Surviving Hospice Virtual Book Tour

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A Chaplain’s Journey Into the Business of Dying How to Find a Trustworthy
Provider

 

Nonfiction / Medical

Date Published: October 9, 2023

Publisher: MindStir Media

 

 

Maryclaire Torinus invites you to join her at the bedsides of dying
patients. Her enlightenment becomes your learning as each chapter unfolds.
Her admiration for hospice helps her see its darker side. Her list of
interview questions for those seeking good, community-oriented hospice is a
valuable tool.

Larry Patten, Retired United Methodist Minister, Hospice Chaplain, author
of “A Companion for the Hospice Journey.

Maryclaire Torinus received certification in Clinical Pastoral Education
for Chaplaincy at St. Camillus Senior Living Residence. She worked as a
hospice chaplain and as a hospice consumer advocate for eight years. She
also worked for two years as a pastoral counselor in an acute-care wing of
the Milwaukee County Behavioral Health Complex. Maryclaire is a Wisconsin
native and met her husband, Mark, in the fifth grade. She and Mark were
married for 37 years until he died in 2013. They have three children and
three grandchildren.

 

Praise for Surviving Hospice

Powerful, beautifully written, and eye-opening, this book spotlights the
inner workings of a multi-billion-dollar industry and the effect on
patients, families, and hospice staff. The author shares poignant accounts
of hospice at its best and worst and the hard-hitting truths she learned on
her journey. A must-read for family members exploring hospice care.

Stacy Juba, author, editor, and award-winning health journalist

 

Maryclaire Torinus speaks with authority, providing this essential handbook
for choosing a hospice care team and why that selection really
matters.

Laura Kukowski, CEO

For-Profit Badger Hospice, LLC

 

 

Surviving Hospice tablet

EXCERPT

Foreword

I first met Maryclaire Torinus after coming across her website and learning about her work as a hospice chaplain. She was writing a book about the harm caused by the changing business structure of the hospice industry. My experience with for-profit hospices was as a volunteer, and as the founder and president of the Hospice Volunteer Association (HVA), I had also witnessed a decline in the quality of care from several different perspectives. And what was most troubling was that so much of it seemed directly related to the rising number of for-profit hospices (while nonprofit hospices were decreasing.) 

Over time, I have seen my role as a volunteer becoming more limited due to increased regulation driven by the recommendations of corporate lawyers. In early 2008, our association saw an urgent need for the Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act (HIPAA) for volunteer programs. So, I developed the Patient Data Vault (PDV) software that hospices use to manage their volunteer programs and facilitate reporting that is HIPAA-compliant and meets Medicare requirements. 

The most concerning aspect of that restrictive regulation was the premise by corporate lawyers that hospice volunteers should not be permitted to document what occurred during their patient visits. Consequently, the volunteer was only allowed to check generic boxes as to the type of service that was provided, but they could not describe what the patient may have conveyed to them during the appointment for fear of a lawsuit. 

As the software began to get greater use in the hospice community, I observed that some hospices were restricting volunteers access to patient data. Zealous administrators and lawyers have created a double standard between volunteers and clinical staff when it comes to providing information that would allow volunteers to best serve the patients. The claim was that it was necessary for HIPAA compliance; however, HIPAA law specifically states that compliance should not sacrifice the quality of care for patients. 

Such restrictions imposed on patient data is contrary to the congressional mandate that hospice volunteers are an integral part of the hospice’s Interdisciplinary Team (IDT). When Congress established the Medicare Hospice Benefit in 1982, it stipulated that the Conditions of Participation (CoPs) mandated that volunteers must provide administrative or direct patient care in an amount that, at a minimum, equals 5 percent of the total patient care hours expended by all paid hospice employees and contract staff. 

Unfortunately, the use of volunteers declined 45 percent, as reflected by the 5 percent metric, from 9.4 percent in 2003 to 5.2 percent in 2014. Coincidentally, the number of for-profit hospices increased by 44 percent over that same period. This is a logical correlation given that for-profit hospices are more likely to target the minimum 5 percent requirement even though a higher target would increase their overall staffing and raise the quality of care at virtually no additional cost. 

