"Bring Your Friend to Work" Day

Yesterday was "Bring Your Friend to Work" day. Well, not really. But my friend, Jude, a professional photographer, asked if I wanted to assist a shoot to which he was assigned and I jumped at the chance to see "how it all goes down."

And before you envision Kate Moss, Yves Saint Laurent and moody, arty types all dressed in black, please first envision a stationery company, a bright, sprawling office in mid-town Manhattan, my friend Jude... and yours truly, a middle-aged dentist with a fierce passion for photography.

The view from the CEO's window.

At 10 o'clock on a steamy summer morning, I met Jude on West 44th Street. We got on line (and not the type where I am Googling Ryan Lochte) for the freight elevator behind the UPS guy who, like Jude, had a hand truck piled really high with stuff to haul up to the 14th floor. How much gear does a photographer need, anyway?

Well, a lot it seems.  For all you pro togs and camera enthusiasts out there, you'll be interested to know he had not only a Canon 7D, but also a 5D, the f/2.8L 20-74mm AND the f/2.8L 80-200mm, myriad umbrellas/strobes, cobblestone-sized generators (I think), cables like crazy, mountable flashes that bounce off walls and such, and filters galore.

The shoot was for the CEO of a popular card company, to be used in an alumnae magazine. Evidently, this industry magnate was a successful alum... and I believed it! Beautiful stationery filled every last crevice of this 40,000 sq. ft. office space... on Fifth Avenue. That is a whole lot of note cards just to make rent.

The weirdest thing was hearing the CEO's introduction of me to his staff, "... and this is Gracelyn, his assistant."  Not Dr. Santos. Not Mrs. Mroczek. I was the help. And I loved it. I loved seeing my friend, a REAL photographer, in action.

I delighted in that I was somewhat anonymous, in charge of plugging things in, opening and closing blinds till Jude found the available natural light to his satisfaction, and moving stuff around. I commandeered the assortment of stuff on the shelves behind the CEO's head. Is there a by line for that? No matter. I took pride in it.

My other main task was engaging the CEO in conversation (easy) and coming up with some witty remarks to make him smile so his expressions woud look believable and natural (not so easy). Jude said I "done good" when he reviewed the shots he made after each set-up.

After two hours and goody bags of stationery for my three daughters and his one, given to us as parting gifts, we packed up Jude's gear and re-entered the concrete jungle. We picked up some hot dogs and Dasani. He gave me a little photography talk on intensity and duration, which I lapped up. I asked him some questions about prime lenses and lighting.

What I did NOT ask him was how preparations were going for his father's memorial service to be held in two days. Jude's dad, a well-loved scientist and teacher, had passed away two weeks ago in his sleep after a long illness. He was 91. Jude had been busy working on his heartfelt photographic tribute and a description of his incredible life.  "Anyone can sound interesting if you compress a lifetime into a few paragraphs, Gracelyn," he had remarked.

I begged to differ. Jude was just being modest. I knew that. Besides, it was already clear to me that his Dad had raised a wonderful human being with a keen eye for composition, a dry, quick wit, and a penchant for detail and beauty. Above all, I believe his dad taught him kindness to help people learn from his passions, like me.  And for that I was grateful.

Random New Yorker, West 44th Street, Manhattan

St. Elizabeth Chapel, Battery Park, Manhattan

Gracelyn's 50 Random Thoughts While Riding the Staten Island Ferry and NYC Subway.

Yesterday I rode the Staten Island Ferry and the NYC subway for the first time in 12 years. That's right, twelve. I used to ride it daily when I commuted to college from 1986-1990, and then less frequently but still regularly in dental school, when I lived in Manhattan for four years. I was a little nervous the night before, hoping I'd be able to navigate some of the changes made since I was a daily straphanger in my late teens to early 20's. 

But at the end of the day, I made it to Manhattan and back home alive, using mass transit, but not before I jotted down some thoughts in my yellow notes icon on my iPhone. Although many items only New Yorkers will "get," use your imagination and think of me in case you ever visit the Big Apple. So here it is.  Enjoy.

