Posts Tagged ‘Ann Murray Paige’

Ann Murray Paige

Anna Kuperberg Photography

It took some time for me to make this entry in the Project Pink Diary, as if, by letting Ann’s last diary stand, I could pretend for a moment, that she was already at work on her next entry. In the weeks, months, and years to come we will keep Ann’s positive spirit alive on this page. It is our challenge to ourselves, affirmed by Ann’s husband Sandy. –Linda

This is an excerpt from the eulogy Sandy delivered at Ann’s Celebration of Life:

Annie’s casket was made by Mike Fields, one of the most

unselfish demonstrations of love I’ve ever seen, and we left it

unfinished so we can finish it with our love today. Sometime

before you leave, go see it, grab a sharpie and tell her why you

love her. I figured that would be better than lacquer or stain.

This week has been about sharing in Annie’s memory. A

serious, collective celebration of her life. My goal here today

isn’t to heal, isn’t even to preach. I will meet you where you

are – and, I know, this is a tough place to meet. I want to share

my perspective on the wonderful woman I married in 1997 in

Shrewsbury, MA. But, I am not going to blow sunshine up all

these pretty dresses and tell you everything is going to be okay,

blather on about how the hurt will pass. That will take care

of itself in time. As we did last night in her Irish Wake, we are

going celebrate, remember, and I hope to give us all some tools

to carry her spirit forward.

Spiritual Pixie

Let’s start with something fun. So much of Ann was just her

spirit. Even when her body left her, her spirit fought on. And

we all want to capture that spirit and soak it up . . . that’s why

we’re here. So, let’s actually do that. Put your hands in front

of you, drop the best parts of her into it. Now on the count

of three, let’s toss the contents of our hands into the air. And

when we do it, let’s all reach up and grab some, and place over

our hearts. Now you get everybody else’s piece of Ann, too.

And you can take that with you.

History

Born outside Boston in 1965, raised in Shrewsbury, MA.

Attended Boston College and Emerson for graduate studies.

We met in the Maine State House while she was on the news

beat, fell in love, married, had two fabulous kids and lived in

Maine until moving to CA in 2008. She was a great journalist,

but never comfortable covering the murder and mayhem

that was required of a beat reporter. I still remember well the

night she camped out to speak with the poorly treated Spanish

workers of an egg farm in rural Maine. She knew it was good

journalism, but hated it. She wanted to tell stories of strength

and humor – stories that made people smile.

And I could talk about her full life up to 2002, had she

been struck by lightning I could have given her eulogy

then and it would have a fabulous life. By then we had two

amazing children and that, in itself, remains our greatest

accomplishment.

Cancer

But in 2003/4 she got cancer, but she also got new meaning.

She found herself in new and important ways. In fact, it’s a big

part of why we are all here. Ann and Linda Pattillo put together

The Breast Cancer Diaries and traveled the country sharing it

with audiences. It has since traveled the world, been translated

into new languages, and even today has legs which are truly

profound.

California

In 2008 we moved to California, in part at least, to heal

emotionally from the treatments but also to find her some

space. And in that healing process, in this new land of

opportunity, she found voice . . . . as well as her favorite place.

It is where she decided to write and self-publish Pink Tips and

make it available on Amazon, where she wrote a One-Woman-

Show, where she found her soul mates. It is where the non-

profit Project Pink began to come alive.

Sure, breast cancer killed her. But didn’t it also save her? Ann

found her lost voice through cancer. And here in Davis, she

found an un-biased audience for her heart.

Let’s face it: Ann could be drawn like an emotional moth to

the most tragic of flames, she sought out the most difficult

moments, captured them, embraced them, spoke through

them and to them. She cried when she saw the homeless.

She hurt watching old people struggle. She had emotional

transparency, depths of highs and lows, that even now astonish

me.

Lows, and HIGHs.

How many of us will remember her

contagious laugh, the silliness, the margaritas, the last minute

texted invites to drinks and potluck dinner at the Paiges where

everybody showed up? Everybody showed up.

So Annie will lie in rest here in Davis, the place she was

happiest during her life. And in the most fitting closure, she will

rest in a plot at the feet of an 8 year old boy she never knew,

but with whom she shared the deepest, most personal love.

