serious.  His eustachian tube was somehow blocked which formed a vacuum condition causing mucus to be sucked into the middle ear.  If allowed to solidify total deafness would occur.  The good news:  eventually, the boy would outgrow the condition, or as soon as he learned how to pinch his nose and pop his ears several times a day, that too would solve the problem, but left untreated Kevin would be deaf.

Treatment began immediately.  The ear drums were pierced and tiny tubes inserted breaking the vacuum and releasing the built-up mucus.  The difficult part was keeping water from entering the ear and causing infection and other problems.  We returned bi-weekly for checkups.

As a conscientious mother I tried doing my part by not only supervising bathes to avoid water in the ear, I also thought of ways to cut down on mucus-producing foods such as milk, peanut butter and whatever else I could research, cutting back on that which might be contributing to Kevin’s problem.  When I mentioned what I was doing to the doctor, he scoffed, looked at me with disdain and said, “Perhaps his production of mucus, whether it be too much or too little, is due to the fact that today he is wearing a red shirt.”   Dismissed by his sarcasm, I felt humiliated and insulted, but I said nothing more.  I was young enough to still be awed by tremendously skilled doctors who were supposedly all-knowing, and in my ignorance believed them to be some kind of demigods.  I have long since learned better, and Kevin’s ears are fine.  Time does bring about change.

It would seem that since President Reagan became a victim to Alzheimer’s, AD has fallen into a more respected category, arriving as one of the “Diseases of the Week,” meaning the medical community is paying it much more attention, and that’s a good thing.  Meanwhile theories abound.  “NEW ALZHEIMER’S BREAKTHROUGH,” touts the announcer for the evening news, “Stay tuned.”  For families and caregivers who, for years,  have watched their loved ones disappear into nothingness, the stunning news offers hope.  However, the announcement is no more than a tease on a slow-news day.  With no significant developments in AD research, the awaited information is nothing new, and hope is once again dashed against the bitterness of disappointment.   No news is actually better than old and rehashed theories.  If you notice, these articles in today’s magazines are high-lighted by wonderful attention getters:  leading captions, great photos or interesting illustrations, but always contain escape words such as “may” or “might.”    It would appear that every form of media is filled with some sort of advice about ways that may help people avoid Alzheimer’s.  The list is endless and covers all sorts of foods and life styles which could be of benefit: avoiding belly fat, being in good physical condition, running, walking, working out, and generally living a near perfect existence.   Living with a man who now has severe Alzheimer’s which began nearly six years ago, I find all of these shots in the dark extremely irritating, even cruel, because guess what?  Ken pretty much fell  into that category of living a good, clean, near-perfect life when it came to being devoted to physical activity, living healthy and eating right, including lots of broccoli; as did his mother and father, his sister and my mother, all of whom still fell victim to AD.

So what does all of this rehashed information bring to us?  Not much, other than a lot of people are writing a lot of speculative and redundant articles about Alzheimer’s disease.  So, theoretically I can, perhaps, offer some speculative advice of my own by taking  a tip from Dr.  Grump.  Perhaps people may avoid falling victim to Alzheimer’s by wearing a red shirt —  or a purple dress or a pin-stripped suit — or whatever.  It makes about as much sense as eating lots of broccoli.

Read Full Post »

I grew up hearing the phrase, “Where there’s life, there’s hope.”  I saw that emotion — hope — shining in the eyes of a desperate mother more than 30 years ago in an Idaho hospital, and I shall remember it always.  Our oldest son, Kevin, during his first week at college had been in a  horrible automobile accident and lay in a deep coma for three days while we waited for the unknown, seeing him minutes at a time in ICU, and then more waiting until we were permitted to see him again.  We met so many good, kind and concerned people during our stay near his bedside.  Some had family members in various stages of recovery so we all shared in the profound commonality of grief and worry.   However, uppermost in all of our thoughts, struggling to banish any negativity, was hope.

We watched our son lying there, seemingly so calm and relaxed, outwardly unscathed by his ordeal, all injuries being internal, including a severe concussion, leaving us to wonder if his brain had been permanently damaged.   He looked so normal sleeping peacefully, except for the occasional outbursts of profanity.  “It’s all right,” said the doctor.  “Base man is injured and angry, and he hurts.  That’s how he responds.  It’s normal.”