It’s important to note that volunteers were the driving force behind the grassroots establishment of the concept of hospice when it first started. As well, the growing awareness of how hospitals were treating the dying in the mid-70s inspired idealistic nurses, clergy, and volunteers to come forward and help launch hospice as a necessary health care reform. In the 1980s, the concept of hospice care began to resonate with the public and inspired lay people and healthcare professionals alike to place themselves at the disposal of nonprofit hospice providers even though they had just finished eight hour shifts at their own jobs

Fast forward thirty years to witness the dramatic changes we observe in the hospice industry today. The end-of-life care environment has transitioned from hospice organizations which began as nonprofit providers and driven by the altruism of lay volunteers to a substantial financial enterprise that is driven by big profit margins. 

The unfortunate result of this transition has directly impacted patients and families. I’m not surprised by what Maryclaire observed in her own for-profit company and I agree with what she has shared in this illuminating book: there are less resources available to serve patient needs, less hospice staff to cover the census and provide for the quality and time patients deserve, a reduction in personal fulfillment by employees, and many seasoned and caring professionals are leaving for-profit hospices because the type of care they once provided is no longer possible. 

The resources provided in part two of Surviving Hospice: A Chaplain’s Journey into the Business of Dying will help consumers make informed decisions for the critical choice that patients and their families have for selecting a hospice and ensuring a shot at having a good dying experience. There are no “do-overs” in this business. 

Maryclaire Torinus beautifully weaves her own life story with her experiences as a hospice insider who cared for her dying patients until the last moments of their lives. The economic discoveries she makes on her spiritual journey that affected the well-being of her patients and the staff will help you to understand the important nuances associated with assessing and selecting the best hospice for you, whether it be nonprofit or for-profit. 

The extremely useful interview tools will guide you step-by-step on how to search for crucial hospice information like a pro; and in the process, clear up why “all hospices are not the same.” 

Greg Schneider Founder & President, Hospice Volunteer Association 

Founding Director & CEO/CTO, Hospice Educators Affirming 

Life (HEAL) Project

About the Author

I am intellectual, contemplative, and intuitive. I resonate deeply with the
writing and theological teachings of Franciscan Friar Richard Rohr and am a
One on the Enneagram Spiritual Inventory. I recently converted from Roman
Catholicism to Episcopalian and I am an active member of St. Mark’s
Church in Milwaukee. My colleagues have told me that I am a bridge-maker and
an agent for change and spiritual growth. I am a lover of water with a
passion for kayaking.

I think it’s important to take healthy (informed) risks in life,
which is why I am writing this book. During my years of study in the field
of music, I’ve grown to love the vocal polyphony of the Renaissance
period, Broadway musicals, and the film scores composed by John Williams
(Schindler’s List and E.T.) My favorite performing experiences have
been in Europe, Carnegie Hall, semi-professional theater roles, and touring
with my college vocal jazz ensemble.

After more than 35 years of marriage I lost my husband and best friend to
heart failure. I am a mom to three millennials and am a nana to three
grandchildren and three cats.

My love of travel began when I studied abroad for a year in W. Berlin,
Germany during the height of the Cold War; where I was profoundly affected
by the history, culture, post-war politics, and ghastly Soviet-built wall.
It was my first experience living amidst suffering.

Favorite memories over the years include riding a sweaty, stumbling horse
for 6 hours into the Bob Marshall Wilderness to fly-fish, camp, and raft;
hoofing up “The Great Wall” of China for three hours in a
torrent of rain and wind; and cross-country skiing with my husband into a
Colorado valley; lit only by the moon and our head lamps.

My Bachelor Degree is in Vocal Music Education from St. Norbert College. My
Master’s degree is in Religious Studies from Cardinal Stritch
University. I trained in Clinical Pastoral Education for Chaplaincy at St.
Camillus Skilled Nursing Facility in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. I was humbled to
receive the Heart of Compassion Award in 2012, as one of the top chaplains
in the nation for my company. I studied at the Writers Institute at UW
Madison, The Clearing Folk School in Door County, and Red Oak Writing
Studio.

My career in pastoral ministry culminated in my position as a full-time
Hospice Chaplain at the same time that my husband was dying. Having also
endured a serious clinical depression in my early fifties, my combined
personal and professional experiences offered a peculiar benefit for my work
in Hospice – where holding a certain comfort level with suffering and
loss was imperative.