It is so tempting to be drawn in to the chasm of darkness that is

our sadness and grief today. And, perhaps because we had so

long to prepare, she knew this would happen to us . . . and she

gave us guidance – through her actions and words. I want to

share them, I want to give us some tools to carry forward.

Tool 1: Show Up

This one is the first and it is also the hardest. Even Ann, who

did this better than anybody, was not perfect at it. But she will

lay to rest with at least this on her gravestone. Show up. It

means more than it seems, take the phrase apart over time

and you’ll hear more and more meaning in it. It’s not simply a

question of being physically present, in some ways that’s easy.

Showing up is emotionally risky, it can make you vulnerable,

but it will always make you stronger. Try it in your marriage.

Use it in your friendships. Use it in your work. You will never,

ever go wrong by showing up. Meeting people where they are

emotionally. Showing up means trying to do the hard stuff.

You don’t have to do it right every single time, there’s always

tomorrow, but it means you show up whenever you can.

Christopher … you are already showing up. I have never

been prouder of you than over the last 10 days. You have

opened your heart to the world, with square shoulders and big

embrace, wiping tears and helping friends and family cope. And

you are just 14. Keep showing up like this and you will make

mom and me very, very proud.

Show up.

Tool 2: Half Full

This is from Ellie, who held out longer than anybody for a

miracle and reminded me so many times that I needed to see

mom’s fight glass as still half full. And I cherish that love and

that optimism more than anything. Thank you for being so

persistent.

So today, and tomorrow . . . and forever more . . . when you

grab a glass of wine or beer or juice or water, fill it half full. See

the top half, the one that appears so empty, see it with our

spiritual pixie bouncing around the inside, challenging you to

see the top half as opportunity, not emptiness.

Annie got a terminal cancer diagnosis 3.5 years ago, but lived

her life half full to the end. 48 hours before her death, when

she couldn’t stand without somebody on each arm, she could

barely form words anymore, but the words she formed that day

were “TAKE ME TO SPIN CLASS AT FITHOUSE.” She could barely

stand. She could barely speak. But she could still dance. Her

glass, more than anybody’s on this green, was nearly empty. Or

was it?

The volunteers pouring wine, water, lemonade and beer behind

you are instructed to fill the glasses half full. Start practicing

today.

Half Full.

Tool 3: Walk in Ann’s shoes

So . . . Ann had a bit of a shoe problem. Of course, like most

addicts, she did not see it as a problem. As her therapist on this

issue, I should have been fired, disbarred, my license revoked. I

failed in my interventions and the addiction continued.

I really want us all to walk in her shoes – figuratively, of course.

Think about how hard it was to do what she did. We called her

Superwoman, but she had no superpowers. She put one foot

in front of the other, pants on one leg at a time. What am I

asking? To the doctors in the crowd, walk in your patient’s

shoes. To the lawyers, be your client’s true advocate. To the

teachers, feeling that child’s pain, struggling with Geometry.

Walk in their shoes.

And . . . if you are a size 6.5 or 7, why don’t you ACTUALLY do

it. On the way out, there are about 50 pairs of Ann’s shoes.

I invite you to take a pair, just one pair, for yourself or for a

daughter or granddaughter whom you know they will fit. But

they really need to fit. Not just in the foot, but also in the heart.

This isn’t an opportunity to collect a piece of Ann, because

it comes with responsibility. These shoes are like the ruby

slippers in the Wizard of Oz. You may only wear them to do

good works. You must explicitly be thinking of Annie and doing

something for others.

And because not everybody is a size 6.5, if you’d like to come

as close as you can to Annie’s shoes, visit The Wardrobe in

downtown Davis. Heather and her friends will find something

for you, as close to Annie’s tastes as possible in shoes, hats

or the many other things which Annie loved in Heather’s

shop. And when you buy something in Annie’s memory at the

Wardrobe, some of the proceeds will help Project Pink.

But your obligation doesn’t just stop with wearing the shoes

and doing good work . . . you must tell others about what you

did. Write on FB, tweet about it. Call me. Call others. You can

have a pair of her ruby slippers if you promise to wear them in

her honor, share the good works you do. Find your tin man . . .

and give him life.

Walk in her shoes.

Tool 4: Wear her ring.

Our marriage was always public property. From our first date,

when we couldn’t have dinner without being mobbed, to the

documentary when I returned home to find a video camera

in the corner of our bedroom. To the blog I opened at work

one day . . . where she wrote about dragging me to a marriage

therapist. I knew that publicity was the price of admission to

her life.

