I'm almost four months out of treatments for breast cancer now and I thought I could just forget the whole thing, like an episode or a bad cold, but the emotional impact of it all has astonished--and embarrassed--me. But in case someone else is experience this reaction, I will share it. I feels normal, somehow, however unwelcome.

I bought this wonderful carved and painted wood merganser by Wesley Merritt from my very favorite gallery of all time: The Tamarack Gallery on the Leelanau Peninsula in Omena, Michigan, which has also carried the work of my brother, Dewey Blocksma, for many years.

Recently my son and his wife decided to sell most of what they owned and move into a trailer. I applaud living light on the earth, but how will I now pass along my treasured collection of art when I can no longer maintain it? I think I've thought of a way.

Last weekend I returned to Beaver Island and soaked in friends and nature for three days. As I had no car and had broken my trusty digital camera, I took only a sketchbook and small watercolor set. I enjoyed recording my travels in paint and ink.

Every year in June (I'm a little late with this entry), a group of concerned Bay City citizens gather at a riverside restaurant bar for breakfast, then hop in boats of all sizes to clean up the Kawkawlin River from the last year's trash and debris.

It's been almost three weeks since I quit taking Arimidex--against one doctor's urgent advice to stay on it and following another's urgent recommendation to get off--and the pain is letting up some, but not gone.

I've been taking Arimidex, a Tamoxifen alternative, hoping to avoid the side-effects so many friends had complained about Tamoxifen. I didn't realize I'd possibly suffer even worse with Arimidex.