There was another couple whose son had been in ICU for some time, until his doctor had him moved to another ward.  Still hooked to his IVs, he needed additional nourishment so they inserted a feeding tube.  Ken and I visited with the parents as they watched over their 15-year-old who had been returning from a football game with a friend at night, his friend at the wheel.  It was dark and the RR crossing was unmarked.  Undoubtedly, they never knew what hit them, and now he lay there, still unconscious, but alive.

Unlike Kevin, the boy was rigid, his hands curled up into tight fists, his body responding not to any stimuli.  We spoke very little.  What could we say,  just giving them a hug for comfort.  My inward thoughts told me this boy would not recover, yet when I looked into his mother’s eyes, I saw the familiar agony and worry we all shared as we hovered over our injured children, but beyond that I could see there was also the most tenacious of all emotions: hope.  The boy was alive and where there’s  life, there’s  hope.

“Mr. and Mrs. Romick?”  asked a smiling nurse.  “Your son is awake.”  We wondered if he would recognize us — he did — but it would take a long time before he recovered.  We were able to fly him home two weeks later to begin his journey back.  I have always wondered about the boy from the train wreck.  We didn’t see the parents again following our visit with them.  Was he able to overcome those tremendous odds?  Were the prayers, faith and hope of his parents enough to bring him back?  I hope so.

And it’s hope that sometimes levels our roller coaster ride with Alzheimer’s — at least from time to time.  When Ken has longer periods of being Ken, and he calls me “Sweetheart,” I find myself hoping.  Treating him holistically, I must have  faith that what I give him in the way of supplements will do him some good, even though I have absolutely no medical training, and it’s because of hope that I continue.  After all, the medical community doesn’t have much to offer.

Today, it was a bit of joy and laughter from both of us that gave me my needed spark of hope.   We were out shopping and just before we returned home, I said that I should stop at one more store.  “Where?” Ken asked.  “The Dollar Tree,” I answered.   Having a bit of  a hearing problem, he hesitated, looked at me a little puzzled, yet smiling and said, “The Adult Tree?”  Then he laughed repeating himself, “Adultery — do they have a store for that?”  Then we both laughed.  Poking him in the ribs I said, “You made a funny.”

We had a wonderful afternoon, but at sundown, the moods returned as did the agitation and other symptoms of AD, but I was nourished with my spark of hope.  Reality check:  I know after nearly six years that his brain is ravaged, yet if he yoyos with good times to mellow the bad, then perhaps it will postpone that awful day when I must consider placing  him in a full-care facility.  Meanwhile, I too can keep in my thoughts that where there’s life, there’s hope.

Read Full Post »

The ghosts, goblins, fairy princesses and super powers have come and gone from our house, leaving no tricks, their bags bulging with treats, meaning another Halloween has passed.  I enjoy the sporadic parade of kids in masquerade (I don’t even mind the older set as long as the candy holds out, their voices already hitting the low notes of “Trick or Treat,” who come later in the evening).  In the past so did Ken.  This year he made no recognition of the holiday when I placed pumpkins on the porch, an immense spider clinging to an equally over-sized web hanging from the roof, and a friendly ghost stuck in my juniper bush which was sprinkled with candy-corn lights.  The house looked festive and inviting and I raced to the door with my caldron of candy at the first ring.

I could see the groups of small fry in costumes were confusing to Ken, who managed to get to the door in front of me offering out a jumbled scolding to a mom and dad with little ones.  I pushed in next to him explaining “Alzheimer’s,” adding, “You didn’t get your candy,” as they all scurried down the walk.  The parents, looking a bit unsettled, shouted over their shoulder, “That’s okay.”   I moved my chair next to the door so it wouldn’t happen again.  I strive to be as “normal” as possible, but as Alzheimer’s gets worse, the problems get bigger and more difficult to manage.

Soon, Granddaughter, Jessica, 10, arrived looking extraordinarily beautiful, glittering petals covering the skirt of her fairy princess costume, a jeweled snood for her hair and wings with which to fly, everything stitched and put together by Sabina, her talented mom.  Jessica, while enjoying the trick and treat part, almost likes being the hostess more, taking over my duties handing out the candy while her parents talked with me and Ken, who soon relaxed, his son’s presence and friendly banter calming him.

As I survey the growing problems as caregiver to a person suffering with Alzheimer’s (not to overlook what caregivers all over the world are experiencing) I think of the little ones out on Halloween night with plastic pumpkins and decorated bags carried to collect their evening’s loot.   As young as they are, they have problems and for them, their problems, when they arrive, loom just as large as our problems are to us, which reminds me of my seven-year-old friend, Robert.