The day we got engaged on Togue Pond in Baxter State Park

in northern Maine, I was not prepared. I had no ring. I had

something more important, though, I had Veuve Cliquot. So

we celebrated, and I slipped off to the woodshed. I took my

leatherman and pulled a nail from a piece of kindling and

formed a crude ring. She wore it. And she cherished it. And she

is wearing it now.

But not before I had a cast of it made – and some sterling

silver poured into it. We got an exact replica. Last week, in her

final hours, I slipped sterling silver copies on her fingers and

gave them to Christopher and Ellie the moment she passed.

They wear them now, too. And this week I gave sterling silver

copies of that ring to some of her closest friends. But that’s not

enough. The public property of our successful marriage offers

another opportunity, perhaps a glass half full. I want you all to

share in that cast, the cast sits in the safe at DeLuna’s Jewelers

here in Davis. She was tough as nails. And you can be too.

So if you want to share in it, go to DeLuna Jewelers in Davis.

Or call them. Tell them you want a copy of Ann’s nail ring,

tell them how you’d like to use it. They have the cast and

permission to use it – to fill it with anything other than sterling

silver. The silver is only for us. Try platinum for your wife. Try

the special allow for your second grade teacher. Try 10 or 14

carat gold. Have them make you rings, necklaces and earrings

from her nail ring and some of the benefits will fall to Project

Pink.

Ann was tough as nails – and a sterling silver friend. You can

be, too. Just drop by or call DeLuna’s, ask about Ann’s nail ring.

They’ll find a way for you to share in her beauty.

Honestly, one of the beauties of Annie was she had a purity to

her. Almost naivete in her willingness to trust, to embrace and

to join with others. And in her humility, she underestimated

herself, always. I am certain she is as overwhelmed by the

response over the last week as I am. The calls, texts, emails and

tears from around the globe have proven her reach to be far

more extensive than any of us knew.

It is often that you don’t know what you had until it is gone.

This is just not one of those times, is it?. We know very well

what’s missing. And that’s why it’s so darn hard. So let’s

not wallow in our grief. Let’s fight for her, not just Ann the

individual, but the Ann the spiritual pixie, Ann’s values, Ann’s

soul. And in doing so, we’ll get some emotional and spiritual

justice from this tragedy and we’ll carry her forward on our

shoulders, in our shoes, in our glasses, or on our fingers. This

week, and last night, the Davis community has joined hands,

simply refusing the let the memory of Annie fade. Time will do

what it must, but we will do our part to maintain the splendor

of her legacy.

What can you do?

You can Show Up.

You can keep your glass Half Full.

You can walk in her Shoes.

And you can wear her Ring.

I dare you – I DARE you — to see if it won’t improve your life,

and the lives of those around you, forever.

We love you, Annie. We won’t forget, I promise.

Sandy Paige

—-
Donations to Project Pink can be sent to:
Project Pink
245 N. Highland Ave.
Suite 230-271
Atlanta, GA
30307

Posted April 3rd, 2014 by
Ann Murray Paige
Posted in: Linda's Diary, News

Ann’s Diary: Uncle Phil

I was talking with my girlfriends the other day when one of them said, “we never said ‘I love you” growing up in our house”. I sat there and thought, “huh: we kinda never did either.”

It was the sign of the times I suppose– a 70′s kid being raised by someone born in the 1920′s, at least in my house. My assumption is that it was implied: I’m your parent, therefore I love you. And I’m sure I heard it a few times, it’s just that my memory doesn’t remember that far back. I would say it to other people, though– as a kid you do that. Or at least I did that. But in the general family, it wasn’t the norm to leave off a phone call and say “love you.” We just weren’t like that.

What I can remember is bringing the spoken form “I love you” into my life–full force. I was probably 15, and we’d just come back from a Murray Family Reunion. My Dad had 7 kids in his family originally, and I think there were 5 of them there. With their kids…and their kids…it was a mini-family circus under a beautiful sun. I for one had a total blast. When it was over, we headed home to my family’s house about an hour away, bringing my Uncle Phil and Aunt Anne Marie with us. I loved all of my uncles for different reasons. With Uncle Phil it was his amazing humor. He had me laughing a mile a minute. I can still see his blue eyes shining and twinkling as he’d make a joke or pull a stunt on me and my sister. He was pure fun.