I have worked in the fields of education, hospice chaplaincy, and eldercare
for almost 30 years. My chaplain ministry has afforded many opportunities to
speak at funerals, conduct workshops on the industry of hospice, and teach
on the Spirituality of Aging.

From this experience, I am offering my knowledge with the mission of
helping consumers navigate hospice services.

 

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The Pleasure Seeker Teaser Tuesday

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Literary Fiction

Date Published: Sept.2023

 

 

Dayal Singh is brilliant, quirky, & has Asperger’s. Son of parents
trafficked to East Africa from India just before independence, he knows he’s
Sikh, African, and calculus is the evidence of God.

He becomes fascinated by a broken piano. and is offered a piano to sell,
buys it and learns to play.

Mentored by his older brothers, he follows them to Singapore to further his
education, then goes to Switzerland.

He falls in love with the granddaughter of the man who bought his father.
She tells him that the situation is impossible, and that he must stay in
school as long as his way is paid.

His youth is fraught, being an other. In Switzerland, he is constantly
proselytized to, which only defines for him how he wants to live. He’s
studying physics and engineering, but finds peace in playing the piano. He
meets other students, they jam, and suddenly they are rock stars…which
Dayal never imagined could happen.

He agrees to meet Sita, the daughter of a Sikh man his father met, and
Dayal thinks they are both in agreement about how they will live and raise
children, but things gradually go downhill. When Dayal learns Sita hasn’t
been truthful with him, he has to make a decision.

Excerpt

            The song I wrote, “Is This OK?” was a hit. We got it out as a
single, and added it to shows. We started in Boston and zigzagged through
large cities in Canada, the USA, and Mexico, then to Spain and France. We
broadcasted live shows to theaters around the USA, San Jose, Lima, Buenos
Aires, Sydney, Perth, and Brasilia, and Japan. I wrote the Glazer girls, but
there was no way I could see them.

          At the end of the tour in
August, I flew to Dubai for a week. We hadn’t seen each other since
December! I couldn’t imagine where Sita got the idea that there was so
much to do in Dubai. Was she comparing it to Mumbai? I noticed the town was
growing. There were triple the number of buildings, many quite tall. We got
out to the desert for camel races, where I saw my first Salukis. I thought
they looked like Mara’s dogs. They ran a few races, and were so
graceful. We went out to eat, saw movies, strolled the mall, the beach, met
her girlfriends (she knew no guys and did not socialize with the
girls’ brothers or husbands), had dinner with Baba Makkar’s
other family, and we talked more about our expectations. Again, I asked her
if she had explored birth control methods, and hit a road block.

          “You know, a lot of
women use the rhythm method based on their cycles and it works,” she
said to me.

          “Do you know how it
works? I will use condoms, but you need to know your options.”

          We had no arguments, but
our conversations were never about anything controversial or deep. She
wasn’t wearing a lot of makeup anymore, at least not when I saw her.
She told me she had started saving her allowance, and was even going through
her wardrobe to decide what clothes she would really need, as the weather
would be different in Europe.

          We weren’t sleeping
together in Dubai, but we could bring each other to orgasm, and I was happy
for that.

          I asked Fatima about how
the wedding planning was going, and she told me she was thinking of next
March.

          Seven months more?
“Why are you delaying this?”

           “Your
horoscopes… .”

          “This is nonsense.
We’ve known each other over a year. I have a school break in November.
Make it for then.” I found this irritating, but when I was stressed,
and back then, it was almost all the time, everything was irritating.

          I really wanted to see my
parents. I was halfway there, being in Dubai, so I asked Fatima and Sita to
come with me. Mr. Makkar agreed to pay for their flights if I would pay for
a place for them to stay, which was at Mr. Curtis’s hotel. A few other
small hotels had been built, but Curtis’ place was still the
nicest.

          I surprised my parents (I
did send a telegram). I sent Sita and Fatima on several safari runs,
suggested they have my tailor create some clothes for themselves, and took
them around in the truck to see Alfred. I brought him a solar lantern, a few
books on alternative energy, and a football and badminton set for his three
children, who were giddy about the gifts.

          Fatima and Sita were
surprised at how far out from Arusha Alfred lived. When we pulled into their
compound, Fatima asked me, “They speak English?”

