I didn’t sleep too well last night. That in itself is not unusual, but this time I know why. Today is a special day in the annals of Lisa Hoffman and I’m worried stiff.

It seems that contrary to the common belief—"you CAN teach an old dog new tricks," at least according to Charlie.

What he’s referring to is a total makeover—not the kind you see on television, where someone gets a new nose, a tummy tuck, some silicone implants and a standing ovation at the tearful reveal--no, this is another new beginning, a change for the better, an attitude overhaul and alas, quite a few sacrifices.

Not to keep you in the dark, I collect stuff. Wherever there’s an inch of horizontal space, be it the kitchen counter, a chair, the stove top or the floor, you may be sure it’s covered with stuff.

Some people may consider this to be disorganized. Not I! I know where everything is, and of course, if I had a bigger place, I could keep things out of sight. However, some people, and I won’t mention names, insist that if I had more space, I would accumulate more "tsatskes".

Be that as it may, the time has come where my belongings have created a problem and something has to go. I find that I’ve mellowed these past few weeks and am no longer possessed with possessions. So when Charlie offered to go to my apartment while I recuperate from a stroke, I did not put up too much resistance.

Difficult as it may be, I have to learn to, "let go". It’s not going to be easy; some belongings become like old friends. You get attached to them and having to say goodbye is painful.

But Charlie is right—he usually is, but don’t tell him I said so. I’ll need space to move around once I get home and so will the aides and therapists who will come to visit. And so he’s enlisted some of my good friends for Operation Clean Sweep, which in the end will give me a new "Lisa on Life".

There is Stephen, who is going out of his way to attack my kitchen—and I do mean "attack". Vinnie, my financial advisor and an old and trusted friend, will have to sort through mountains of papers and decide what to shred and what to keep.

Margaret has the mammoth task of taking home all my "Country Life" papers—there must be thousands of them. She’s going to cut out all my columns and articles and organize them by dates. I’ll finally be able to find my stories.

And then there’s Mary, who’s been faithfully bringing me my mail each week, as I’m unable to make the stairs to my mail box, and probably never will. At the moment, she’s at my house, dusting all my books--a huge task, and a great help to me.

How very fortunate I am to have all these great friends! They are an enormous comfort and instrumental in my recovery. And, even though I’ve been through quite an ordeal and am still struggling to regain my strength, I’m better off by the experience, and the lessons I’ve learned.

Worldly possessions are not all that important unless you can enjoy them in good health, and surrounded by people who are there for you in your hour of need.

Operation Clean Sweep is going well; but there have been casualties. One in particular, a brown gunk in the refrigerator appears to have been the highly prized Ginger root in Sherry. I was warned that under no circumstances was this to be dumped. Stephen, on kitchen duty, opened the jar, took one whiff, and down the drain it went. "It was disgusting!" he said, "like some kind of gooey brown jell-o."

Once, when another brave soul had attempted Operation Clean Sweep, she’d arrived at the same conclusion, and the ginger in sherry was tossed. Lisa never forgot and never forgave. What to do? What to do? Sitting in her room, I’m torn, do I cop to the truth, or do I lie…

"So, how do you make that delicious ginger in Sherry?" I ask.

Not suspecting the horrible truth, she smiles, "First you scrape the roots put it in a jar and cover it with Sherry. Put a screw top on and it will keep forever in the refrigerator. Whenever you cook, especially Chinese things, you cut off a slice and put it with your meat, it gives it a lovely flavor." Her gaze sharpens, she smells a rat..."You didn’t throw my cheese out, I hope…Why are you smirking?"

"No, the cheese is fine."

"It was perfectly good wasn’t it? My friend King says you can keep cheese for years."

I keep my mouth shut, but I’ve come to the realization that just like the adage, "always wear clean underwear…just in case," I’d like to add, "always clean out your vegetable bins…just in case." After two months away from her condo, the fresh produce had liquefied and turned to green slime. Even I, who spent a year of medical school dissecting a cadaver, have never seen anything quite so awful.

Now, armed with the recipe for Ginger in Sherry sauce--I’ll replace it and she’ll never know--we wheel down to Occupational Therapy.

As I watch Lisa’s progress, I see the things that make the difference between someone who can return home, and someone who still needs work. She gets up and down without assistance—a huge hurdle.

"Nose over toes," the therapist reminds her…it’s become a mantra for getting up, "Nose over toes," breathe in, "nose over toes," breathe out.

And then she’s up and walking, making big circuits around the therapy room. The therapist is at her side, but no longer holding her. It’s good progress, and each step brings her closer to home.

"Are you at all winded?" I ask, as she plops on the blue plastic adjustable mat.

"A little," she admits, as the therapist asks her to stand.

"Nose over toes," we say in unison, and she’s up.

And now we’re having a discussion with the Occupational Therapist about what Medicare will and won’t cover. And whether or not Lisa will meet the criteria for "homebound", which is so critical for receiving services.

"Now let’s do our arm exercises, fifteen times up and down."

She’s pumping iron with hot-pink one-pound barbells, twenty up and down, now the other side, now forward, now backward.

Tomorrow, the Clean Sweep crew will head back to her condo; there’s so much that still needs be done. And so I chant, "Nose over toes…cover the ginger in sherry," breathe in. "Nose over toes…seal it with a lid," breathe out.

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