Gracelyn's 50 Random Thoughts While Riding the Staten Island Ferry and NYC Subway:

1. JFK ferry boat looks the same as it did 40 years ago, when I first rode it.
2. Uptown #1 is going the wrong way!
3. Why do people think it's ok to vomit on stairwells?
4. There is no better view than Manhattan from the ferry.
5. I miss subway tokens with the cool New York cut-out in the center.   
6. Commuters are unabashedly apathetic.
7. A real New Yorker does not look like the ones depicted on television.
8. New Yorkers are a very sleepy folk. Look at them. So peaceful.
9. Rector, Chambers, Franklin, Canal. I had this memorized all the way up to 138th a million years ago. And the time it took to get to each one.
10. I wonder if anyone else besides me reads the ads above the subway seats?

                                                                                           
11. Do NOT lean on the doors. So it says on the doors. Meanwhile, 6 people are crushed up against it right now.
12. Zooming subway sounds are rhythmic, almost soothing.
13. Nobody makes eye contact. 
14. Be concerned if anyone DOES make eye contact.
15. If I swabbed a sample of the subway pole onto a petri dish, would I be horrified?
16. I need to give this guy across from me my business card. Heck, I'll even do it pro-bono.
17. I always imagined in a parallel universe I'd have two kids and name them Christopher and Sheridan. If you rode the #1 regularly, you'd know where I got that idea from.
18. Walking down the stairs to the subway platform, I was a little nervous. Sitting down on this orange subway seat, I feel like my old New Yorker self again.
19. They should pipe in music in subway cars.
20. Memories of mending my broken heart while sitting on the #1 with my Walkman blaring in my ears are flooding back to me right now.
21. I miss Walkmans.
22.The hot smell that wafts in when the subway door opens is... umm... interesting.
23. The Sbarro's at the 34th Street station used to be very good. That's right. It was undergound Sbarro's!
24. The touristy couple across from me are in love. Ahhh... young love.
25. Some New Yorkers are very fit. Note to self:  go jogging tonight.

26. The 23rd and 28th Street stops are too close together. What, you can't walk 5 blocks?
27. The "man purse" has become very popluar, of late.
28. Senior citizens are really quite the hip demographic in NYC.
29. If one of my flip-flops ever flopped onto the rails, I'd be doomed.  Platforms look a little icky to walk on barefoot.
30. Note to self: don't lose Metrocard.
31. Can the announcer guy be more muffled, please? What's the use? You're just distracting me from writing these notes.
32. Everyone has an iPhone. Or an iPad. Many times, both.
33. Zombies, every last one of them (... as I type this furiously into my iPhone...)!
34. Gnarly, skeevy wooden benches on the subway platform that I would never be caught dead sitting on in the above-ground world are a major coup in the depths of the NYC subways.
35. Bloomberg needs to stop regulating soda size and start mandating deodorant use on hot days.
36. Stepping off the express and hopping onto a waiting local is akin to hitting Lotto.
37. I'm pretty sure this guy at 9 o'clock has lice.
38. The time I fell asleep on the N line and landed in Brooklyn was frightful when I was 18.
39. What, no free Wifi?
40. I love how Europeans dress. And I love this gal's outfit, sitting across from me.

41. It used to be only the first 5 cars opened at the South Ferry.
42. Subway car hopping is very dangerous. And fun. I'm glad all 10 cars open now.
43. I really love New York.
44. New Yorkers take New York for granted. Why isn't everyone wearing a camera necklace?
45. I miss the shoe shine guy.
46. In 40 years as a New Yorker, I've never used the ladies room on the ferry. Ever.
47. In 40 years as a New Yorker, I've never bought food on the ferry. Ever. Terminals, yes, but only when I was desperate.
48. Lady Liberty never gets old.
49. I miss the Twin Towers. I miss the people we lost that day infinitely more.
50. New Yorkers are the coolest people in the world.

Welt City

     The other night was like any other night, as my husband, Michael, and I were getting ready for bed. He was watching some mindless television, and I was responding to emails and checking my Facebook newsfeed on my iPad.  Around midnight he reached over to give me a kiss good-night, but was stopped dead in his tracks before his lips met mine. I did NOT like the look of horror on his face. That's right: horror.

     What, I thought, could he possibly be seeing on my face to make his eyes bulge out so and render him speechless? I saw him take a big gulp, as he calmly recommended that I get up out of bed, march directly to my bathroom mirror and check it out. I did NOT like his calm, controlled tone of voice, the kind one uses to disguise sheer panic.

     I flicked on the vanity lights in the bathroom and there it was, staring right back at me in the mirror:  welt city!  ACK!  All over my face! My forehead, my cheeks, my noise, my eyelids, my under-eye area, the skin that covers my jawline and that leads up to my ears, you name it. New ones were emerging by the minute.