          “Alfred was in
primary school with me, and he often guides safaris, so I know his English
is good. I’m not sure about the rest of his family.” I spoke to
his wife and children in Kiswahili.

          Alfred and I discussed
putting in a rain catchment system on his house. He had managed to build a
burned brick house with a cement floor and tin roof, but still had his
rondoval. His wife and daughters still had to fetch water. I told him
I’d loan him the money if he agree to pay it forward.

          Sita and Fatima seemed
uncomfortable with the goats, chickens and dogs approaching us in their
curiosity. Alfred’s mum offered us chai and mandaazi, which is a fried
pastry. I saw that Fatima and Sita were hesitant, but I whispered to them,
“Everything’s boiled or fried. You won’t get
sick.”

          On the way back to town,
we stopped at a Maasai encampment. I just wanted to greet them, and I had
bought them a few plastic buckets. We didn’t stay long. The flies were
too annoying, and there was no place to sit.

          On the drive back to my
folks, Sita and Fatima commented how remarkable it was that people could
live like they did and be so happy. Sita asked me, “How is it you have
a relationship with such primitive people?”

          Her question shocked me.
“They aren’t primitive. They’re just poor. You know, they
haven’t had the advantages we’ve had.”

          “What do you
mean?”

          “The Maasai like
living the way they do. They are free. Their children do all the chores. As
for Alfred, I had my older brothers to help me learn. Alfred was the eldest
child. He had nobody to help him. Also, his father had two wives, so
resources for the children were spread thin.”

          My parents were cordial
towards Sita and Fatima. However, I knew from the way they were acting, that
they weren’t comfortable. There was a real class difference between us
and them. Baba pulled me aside and asked, “They knew they were coming
to Africa. Why didn’t they dress more simply?”

          I remembered the time Avi
and Sodhi came home after guiding safaris one day, and were counting their
tips in various foreign currencies. Sodhi remarked that most of the tourists
on his lorry were French, and Avi responded, laughing, “Today mine
were all Italian. They always dress like they’re going to a photo
shoot. The women, always silk shirts unbuttoned to show cleavage and gold
necklaces, tight silk pants that look painted on, and stiletto heels. Not
just high heels—pointy six inch heels. They tottered and had to be
boosted into the lorry. I can’t imagine what they were thinking. That
the ground would be hard so they wouldn’t sink in?”

          My future wife and
mother-in-law were dressed as if going to a business luncheon, and I
wondered if they owned any clothes that didn’t need to be dry
cleaned.

          “Baba, these people
live in a tall building. They don’t even have a garden. These are
their ‘simple’ clothes.” He understood this because he had
visited my brothers.

          I had been living in
Europe as a European and just accepted that some people never did any real
work. This was also why I took time to address expectations with Sita.

Hassan had brought one of his wives to live with him, and she was helping
Ama with baking. Fatima expressed surprise that my mother could bake such
amazing things over a grill in a covered pot.

 

About the Author

Robyn Michaels

I am retired dog groomer and have titled dogs in performance and
conformation. I didn’t go to college until I was 30, and took CLEP exams to
avoid prerequisites. I have a degree in anthropology with concentrations in
African & Indian studies, and a master’s in urban planning. I was
a Peace Corps Volunteer in Malawi. I have had several short stories
published in literary journals, and the pet industry press.

 

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My Life in Stitches Virtual Book Tour

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A Heart Transplant Survivor Story

Memoir

Date Published: December 12, 2023

Publisher: Acorn Publishing

 

 

Darla Calvet is a thirty-nine-year-old working mom whose life turns upside
down when she is diagnosed with congestive heart failure. Suddenly, fear
threatens her dreams for the future as doctors’ appointments replace
her daily routines and she realizes she may not live to see her daughters
grow up. After dying twice while waiting for a new heart, Darla begins to
understand her own resiliency—her heart may be weak, but her mind
refuses to give up.

My Life in Stitches: A Heart Transplant Survivor Story is a candid, witty
account of one woman’s determination to transform a devastating prognosis
into an inspiring fight for survival. Darla’s story offers insight
into the complex world of medicine with a dose of humor about her challenges
and victories as a heart transplant patient. In this sensitive, thorough,
and informative debut, Calvet brings compassion and gentle wisdom to a
difficult subject in hopes of demystifying the uncertainties that inevitably
accompany long-term, life-threatening medical decisions.

