The silliness began

Some events are hard to put in to words and some posts are very difficult for me to relive as I tell our story.  Please be patient as I struggle to spare you some of my very raw emotions.

Many posts are written (and re-written) several times as I attempt to capture the meat of the story and leave some of the seasoning behind!

For those of you just tuning in and wondering what I am rambling about, I hope you will read my earlier posts and catch up with our story.

For those of you who have been along for the whole wild ride, thanks for hanging with me!

I would very much appreciate your thoughts and comments.....it helps to know someone is out there!

The silliness began

Let’s face it, there’s not a lot of entertainment to be found hanging around a hospital……..unless you happen to be a member of my family!  With mom safely in her bed on the orthopedics ward after her surgery on August 30, 2013 and flying high from the dilaudid pain pump she was gripping with all her strength, the silliness began.

My younger sister held a spoon like a microphone and asked mom “Is there anything you would like to share with us?”  As we all giggled, mom spoke poignantly into the makeshift microphone, “I just want to thank you all for being here……I was so afraid…..I just love you all!”  Mom was so serious that we couldn't resist having some fun.

It’s a wonder we didn't get kicked out of the hospital as we roared with laughter while mom entertained us.  “A tutor who tooted the flute tried to tutor two tutors to toot; said the two to the tutor is it harder to toot or to tutor two tutors to toot?” Mom was actually remarkably good at tongue twisters even when she was stoned out of her mind following surgery!

“Sally sells sea shells……….” “There once was a lady from Niger……..” “Rubber baby buggy bumpers…….” “Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers…..”

Suddenly mom opened her eyes wide and looked very serious and started talking about the rabbits around the hotel; the dog at home; and the mule in the closet……….. (For those of you who haven’t followed our story, that mule caused a lot of ruckus and cost me an entire nights sleep nearly a year before).  The mule, who was “darker colored than the dog, but lighter than the bunnies” according to mom, had resided in my mother’s bedroom closet since nearly a year before when she had suffered from horribly vivid hallucinations following a nasty reaction from Gabapentin.  That mule had seemed so real to her; she said                                                                            

she would “still recognize that mule”.

Moms eyes fluttered with another beep from the pain pump clutched tightly in her hand.  “Have you talked to Luke?” mom asked me and then continued, “I hope he doesn't crap in the closet”; I was laughing so hard I had tears rolling down my cheeks when mom (very seriously) clarified, “Not Luke, the mule”.

I tried to quit laughing when I asked if she wanted me to call my son, Luke, and have him put the mule in the garden.  Mom’s eyes fluttered closed as she smiled sweetly and said, “Yes, put him in the garden – that’s a good place for him”.  A moment later her eyes flew open and she said, “NO! Don’t call him!  He’ll think I want one and he’ll get me a mule! .......I don’t REALLY want one!”  Luke has always told grandma he would do “anything” for her……….

The silliness continued until we were saying our “goodbyes” and preparing to leave for a while so mom could get some rest.  Once again mom grew very serious and thanked us all profusely for being there; her articulation and poise (at least in her current state) rivaled that of an off the cuff Academy Award acceptance speech as she thanked God; her family; and her surgeon.  With tears in her eyes, mom said “I really didn't think they were going to be able to save it – I’m so glad they did”.

I have to admit, I also hadn't been sure they were going to be able to save moms’ leg.  I also still wasn't sure it was going to be functional and I wasn't ready to tell mom that the surgeon had termed the leg as a “salvage” limb.  I felt the tears stinging my eyes as I kissed my mother and said through the lump in my throat, “I’m glad too, mom.  I love you”.

Tomorrow would be soon enough to have a serious conversation about how useful (or not) her leg was going to be.  I wanted to be optimistic, and I was indeed cautiously optimistic.  The fact that mom had a leg was a miracle in and of itself; actually, the fact that she was alive was a miracle too.  I was afraid to push my luck and pray (or even hope) for too much.

I needed to push the “what if’s” out of my mind for now; I needed to distract my mind.  A good comedy would probably be a good distraction – or an afternoon/evening with my siblings and my aunt, which is pretty much the same thing.

I’m pretty certain if any one of us were half as funny as we seem to think we are when we get together, at least one of us would have our own comedy show.  Of course, one does have to wear a little armor when bantering with ones siblings; you have to be quick with the come backs and ready to take some heat.  None of us were immune from the stories of our childhood, teenage or even some of our adult escapades; each of us stood ready with the next story in order to deflect the attention from ourselves.

As tears rolled down my cheeks and I my sides ached from laughing I realized, even with the sacrifices made in order to make sure mom was cared for, The Lord had truly blessed me in so many ways.

I had a husband who had shown incredible love, patience and support (moral, emotional and financial).

I had three wonderful adult children who had been incredibly understanding and supportive.

My world was even brighter when I looked at my two beautiful grand children and thought of the third one on the way made me giddy.

Sharing memories (while making new ones) with my siblings is a wonderful gift that I will always cherish.

Add to all that, the incredibly heartwarming experience of really getting to know my mother and having her share so many of her memories; so much of herself with me over the past couple of years……..yes, I truly was blessed.

Lord, please help me remember tomorrow how blessed I feel today.

Do we know how to celebrate, or what?

Some events are hard to put in to words and some posts are very difficult for me to relive as I tell our story.  Please be patient as I struggle to spare you some of my very raw emotions on this subjects.