     Every last inch of my face was covered almost completely with fiery-red blotches the size of quarters, some of them misshapen nickels, all of them very scary, monstrous, and ugly. I was afraid if the kids woke up from my loud gasp, that I'd really frighten them. And why weren't they itching me? They looked downright painful, but oddly were not.  I rued the suspicious shellfish I had for dinner at that restaurant earlier. Grrrr......

     I was frozen in shock for a few minutes, assessing the enormity of my welty breakout and, weirdly, my first impulse was to photograph my allergic reaction. It had crossed my mind that I should document my condition just in case the medical examiner wanted proof of what finally did me in.  Crazy, right? I even asked Michael to take some shots from angles I couldn't reach. The welts slowly spread across my body as I snapped away, red bumpy blotches traveling from my face to my shoulders, down under my arms, and slowly creeping down my torso. It even made its way down to the old legs!

    
     Then it occurred to me that it WAS getting worse and that maybe I should treat it, somehow. I popped two pink Benadryl pills and gulped down some bottled water on my night stand and, being generally a non-alarmist, I tucked myself back into bed. As you were. Nothing to see here, folks. It would be all gone by morning, surely. Antihistamines are pure gold in these cases, after all.

     I tried to cozy back into falling-asleep mode. Back to where I was. Now, where was I? Oh right, getting ready for bed, I was. I rattled off random thoughts to Michael- my car needed an oil change, softball registrations were the next day for our eight-year old twins and after work I'd pick up our older daughter from a play date (which is now referred to as "hanging out," by the way).  But mid-sentence, I had trouble speaking. Uh-oh.

     My mouth felt weird. My upper lip was swelling up!  That was it. Sorry, Michael, no sleep for you tonight.  I roused him back to fully awake mode to show him. His eyes grew wide open once again, this time even more so.  He declared I needed an Epi-Pen, the epinephrine intra-muscular injection that is self-administered to stop full-blown, allergic anaphylaxis. Welts were one thing, but inflammation of my lip to the hardened size of corn kernals were another. Who knows if the swelling would travel down my throat and suffocate me.

     Soon Michael was on the phone with CVS, having located one on the computer that was still open at almost one o'cock in the morning. As dentists, we are both licensed in New York State to prescribe medicine, and pretty soon I overheard Michael talking to the pharmacist about my symptoms, telling him his license number, my date of birth, and our office address. This was all very sweet, his loving concern for me.

     What was NOT sweet, however, was my overhearing the next thing Michael started discussing with the pharmacist: the COST of the Epi-Pen! It seemed that a single dose cost $106.00.  A double-dose was $225.00.  Michael had just read in his Epi-Pen Google search articles that 20% of patients requiring them need a second dose. But why, he wondered, were double doses more than just double the price?  If anything, there should be a discount, he complained.

     He rambled on to the poor pharmacist how this math and pricing did not make sense to him, and at one point, covering the telephone speaker, craning his neck from the other room, asked me, "Grace, do you think you'll need a second dose?  I'm not sure if I should get a second dose or not."  I couldn't believe my ears!  There I was, golf-balls for lips and a fire-engine red of welts on almost every last inch of my body, and all he could think about was haggling?! Over $13.00?!

     I calmly replied that it would probably be better that he spend $225 now, buying the stupid, double-dose Epi-Pen, rather than paying someone to be cook, chauffeur, maid, tutor to his three children, not to mention finding another dental partner for our dental practice, when I am dead and gone.  I think he got the message, from my tone and the daggers with which I looked at him, because pretty soon he was out the door to pick up my double-duty medicine.

      He returned about thirty minutes later, and thankfully, I was still alive. We opened the Epi-Pen packaging together, read the instructions carefully, and each practiced how to stab me in the thigh muscle, should the need arise later that night. It was almost two in the morning. Pretty soon, we were satisfied with our epinephrine preparedness and Michael was lying next to me in bed with me once more.

     The Benadryl was starting to kick in and I was getting drowsier by the minute. My exasperation with him was starting to wane. Michael whispered to me that he was so glad I seemed to be okay. He told me not to worry, that he was right there if I needed him. I was very tired at that point, eyelids heavy as can be. He massaged my feet, because I mentioned they were feeling a bit swollen and itchy from the rash. As always, for the past 20 years, having him near me was a great comfort, and especially now in my time of welty need. He stroked my hair, which I love, till I completely drifted to sleep. I felt safe, in his arms, realizing  my life with my husband is nothing if not funny and anecdotal.