My Life in Stitches paperback

EXCERPT

My fears that something was seriously wrong were confirmed as we checked into the musty, overcrowded emergency room. I showed the admitting clerk my elephantine ankles, and she immediately bumped me to the head of the line. I was out of breath and wheezed repeatedly. I thanked her on my way to the exam room and gasped, “I can’t breathe.” She looked me straight in the eye and responded, “You have a heart virus. I can already tell.” She was correct in her diagnosis. 

 

After being quickly assessed in the triage area, the silver- haired, haggard-looking physician on duty looked at my vital signs and ankles. He frowned. “It looks like you are in heart failure. They are going to transport you to the regular hospital for tests and admittance.” Before I could plead with him for more information, he was gone. I noticed that the man in the bed next to me began urinating in a bedpan. I wanted to scream but shut my eyes instead. I prayed to God that this was some kind of horrible dream, and I would wake up in my normal life. I was only thirty-nine years old. 

 

A half hour passed, and two young male paramedics loaded me up on a sitting gurney. It was bright yellow and black and reminded me of a giant bumblebee robot transformer. Although I must have looked monstrous with my slicked-back hair and sweating forehead, they were kind to me and tried to be reassuring. “Okay miss, we will be transporting you over to the main hospital now,” said one of them as he lifted up the giant gurney. 

 

The half-mile trip between the emergency room and the main hospital was a ridiculous exercise in logistics. It took them twenty minutes to get me loaded and buckled in, then five minutes to drive over to the main building and another twenty to unload me. They placed me in a temporary patient holding room on the main floor of the hospital, where I encountered a pudgy, peroxided nurse. 

 

My husband Pat had gone home to leave the kids with some trusted neighbors while I waited for more treatment. I sat alone in the holding room in a despondent state. After hours of sitting alone considering my bleak diagnosis, a tall, older priest with a shock of white hair entered the room, smiling. I took one look at him and whispered, “Oh my God. Are you here to administer the Last Rites?”

 

In a predictable Irish brogue, he took my hand and replied, “No, child. I am just here to see if you are hungry. I know you have been here a while. I brought you a bit of something.” He pulled his hand from his shirt pocket and produced a tiny peanut butter sandwich, neatly wrapped in plastic. I had been at the hospital for over eighteen hours and had been given nothing but water and intravenous fluid. “Oh, thank you, Father,” I said with relief. “Yes, I am a bit hungry, and I would love that.” We both shared a good laugh before he gave me a standard blessing and continued his rounds. I was going to need it. 

The first lesson I learned as a heart transplant patient is that a sense of humor is vital on the road to recovery. You cannot survive without it. 

 

EXCERPT 2

 

946 word excerpt from My Life in Stitches, Chapter 12

EXACTLY SIXTY-TWO DAYS after I had fainted in the Scripps Green hospital room, I woke up in complete darkness. My heart raced. I had no idea where I was or what happened to me since I passed out on the day I was admitted. I was unable to see without my contacts or glasses and tried to speak but could not emit a sound. For those first few moments, I thought perhaps maybe I was in some kind of purgatory and that this was my eternal bus stop. I felt a distinct heaviness as I tried to move my legs. I reached down around my abdomen and detected the LVAD unit, with a drive line going through my abdomen and its two large lithium batteries attached to my body. The LVAD surgery had occurred. But when, why, and how had it happened? I sat in darkness, vainly searching for the remote control and the button to call the night shift nurse. 

 

I felt a weird combination of relief and confusion. I could decipher from the blurry digits on the     clock that it was about 4:00 a.m. I had no idea what day, month, or year it was. I knew from the LVAD installation that some time must have passed, but how much? I must have woken up during a skeletal night shift with very few nurses in the hospital unit. I swung my head as far around as I could, only to see the outlines and lights of seventeen machines in the room, all helping to keep me alive. I immediately started to panic. I seemed to be more machine than human with all of the leads and tubes running in and out of my body. I was also intubated and unable to speak, which was terrifying. I could discern from the many machines attached to me that I was also in the Cardiac Intensive Care Unit, known as the CICU. This was where the gravely ill cardiac patients were sent by their teams. 