While visiting grandparents in Northern California, he was allowed to pick out his own pumpkin.  Selecting it from the vine, helping load it into the wheel barrel, and then into the car, his Aunt Chrissy declared that she would buy the 95 pound pumpkin for his birthday.  At home, the gift sat proudly on the front porch until some thoughtless and mean-spirited thieves took it while Robert was in school and his mother, Malena, away from the house.  Robert was inconsolable.  He sobbed until Malena thought his heart would break, nor did he understand the ways of the world, or why anyone would take his special gift.  The theft of his Halloween-birthday pumpkin was, to Robert, the biggest problem he had ever encountered, and a problem he was unable to solve.  Our story, however, has a happy ending when a family friend, who is also a police detective talked with Robert, assuring him the “force” would see that his pumpkin was found and returned.  Meanwhile, our detective located an equally large pumpkin and, back in full police uniform, delivered it to Robert’s porch. 

Problems and adversity are a necessary part of our growth in life and they have no age preference, whether they be problems dealing with dirty, rotten scoundrels, age and illness, business problems, problems of the heart, families in crisis, or problems of young marrieds making their budget stretch to cover the mortgage.   Like pain, no one can measure the severity of another’s problems, nor can anyone decide if the problem is big or small — only he to whom the problem belongs is allowed to make that distinction.  One thing, however, is for sure:   no matter what the behemoth which might lumber into our lives, the enormity of it is always lessened by love from those who care: sometimes a stranger, family members, friends or a good and kind police detective.

Read Full Post »

My father in law, Nick Romick, immigrated to America when he was 15 arriving at Ellis Island in 1906. Coming into the harbor the fresh-faced boy stood at ship’s rail with other newcomers as the Statue of Liberty came into view, his young body full of emotion: excitement, trepidation — he wasn’t sure. The awesome thing about his trip was that he came alone with only a pack on his back.  Fortified with a burning desire to “come to America,” he left Austria with the blessings from his widower father and a loan of $50. to pay for the voyage, which he promised to return. From that point he was on his own.

Through the long process of immigration with thousands of other Europeans who poured through the Island’s gates, Nick stepped into New York City with his last name Americanized from Romic’ to Romich, the first of two changes. Furthermore, his only knowledge of English was, “Mr. Man, Give me job.” Fortunately, a farmer from upstate New York answered his plea and offered him work. For the next few years the industrious young man repaid his benefactor with an honest day’s labor for an honest dollar. He studied, taught himself English, saved the dollars, and then struck out to explore the new immense land.

Nick rode the rails in boxcars, worked in Detroit as a sandhog and in the mines of Montana and Bingham Canyon. Always moving on, he continually looked beyond the next horizon. It wasn’t by chance that he found himself in Pueblo, Colorado where there was work at the steel mill. Still loving his new country, he also missed the old country; the people, the customs and the language of his youth. During his wanderings he had heard of a large Slovenian community in Pueblo and at 22 he thought it time to settle down.

New man on the job, Nick was befriended by the Perse brothers, who invited the lonely man to their home for dinner. Other than the two older brothers, the offspring of Pete and Mary Perse numbered 14 in all, seven boys and seven girls. Comfortable in their midst, Nick couldn’t help but notice beautiful Rose, then only 10. With eyes for no other, Nick left his new-found friends and joined the U. S. Marines. Knowingly, the choice took him away from Colorado and through his enlistment Nick earned his citizenship.

Six years later he returned again to visit the Perse family after serving in Guam and China where the corps guarded the American Legation. Rose was 16. The two developed “an understanding” while he was on leave.  Returning to China for an additional two years before his discharge, Nick returned to Pueblo where Rose was waiting.

The two married in spite of the 12 years age difference with the family’s blessings. “You’re not going back to the mill,” Rose told her new husband, “We’re going to California.” Loretta was their first born with Kenneth following two years later. Nick worked at several odd jobs, eventually, finding permanent employment at Block Tannery in Berkeley where he remained until his retirement, never losing one day’s work throughout the depression.

When I met Ken I also met his family. I found Nick’s stories fascinating and agreed with Bob, their neighbor, who advised Ken and Loretta to write down, or  record in some way,  Nick’s adventures. “He’s a remarkable man,” Bob reminded the two. Young and foolish, they dismissed the advice complaining they had listened to their father’s stories all of their lives and if they didn’t hear them ever again, it would be too soon.