     I slept like a baby, and woke up welt-free and completely refreshed the next day, but with the Epi-Pen always within reach. Ha.

Text from My Ex

     Texting is all the rage nowadays. Throughout the course of any given day, I'll receive about 30-50 texts, usually from my oldest daughter, my dental assistant, tennis buddies, and book club friends. Weekend plans are made, soccer and basketball practices are rescheduled, and entire fundraising events are organized by the tap-tap-tapping away on my iPhone. 

     So imagine my surprise when I received a text that simply said, "Nice pictures," from a number I didn't recognize.  I assumed it was a reader of my blog or a fan of my photography page on Facebook, both public and easily accessed on search engines. And I was right. But how did this person get my private cell number?  A touch nervous and a bit curious, I texted back. 

     After hitting the send button, I waited. In 15 seconds, my phone chirped. It was Mark, my ex-boyfriend from college, formerly known as the love my life.  He had gotten my number from a mutual friend. I made a mental note to complain to said friend.

     They say that romance thrives and emotions run more deeply when relationships are begun in high-stress situations. I can't think of a more pressurized four years in my life than college. Except maybe for dental school, when I met my Michael, my husband of 17 years. But that's another story.

     I had met Mark at the very start of freshman year.  I was a pre-med Biology major and when the time came for me to pen my first scientific article, my Biology professor shook his head in disgust as he looked it over, glancing at me as if to ask why in heaven's name was I not an English major. My writing style was too creative. And Biology papers would have none of it!  He promptly assigned me to a tutor. What a disgrace, I thought. Me. A tutor. I ranked #1 In my high school graduating class! A tutor! Really?!

     Enter Mark, my college-issued, scientific writing tutor. Quickly, I fell madly in love with him, primarily because he was brilliant. And funny. And easy on the eyes. Once a week we met to work on my scientific writing and pretty soon, it was twice a week.  In a few weeks' time, we were inseparable.

      He seemed to bring out the best in me. I was smarter when I was with him, wittier in his company, and even learned how to cook, mainly because of him and his encouragement for me to do so (kind of selfish, now that I think about it. Or is it masochistic?) and our general lack of funds to eat out too often.  Did I mention he was also a great kisser?

     In the tiniest spurts of free time between studying for Calculus 101, Microbiology and Organic Chemistry exams, and sitting through Statistics and Probability lectures, we couldn't wait to hold hands. We spent afternoons playing chess in Central Park, played one-on-one basketball in playgrounds around school (he occasionally let me win), and discovered our love of photography together. We talked for hours on the phone until the sun came up.

     Mark was even able to firm up my scientific writing style, a miraculous feat in itself, and by our junior year, we co-wrote a research paper that spring semester. We got an A+. We went to college parties as a couple but always invariably couldn't wait to leave to be alone. He had introduced me to his family. He had told me he loved me.

     IPhone in hand, waiting in the car for my children's school bus to pull up, Mark and I exchanged pleasantries via text. He was now the assistant chief of radiation oncology for a major hospital on the West Coast, which did not surprise me. We spoke of our siblings and how many nieces and nephews we now had. We spoke of our children. Like him, I also had a set of twins.

     Mark proceeded to tell me how much he admired my photographs for the last few months, and how great it was that I'd been so prolific lately. He had been somewhat depressed of late, reeling from a nasty divorce. I was sad for him. I let him ramble on, trying to digest all his heavy life events, hoping not to see the flashing lights of the yellow school bus till he was finished.

         He said he thought about me often during the last few years of his tumultuous marriage, about the hilarious notes we used to pass each other during Psychology of Human Sexuality lectures, and the fun we had playing darts in the wee hours of the night, brains numb after non-stop studying. He had thought about our first kiss.  I was silent as he spoke. Hearing his voice was surreal. So many memories flooded back, memories filled with laughter. Memories of innocence, of good times.  

     However, as I reminisced, two memories in particular eventually stuck out in my mind: one was of me crying in my room after I had discovered his infidelity; the other, the moment I met my husband, Michael, THE love of life, my best friend and father of my three beautiful daughters, the OTHER loves of my life. And at that moment I was happy Mark had broken my heart all those years ago.

     And a few moments after that, my children's school bus screeched to a halt, alongside my waiting car. I said goodbye to Mark for a second time and continued on with my life.