 

“Stay calm,” I told myself. Someone had to be around . . . somewhere. The heavy blackout curtains were drawn around my glass cube room, making me feel claustrophobic. After a long wait, the curtains were flung open by Patricia, my morning nurse, who was starting her shift. She smiled sweetly, saying, “Oh, good. You are awake. We have been waiting for you to wake up.” I was confused and had no idea how I had arrived at my current state in the hospital bed. At that time, the CICU was located in the basement of the Scripps Green Hospital Facility, next to the morgue. It was not exactly a cheery place. I heard some orderlies joking to each other that it was “death’s waiting room.” 

 

Realizing that I could not speak, Patricia took my hand and spoke softly, “You are okay. You have been in a medically induced coma for over two months. During that time, we needed to perform emergency open heart surgery and save your life by installing the LVAD, which you have probably noticed is attached to your body.” I shuddered and pulled the sheets up around my neck. God only knew how close I had come to death. I was about to find out.

 

While I was very grateful and relieved to be alive, I thought of my family. How had my husband coped during my absence with our two young adult girls? How had they dealt with this horrible situation? My eldest, Claire, was a high school senior. My youngest, Annie, was now a high school freshman. It made me sad to think about missing the important events that were going on in their young lives. 

 

My next thought was my job. What had happened to it? Had someone finally disclosed how sick I had been while continuing to work? It gave me pause to consider that this had happened during my absence. I did not know that my husband had requested a one-year leave of absence after I fainted at the hospital. I was grateful he did this on my behalf. During my last days at my job, my ego kept me from seeking support even as I struggled to walk a few hundred feet from the parking lot to the elevator up to my office.

 

A few moments later, Nurse Patricia returned with my “breakfast.” It was a peach colored container of liquid protein that looked like cement. I watched in awe as she said, “Down the hatch” and poured it into my feeding tube. “Can you taste anything?” she asked. I shook my head “no.” The only sensation I felt was the cold sludge making its way down the feeding tube in the back of my throat. I had lost quite a bit of weight during my two-month nap. Thirty-four pounds to be exact. My body, which had always been very muscular, was now atrophied and weak. 

 

The LVAD was the third device to be surgically placed into my body after the AICD defibrillator and pacemaker. It cost over a million dollars to install. Now, my job of learning to live with it began. There would be no swimming in the near future. The eight pounds of life-saving state-of-the-art medical equipment that was now part of my body would require ongoing care. I had no idea at that time the battles that had taken place to get the LVAD device installed. I would have certainly died without it. 

 

The next lesson I learned as a transplant patient is: Your medical team must fight to save your life. Even with your insurance company. You do not have the luxury of time on your side. 

 

 

 

 

 

About the Author

Dr. Darla Calvet

A heart transplant survivor, Dr. Darla Calvet won a gold medal for ballroom
dance in the 2022 Transplant Games of America. Currently, she serves as the
vice president of the board of directors for the Southern California
Transplant Games of America team. She is also the CEO of Blue Tiger, Inc., a
strategic planning consultancy. A doctor of education, Calvet holds degrees
from Claremont Graduate University, San Diego State University, and the
University of California, Berkeley. She lives in San Diego, California, with
her husband Pat and their French bulldog Quinn, and she is the proud mom of
two adult daughters, Claire and Annie.

 

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Please, Thank You, and Excuse Me Virtual Book Tour

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the lost art of mannerisms

 

Children’s Book

Date Published: April 5, 2023

Publisher: Mindstir Media

Cori Elba (Illustrator)

 

 

When your children are learning to speak, it can come out and grunts,
screams, or yells.

 

This can make it hard to understand them. To help them through this tough
time, start by getting on their level. Look them in the eyes and reassure
them that it is okay to get frustrated. Then ask them to use their words
with please, thank you, and excuse me. These three basic phrases set a
foundation for the language you will share between you and your child. Just
remember… Repeat, repeat, repeat. Stay with their consistent
repetition. You might grow tired of it, but to your two-year-old, it’s
the routine they need to develop.

Politeness is spoken worldwide and in every language, whether in public or
private. The simplicity of kindness teaches that everyone matters in this
world. These three children’s books (“Please, Thank You and Excuse
Me,
” “Listen, Share, and Be Nice,” and “Animal
Etiquette for Kids
”) are lighthearted and geared for all ages.
Mannerisms must start somewhere, so why not parents, grandparents, teachers,
friends, and caregivers show our children mutual respect for all people,
places, and things?