The night we came home from the family reunion, we all gathered in the living room to watch old family slides. (Kids: those are stamped-sized photos on film that need to be splashed on a wall with a light and a really good magnifying machine called a projector.) We’d ordered pizza, and we were all laughing and joking, when Uncle Phil made fun of me in one of the photos. I don’t remember what he said, all I know is in my teenaged angst and anger at being made fun of, I simply stood up and stormed out of the room. Everyone called for me to come back, including Uncle Phil, but I tossed my hair and went straight to bed. To Hell with them, I thought, this will teach them. I’ll just leave! And I headed off to bed.

A little time later, I was awoken by rattling sounds coming up the stairwell. I jumped out of bed and looked outside into the bright hallway to see EMTs taking my precious Uncle Phil away on a stretcher. He was alert but breathing hard from an oxygen mask. I was crushed and my parents were trying to keep my in my room until the EMT’s left. It was the worst night of my young life. I have tears in my eyes as I write this—about 3 decades later.

I awoke to the news that Uncle Phil had died of a heart attack overnight. And I knew what I’d done. I had left that group of fun and family frolic: tossed my hair at them all because of something silly. And now Uncle Phil was dead. And his last words he ever heard from me were some fitful stupid teen blather–and now he was gone forever.

About a week after the funeral, I knew I couldn’t get Uncle Phil back, couldn’t change what I’d done…..but I could START doing something new. And from then on, any time I got on a phone with someone in my family and the call ended, I’d say “love you.” I will never forget the awkwardness in speaking those words–and wondering if my parents would think I was a weirdo. The first time I said it to my Dad, to end our phone conversation, there was absolute silence. I almost felt bad for springing it on him. Eventually he murmured an “.uh….okay”. And we hung up.

I’m happy to say I’ve kept up that tradition for more than 30 years of my life–and almost always when I whisper it, or shout it, to someone dear to me I take a moment of thanks and gratitude to my Uncle Phil, who in leaving this life for the next taught me a lesson that has made my life richer and fuller than it ever could have been otherwise.

Thank you, Uncle Phil. I love you.

Posted February 22nd, 2014 by
Ann's Diary: Uncle Phil
Posted in: Ann's Diary

Ann’s Diary: The Weather

I’ve been a bit under the weather and not able to write; but here I am to check in on how life’s been for me lately.

It’s been a drag.

Which is why I haven’t written–I’m not big on complaining here at this blog. It’s depressing and it doesn’t make me feel strong. But to ignore this part of the journey would be inauthentic, really–it would be passing over the incredibly difficult part of being a cancer patient: the treatments that don’t work. And that’s why I’m going to give you a quick sketch of how things are right now for me.

After I spoke in Boston in October, I went to Hawaii with the blessings and the gifts of dozens of friends from my world who fundraised their backsides off to get me and my family there. We had a great time; scuba diving, helicopter rides, safaris and the like. When I came back, I started new chemotherapy Xeloda (the Taxol chemo I was on had stopped working.) I was due to have 3 rounds (2 weeks on, one week off) and then see how the drug was working. The problem was, I felt like junk every day. I mean don’t-get-out-of-bed, no-interest-in-the-gym, I-can’t-eat kind-of thing. It was the antithesis of who I am: like someone transplanted me right out of myself and threw in I-don’t-even-know who. What character in TV, movies, books never wants to get out of bed? That’s who I was. And I’m afraid to say still am.

It got so bad that I, a cancer fighter, one who knows that you only have a certain amount of chemos to work with before you run out of choices, had to call “uncle” on the Xeloda. It was the worst feeling of my life: literally taking the medical reigns from my oncologist and saying “no more. I can’t handle this.” But on Dec 23, that’s what I did. And the chemo wasn’t showing fabulous results, either–they were “mixed.” So I said, “we’re done here.” I need some semblance of my life back.

But it never really came. I went on a vacation with my family and my brother’s family which was a huge “happy boost” for me, but when I got back home it’s been crapus-status-quo. My family and friends are doing double time to convince me to get out on a walk, take the dog out, go for coffee–at my request, mind you. I need people to get my sad butt out of my home before I become some kind of a hermit in here–getting fearful and woe-is-me. F-that. That’s not how this story’s gonna go….