   

Gracelyn, Pull Over

It was a hot and humid Wednesday afternoon last year, around 4 o'clock. I was very tired, driving to Grasmere from my office in Meiers Corners to pick up my three children after a long day of drilling teeth.  Half-way to my in-laws' house, my cell phone chirped.

It was my one of my tennis buddies, Mary, an obstetrician-gynecologist, and when I pressed the little speaker-phone button on my steering wheel, she commanded me to pull over.  She had just read the radiologist's report of the sonogram she ordered the night before for my 11-year-old and the news was not good. She didn't want me driving for the conversation.

My daughter, Charista, had been complaining about her stomach for about two months. I had dismissed her intermittent and dull pain for a few weeks, thinking she was trying to make excuses to not go to her daily, early-morning swim practice. Even the pediatrician had examined her and said it was probably nothing, but Mary disagreed and told me to take her to Regional Radiology to get it checked out. 

At that moment, with my hazards blinking on the side of the service road near the Verrazano Bridge, I listened intently to Mary's voice, as she slowly and clearly told me that Charista had a large cyst in her abdomen. The world stopped.  Everything became silent. My universe was suspended for a few seconds. I focused my brain to Mary's voice but, weirdly, a vivid memory of newborn, baby Charista being handed to me by my labor and delivery nurse flashed before my eyes.

Eight minutes seemed like eight hours on the phone with Mary. I reminded myself to breathe when she told me the cyst's unusually large dimensions. I pushed down the panic that was emerging in my throat, controlling my emotions and organizing my mental to-do list when she told me the cyst was about to burst and Charista needed to have surgery, the sooner the better.

By that evening, Charista was in wretched pain, curled up in a fetal position on my bed, trying to massage it away with the palms of her hand, closing her eyes, willing it away. I felt hopeless. Wasn't there anything I could do as her mother besides give her Motrin?

I was on the phone till about midnight with my brother-in-law, Kenny, a Manhattan orthopedic surgeon, who gave me the cell phone number of one of the best pediatric surgeons in New York City. He had spent hours getting recommendations from his medical colleagues in the Northeast Region and her name kept coming up. And upon speaking to her on the phone that night, I knew it was in God's hands. And hers. I trusted her implicitly. I had to.

"Mommy, what are they going to do tomorrow?" my 11-year-old asked me that night, as I was stroking her hair to help her fall asleep. I lied and told her that we were going to New York University Langone early the next morning and that they would stick a little needle in her tummy to take out a teeny, tiny pimple that was causing her so much pain. "Will it hurt?" she mumbled, as she started to drift off to sleep. I lied again and said no, reassuring her she'd feel so much better when the doctors work their magic.

Charista was admitted the next morning at 6 o'clock. She was writhing in pain at that point, yet still completely and utterly trusting us adults, keeping calm beyond her years. She watched a Justin Bieber movie on her iPod. I pushed her wheelchair to and from radiology, helped her into her hospital gown, onto her hospital bed. Our O.R. time was delayed to 2:30 PM because of a kidney transplant.

The consent form frightened me. Essentially, the document  gave surgeons permission to remove my 11-year-old daughter's sizable abdominal cyst. Or perform a bowel resection. Or partial or full hysterectomy. Or adjoining organs. Or whatever they saw fit. As a dentist, I know about the head, neck and mouth. I jotted down some unfamiliar medical jargon blurted to me to look up later. Then I steadied my hand and signed on the dotted line and wrote "Mother" on the line next to it.

Charista and I held hands as she was wheeled into O.R. #3. I kissed her forehead as she whispered, "Thank you, Mommy. I love you," as the pediatric anesthesiologist placed the gas mask over her face. I smiled and told her I'd be waiting for her when she woke up. When the double doors swung closed behind me as I exited the cold, deadly serious room filled with a dozen sterile medical personnel, I wandered the halls until I found a ladies' room far away enough from anyone hearing my uncontrollable sobbing for the next forty-five minutes.

Six hours later, her eyes opened in recovery and the very real nightmare ended. At that moment the  image of newborn Charista faded. Instead a vivid one of her as a young woman I imagine she'd someday become suddenly flashed before my eyes.

Kenny, Kenny, Kenny! July 15, 2012

A funny thing happened at my three daughters' swim meet last week. It seemed that my brother-in-law's name kept coming up in conversation with almost everyone with whom I came in contact. Kenny this, Kenny that. Kenny, Kenny, Kenny!