 

This series of children’s books is a fun way to re-introduce manners into
your children’s lives. It’s cool to be polite and kind to everyone.

 

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Please, Thank You, and Excuse Me excerpt

 

About the Author

Ashley Chadwick

Ashley has been a professional nanny for over fifteen years and the owner
of a nanny service. She incorporates nature with mild education and
mannerisms in children’s lives. When Ashley is not a nanny, she is a world
traveler, nature enthusiast, and loves mountain biking, yoga, and spending
time with her nephew, Walker.

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Sophia Freeman and the Winter Behemoth Virtual Book Tour

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Middle-Grade Fantasy Mystery

Date Published: 12-01-2023

Publisher: Rise Publishers

 

 

A STRATEGIC PLAN WAS IN PLACE…

POWERFUL ALLIANCES WERE FORMED…

BUT NOTHING COULD STOP THE GREAT WAR.

 

After Tim Charnal was captured by Allen Chan and the ruthless iron-masked
guards, Sophia Freeman has no choice but to follow their orders and meet
them in the Forbidden Land to free their Master, Tombermon, an ancient tree
giant. The release of great evil leads to broken promises, countless
sacrifices, and an inevitable war. As the islanders face a losing battle, an
unexpected machine army comes to their rescue. But is it enough to stop the
enemy and their threatening new era of darkness once and for all?

Sophia Freeman and the Winter Behemoth tablet

EXCERPT

With most islanders in the water, a menacing laugh halted them.

“Going somewhere?” said Arbiter Scarlon, standing next to Bolrock, the monstrous boulder creature and dark guardian leader who almost killed Sophia when she first came to Pandilone Island. Iron-masked guards stood behind them. 

“Scarlon, after what the island has given you—how could you betray us?” Arbiter Nulon snapped telepathically.

“In order for all of us to have a better future, we must make a change to this place,” Arbiter Scarlon pointed out. “I am just … speeding up the process.”

Tim clenched his fists and barked, “You just want more power for yourself!”

“We are such fools for trusting you.” Arbiter Nulon lowered her head. 

“You are not the only fools here,” said Arbiter Scarlon, glaring at Allen. “Boy, I thought you were smarter than this. You could’ve had so much more, but instead you decided to leave with these pathetic weaklings.”

“I never wanted anything to do with you or the new era,” Allen revealed. “I only got close to you guys to destroy Tombermon.”

“He was just pretending this whole time?” Tim whispered, staring at Sophia.

She nodded with a grin.

Arbiter Nulon stepped past her guards. “Scarlon, you can have the island. We just want to leave in peace.”

“Ah, that is very generous of you,” he said sarcastically, waving his hand to command his army to surround them. “Unfortunately, no one is leaving this place.”

“Why not?” Sophia demanded, shifting into her attack position. “You already got what you were after.”

“The reason is very simple: to ensure a long-lasting new era, there must not be any kind of rebellion,” Arbiter Scarlon explained. 

“You think we will return one day and take everything back?” Allen guessed.

“The risk is far too great,” Arbiter Scarlon continued. “But if you remain here, the chance of that happening is extremely low.” 

“So, what you’re telling us is staying on the island is our only option?” Allen asked.

He sneered. “Well, it’s your only living option.”

“Enough with your nonsense!” Arbiter Nulon thrust out her hand and shards of ice appeared from her palm, forming an oversized sword. “BLIZZARD BLADE!” She flung her sword over fifteen feet, snow flying everywhere.

About the Author

Thuan Doan

Thuan Doan is an award-winning author of the Sophia Freeman series. He
conceived his first middle-grade fantasy novel, Sophia Freeman and the
Mysterious Fountain, during a trip to Gabriola Island, British Columbia in
the summer of 2013. Then he took his work and settled in a small town of
Enderby, where it’s peaceful and quiet.

Thuan is writing under a pen name of T.X. Troan. “X” stands for
Xu, his grandmother’s name who passed away. And “Troan” is
a combination of his parents’ names.

“No matter how this turns out, I want my family to be a part of this
wonderful journey.”

T.X. Troan married Sarah, his original fan and longtime love, in 2016. They
live in Enderby with their pack dogs!

 

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