Years later, the editor of the magazine section of our local newspaper assigned me to write about an immigrant who came to America with a pack on his back. Search though we did, we found none — other than my father in law. In spite of the nepotism, Jerry said, “Do it.” I knew that Nick was forgetting the present, but hoped he would recall enough of his early life to make a good article. Through the years I heard most of Nick’s stories myself. Sitting together, I began my interview.  He was pleased that someone wanted to listen and spoke freely about China and his father, of his voyage, but when I asked detailed questions about Austria, upstate New York, Detroit, Montana, Bingham Canyon, his answer was always the same. With furrowed brow, he would say, “I don’t remember.”   The brief article of Nick’s life which spanned the better part of a century was a perfect size for the magazine. However, for the family it was only a portion; the rest of the story, like my mother’s recipe for rolls was gone — held captive within the prison of his padlocked brain.

Somehow, we believe that memory will last, sharp and clear, as long as life itself, and by some kind of self-imposed denial we also believe that life itself will continue day after day just as it is now; that there will always be time to sit and listen to the tales of those who came before; that Alzheimer’s and other devastating brain diseases are something that happens to other people, but none of  that is true.  Loved ones pass on, time for doing runs out and for so many, memory is stolen away like a thief in the night leaving all to wish and wonder about the past, our own roots and remembering the hundreds of curious questions which were never asked and will forever remain without answers.

Read Full Post »

The age-old question prevails:  If you had to leave your home forever with only minutes to spare what would you take?  Important documents usually heads the list, then family photos and videos where a visual history of family exists.  And if you’re lucky, there will be a scramble for the written histories of generations past; histories that remind us who we are and where we came from.

My family has been blessed with some histories.  Unfortunately, they’re out of balance when it comes to male and female.  Women seem to be the historians rather than the men.  In two of my previous BLOGS I brought to mind a tidbit about my mother in The Recipe, and The Great Adventure, a very condensed history of my father-in-law’s life.  While it’s easy to say Nick’s children should have written his story, it’s better to say Nick should have written his own story; at least he should have put down as much on paper as he could, and early on, allowing  someone to help him fill in the blanks.  That’s what my grandmother did with her own mother’s story, which Grandma titled, “She Came Alone.”

Helena left Sweden as a young single woman of 25 during the early 1860s to come to America because of her newly found religion.  Arriving in New York, she took the train to Nebraska, joined a handcart company sponsored by her church and walked to Utah where she later married and reared a family.  While pregnant with her eighth child, Helena became widowed.  That child, Sarah, was my grandmother.

Sarah later wrote her mother’s history as well as her own.  Certainly, we became acquainted with the husbands as they were part of the story, but how much richer the men’s history would have been had they written it themselves, or at least added their input.   Sarah’s father-in-law did write a portion of his history covering bits and pieces of his boyhood in Sweden and Denmark and his church missionary service.  Sadly, we know nothing of where he met his wife, their immigration to America or their married life together.

My own mother, bless her heart, wrote her and my father’s history several years before she developed Alzheimer’s.  How grateful I am that I have her handwritten manuscript, but again I have little of my father’s early years.   “Where was I?” I now ask myself.  My sister sat him down one day with a tape recorder to capture his story.  No doubt uncomfortable with the machine running, my sister ended up with a, “I was born, I grew up and got married, had three daughters, and now I’m retired,” kind of interview.  The tape ran 10 minutes, if that.   Better to hide the device and begin a casual conversation if you want the past to come forward.  Some people become very shy when confronted with a recorder.

Whatever inspired Alex Haley to write “Roots,” I can only wonder.  His search must have become almost addictive for him to overcome all of the obstacles in his way, and then to finally find what he felt was a recognized beginning for his family; how extraordinarily rewarded he must have felt.  Possibly no other book has so stirred the excitement of family history research as “Roots,” and subsequently the TV mini series which was watched by millions.

So what does this have to do with living with Alzheimer’s?  The number of victims is growing at an alarming rate and no one knows when memories will be — just gone.  So video, tape, dictate or write about your life, or other members of your family, and include in it corresponding world and local events.  Who knows, perhaps years from now one of your progeny might do some rewriting and make your story a historical best seller.

Read Full Post »