Now I’m on another chemo–and so far no change. I am not Taxol-great, but I am not Xeloda-sick, either. I’m somewhere in the middle. We will find out in a few weeks whether this new drug is working–and whether I can withstand it–and then go from there.

So gang, that’s Highlights From Cancer Mountain. To all of you who’ve FB’d me and asked if I’m okay, this blog is dedicated to you. Yes, I am fine. I look myself in the mirror all the time and tell myself that, even as some tears fall. Like I tell my kids, you are your own best friends. You will be the ones to take you through the good, the bad and the unfair of life. Don’t ever forget that–I tell myself, now, constantly. You can do this.

And if you can’t, I tell me, I’ll still be there with you through the good and the bad. I got your back, Ann Murray Paige. I got your back.

Posted January 16th, 2014 by
Ann's Diary: The Weather
Posted in: Ann's Diary

Ann’s Diary: Isaac’s Advice

There’s a phrase I lean on all the time when things aren’t in my control and I’m stuck: it’s “who cares.” But it’s not the who cares you think it is—not the one that means “I don’t care.” This is a different one. I’ll explain.

It was Christmastime, about 3 or 4 years ago–and I was visiting my folks back east. I was in the kitchen of my next-door neighbor, Darlin–who was my godmother and neighbor for as long as I’d been a person in the world. I always loved to hang out at her house during the holidays and find out what all of her 6 kids, in-laws and her grandchildren were up to. I considered them all my extended family and so, on this afternoon before Christmas, I pulled up a kitchen barstool and listened in on the conversation.

Debbie was talking about her youngest son, Isaac, and she was telling everyone how naughty he was being lately. He was probably 6 or 7–the right age for being naughty–and she was saying how he’d done something he shouldn’t have, I don’t remember what. I’ll just pretend it was spilling milk for the sake of this blog. So she was saying “and he’s spilled his milk. And I said, Isaac, pick up the milk. And he didn’t. So I said, Isaac, really. Pick up the milk. It’s a mess. And it will smell if you don’t clean it up. ”

Then Debbie looks at us and says, “And you know what that little imp said to me? Who cares.”

Now I have to insert here that part of the adorableness of the story was Isaac’s Boston-like accent–which Debbie imitated. If you’re from that area you know what I’m tawkin-bout: our As are more like Es. Our Rs are non-existent. And we can make multi-syllables appear from nowhere in a word that has 4 letters.

So in this story, it’s the A in “cares” that I need to explain. It’s like the e in key. That’s the accent Debbie used when she imitated Isaac. “Who key-ahs.” “And then,” she finished up, “he just ran out to play.”

I took that story home with me and I thought about it all night long. At this point in my health, I had metastatic breast cancer in my lung. I kept rolling that story over in my mind and I transferred it over to me. In my situation, battling friggin cancer, to be able in the moments when I have no control and all seems lost in the doc’s office, to have a “who-key-ahs” attitude and just move through it. To be able to just let go of the angst and anger and keep moving… even if milk has spilled and I can’t pick it up. Wouldn’t that be a gift to let go and really feel like since I can’t do anything about it, forget it.

Almost 5 years later, I say “who key-ahs” all the time: especially now that I have breast cancer in my liver and my brain. And I use that phrase long after I’ve cried hard over something I can’t change. Ex: I can’t get my ass out of bed on Xeloda. Who cares. Ex: My hair may not ever grow back after whole brain radiation–I may be bald for life. Who cares. Ex: I can’t get to 6a.m. spin now that chemo is kicking my-ass. Who cares.

It’s not that I don’t care about this bullsh-t I’m battling: I sure as hell DO care. But when I can’t do a damn thing about something, and when the rest of the world would be angry and getting in a froth over it, I think– I’m not putting any more of my energy into something I can’t change. I can only move forward, and to hell with what’s not in my control.

So at this Christmastime, I raise a glass of un-spilled milk to my buddy and my little pal, Isaac–who now doubt has zero idea that a story told about him many Christmases ago is helping this cancer fighter through some of her worst moments ever in this long battle with the breast cancer beast.

Here’s to Isaac: my pint-sized therapist–who guides my steps and the steps of others I’ve shared this story with over these last years–as we traverse the scary, the unforseen and the frightening of our lives. So we don’t have ultimate control: so we don’t know our fates. And we may not really ever understand why bad thing happen to good people in this world. And we may never know why..

and who key-ahs..