After a very long, stressful day of drilling teeth, I was eager for a change of scenery as I sauntered to the pool area at Richmond County Country Club. We were versing Hillside Swim Club, the Interclub League powerhouse, so a victory was improbable, but everyone knows that the best part of a swim meet is seeing and catching up with other swim moms.

After my kids kissed me hello and advised me of what events and lanes they would be racing that afternoon, I was immediately greeted by Victoria, a fellow swim mom, and my childhood friend at Sacred Heart School. Growing up, we were largely considered to be the smartest kids in the class. And whereas I was even more largely considered a dork, she was very cool and athletic and went on to attend medical school with my brother-in-law, Kenny.

I only see Victoria twice yearly at these swim meets and invariably our conversations revolve around Kenny, an orthopedic surgeon at NYU Langone Medical Center, and yesterday was no exception. We chit-chatted about both their successful careers in medicine before I introduced her to my in-laws, who were also at the meet, after which they all reminisced about the "good old days." They laughed about how she and Ken always carpooled in his tiny Datsun to save money on gas when going anywhere, how smart and witty he was at Downstate, and what an all-around great guy he still is.

Then I run into another friend of Kenny's from high school, Valerie. They had dated briefly, I think as teenagers, but have since remained best of friends to this day, in their forties.  She had seen a photo that I had posted of Kenny, my husband, Michael, and me on Facebook at a recent dinner out in Manhattan. Naturally, a discussion ensued about Kenny's former, current and prospective girlfriends and how funny it is that we both receive hilarious texts from him before, during and after dates. Above all, we talked about his great concern and care for my in-laws and how lucky the woman is who will someday marry him. Then we shot a photo of us together and texted it to him.

I started to make my way across the swimming pool to say hello to my other friends, who were wisely congregated in the shade, watching their children in backstroke events. Of course, I was stopped by another friend of Kenny's along the way, whose son had done an internship with him and was headed to Cornell University in September (Kenny's undergraduate degree in biomedical engineering was earned at Cornell).  My brother-in-law had written this young man a letter of recommendation.  Evidently, it helped.

Now mind you, I love my husband's only brother. He is smart and handsome. He's a great uncle, brother and son .  He lives an enviable bachelor's life as a successful Manhattan surgeon, highly esteemed by his medical colleagues, staff and patients. He is everyone's go-to guy when they need help, medically or personally. He is also always the life of the party and has vast circles of friends who you will meet repeatedly at wonderful social gatherings he organizes in the coolest restaurants and bars in Manhattan. But I started to grow weary of talking about him almost exclusively at my children's swim meet!

So, what are the chances that even the next two women I said hello to also bring Kenny up?  Umm... very high!  One was a fellow tennis player whose knee had been essentially saved by my brother-in-law's surgical skills, after a half-dozen botched-up diagnoses and treatments by other orthopedic surgeons.  The other was a friend who told me of her daughter's summer internship in Milan, Italy, but almost in the same breath mentioned how wonderful it was that Kenny had facilitated our mutual friend's son's orthopedic internship at NYU for six weeks this July and August.

As I sipped my iced-cold lemonade, I resigned myself to the fact that I'd be discussing Kenny for a solid two hours. I nodded dutifully in agreement at how wonderful and influential my brother-in-law is in the microcosm of his medical specialty and social circles, although I have to admit of growing a bit bored and a touch annoyed by it all.  Just at that moment, my iPhone chirped. I had a message. I look at the screen and see it's a text from Kenny. 

He said the one-year anniversary of my eldest daughter's (his goddaughter's) abdominal surgery was soon coming up and instead of my taking her away to Chicago or Los Angeles like I had mentioned last week to him (in almost inaudible passing, by the way) to commemorate, why don't I consider using his Manhattan apartment for a girls' weekend getaway? He would be out of town at a medical convention and his home is within walking distance of great shopping and restaurants.

I was stopped dead in my tracks. I so was deeply touched, not only by his generous offer, but by his thoughtfulness in remembering the anniversary of my daughter Charista's medical emergency last July. It was without a doubt the scariest day of my life, and even at that time, he was there every step of the way, helping me and Michael, saving his niece's life with his emotional support and medical contacts. At that moment, I was grateful for my daughter's health. I was grateful for my family. And I was grateful for Kenny.

And at that moment I was reminded what the fuss was all about.

My eldest daughter, Charista, with her Uncle Kenny. Christmas 2011

Kenny, Gracelyn, Michael ~ Les Halles, Manhattan, July 2012