Posted December 11th, 2013 by
Ann's Diary: Isaac's Advice
Posted in: Ann's Diary

Ann’s Diary: Believe

One of the harder things for me to wrestle now, along with the happy holiday mantra that others are caught up in and I so desperately want to be swept up in too, is the notion of believing.

I don’t mean believing in Santa, which of course I do. I mean in me. Believing in me beating this cancer. Which of course I do.

It’s others in my world who have begun to think I have lost my faith in me. Lately I’ve been getting notes, letters, comments, texts and calls about “don’t stop believing.” I shake my head and think “ME? You talking to me?”

I have always believed I can do this. It will be ten years in March that I first wrote my letter to the Medical Santa and stated firmly: “I have been a VERY GOOD GIRL. And I just want one thing this Christmas: I want my health back.”

I am not new to the BELIEVE notion.

That was 10 Christmases ago that I wrote that note to my Santa, and so far he’s been, well, he’s been good. He hasn’t brought my health back, but then again, he hasn’t taken it away either. He’s stood by and watched me tie my son’s kindergarten shoes, hold my daughter’s hand into the preschool class, help with Spanish 3 homework and braid a long lock of blonde hair for the umpteenth time. Santa, like I am, is doing his best. Cancer isn’t something either of us can believe away. I can hold onto the hands of people who love me and still worry that this isn’t going so well. That doesn’t mean I’m giving up. It means I’m scared. And tired. And bloody well bullshit that all the holistic, self-healing, medical, emotional, spiritual, vegan, no-dairy, exercise, nutrition, Lourdes Water and all the rest of the dozens of “things” I’m trying to bat this beast away seem to work for only a while. Was I looking for a miracle you ask? You bet I was. And I still am.

Dear Medical Santa,

This year, I have been an especially good girl. But cancer has been naughty. It’s made me undergo 26 rounds of Taxol, 12 Zometa infusions, a port placement, a blown artery, 10 rounds of whole brain radiation, a port removal, 2 non-closing wounds, decreased vision, 3 new chemotherapies, unexpected exhaustion and the growing realization that the brain rads have made me bald for life. As for me, I have spoken at several cancer events, from 5 girl scouts in a living room to almost 1000 people at a Boston cancer center fundraiser. I have reminded people through my writing and my presence that all is not lost when things aren’t going right: and that there is another day coming in which to find your comfort, strength and balance. I’ve also been the recipient of incredible honors, including the inaugural Project Pink 5K which will be held each year in Davis, CA to raise funds for my non-profit, Project Pink** and been chosen as a “the one hundred” recipient for my breast cancer advocacy over this last decade.

So Santa, we’ve been here before, you and I. I’m asking for something yet again this year, and I’m hoping you can find it in that big red bag of yours. I’d like my health back.

Here’s my give to you: I promise I will continue to be a very good girl next year. I’d like to go back to that Boston cancer center and help them out again in 2014. I’d like to begin the business plan of getting “pink tips” out to its first group of cancer fighters, right here in my home town. I have a children’s book that is on the edges of being ready to publish. I have 2 more books in the series “Words To Live By” that I need to publish. And Santa, if I can have my health, I will pick up where I left off with “In the Pink”, my one-woman show. I wanted to go on the road, performing that at high schools around the state–maybe country?–letting kids know that the world can be tough but they can be tougher, we all can be–if we stick together. And I’m sure there are more opportunities out there for me, Santa. I just gotta be here for them.

Finally, Santa, please bring my friends the comfort that I DO BELIEVE. I believe in you, I believe in me, and I believe that somehow, some way, even as I live in this incredibly tough spot, I will beat this friggin disease. You know it–you’ve know that for 10 years–and I know it…

Now please help them know it, too.

–Ann

To my friends, I leave you with this:

The fact that I’m struggling with the side effects of this new chemo does not mean I’ve stopped believing I can do this. It means I so believe I can still do this that I’m willing to struggle with the side effects of this new chemo. So believe in me.

Because I do.

**all funds will go toward Project Pink’s new mission of getting a copy of “pink tips” into the hands of every newly diagnosed breast cancer patient across the country–and one day, around the world.

Posted December 3rd, 2013 by
Ann's Diary: Believe
Posted in: Ann's Diary