Many posts are written (and re-written) several times as I attempt to capture the meat of the story and leave some of the seasoning behind!

For those of you just tuning in and wondering what I am rambling about, I hope you will read my earlier posts and catch up with our story.

For those of you who have been along for the whole wild ride, thanks for hanging with me!

I would very much appreciate your thoughts and comments.....it helps to know someone is out there!

Do we know how to celebrate, or what?

I was awake, but just barely, when my phone rang at 8:00am on August 30, 2013.  I thought about not answering; anybody that knows me would not call me at 8:00am, unless it was an emergency.  By the third ring, I panicked; what if something had happened with mom?  What if it was an emergency?

“Hello”, I finally answered the “unknown” call tentatively.  Minutes later I tapped out a text message to my family, moms surgery had been moved up two hours.  Even though it meant I really had to get a move on, I was glad for the earlier time slot, which meant it wouldn’t be quite as long for mom to be NPO.

An hour later I met my brother and older sister at the Skilled Nursing Facility where our mother had resided for the past 30 days.  Since we had removed so much when we thought we were going home a week earlier, it took us less than thirty minutes to load the remaining items in to our vehicles; another 30 minutes and we had mom safely loaded in to the car and began our caravan to the hospital.  It was just after noon, when moms’ name was called; the time had come for the painfully slow task of preparing my mother for another surgery.

Due to the severity of moms’ Rheumatoid Disease and the limited mobility of her neck, she had to be intubated while awake and in a sitting position.  I sat with mom in the pre-op area as they tried (and failed) several times to get an IV started; thankfully, before the forth stick, an ultrasound machine was brought in to help locate the vein so a fifth stick wouldn’t be necessary.  Mom was busily breathing in the lidocaine mist as I chatted with the anesthesiologist about her prior procedures.  Once they were satisfied that mom’s throat was numb enough to get the tube in, the anesthesiologist said to her, “I’m going to give you something to relax a little”.  “Versed?” I asked and upon confirmation I told mom to “have a nice nap” and that I would be here when she woke up.

The anesthesiologist then inserted the femoral pain block as we chatted more about moms’ history; what medications she was taking; what her prior history was; etc..  I don’t know if it was that I sounded smart or if it was simply because I knew what VERSED was and could pronounce METOPROLOL without tripping over my tongue, but it surprised me when he asked, “Are you a doctor?”  I assured him I was not a doctor, or a nurse, or any other kind of medical professional; just my mother’s keeper.  I had not worked direct care for nearly 30 years until I took over as my mother’s full time caregiver in 2012; I had learned a whole lot in the prior year and a half.

Once mom was wheeled away to the operating room, I joined my sister and brother in the waiting room; a short time later we were joined by my younger sister and my aunt.  As you can imagine, there was a lot of silly senseless chatter among us; we were all nervous and afraid of the outcome of moms’ surgery.  The surgeons’ appearance in the waiting room less than an hour after mom had been taken back startled us all; it didn’t help that his usual soft eyes and welcoming smile were noticeably absent.

“What’s wrong”, I quickly jumped to my feet when the surgeon appeared; by this time all five of us were on our feet huddling around the doctor.  The surgeon explained his concerns about mom ever regaining use of that leg again; once again stating that amputation was the only absolute way to assure the infection would not attack her knee again.  A decision had to be made and it had to be made right now regarding amputation and as my mother’s medical proxy, I was the one that had to make that decision.  Crap.  I asked a couple more questions and remember vividly the doctor saying, “I just know that if we had amputated back in July, you all would most likely be sitting on the patio having a glass of tea right now”.

My mind started to wander; mom does like her tea.  I was all too aware of my siblings and my aunt staring at me; waiting for an answer.  Part of me wanted to tell him to just go ahead with the amputation, at least mom would be alive; the other part of me knew what my mother would want, she had voiced it many times.  I had one more question before I could make that dreaded decision, “What about a prosthesis”?  The surgeon explained that due to the advanced stage of Osteoporosis, moms’ bones were mush and would never hold up with a prosthesis; anything we did to save the leg at this point would be considered a “salvage” limb and there was no way to know how long it would even last……A month? Six months? A year?  Five years?  There just wasn’t any way to be sure.  In fact, the only thing that I was sure of was that I wasn’t sure.

#4 HONOR YOUR FATHER AND YOUR MOTHER

Really, I guess it didn’t matter if I was sure or not; mom had been sure and she trusted me to honor her wishes.  I reminded the surgeon of my mother saying over and over that she would rather “die on the table” than to lose her leg; that her crippled hands and lack of upper body strength would prohibit the use of many forms of ambulation; that she would likely die soon if sent to a nursing home and I wasn’t sure I could take care of her without at least being able to transfer her.

“Please, do what you can to save her leg” I said through my tears “I have to at least be able to transfer her to the bathroom and bed”.  The surgeon nodded with understanding and gave me a sympathetic hug while assuring us he would do everything he could, but couldn’t “guarantee” the outcome.  “Thank you, we really do appreciate everything you’ve done and I trust you” I wanted him to know that I didn’t blame him for our current predicament; I just wish we would have gotten mom to him sooner.

After the surgeon returned to the operating room, the five of us sat silently, each lost in our own thoughts.  I’m not sure what everybody else was thinking, but my brain was struggling to remember something; something important.  Thinking maybe I had made a note in my phone (as I sometimes do) about an important event, I scrolled through the “notes”; nothing.  What in the heck was I forgetting?  Whatever it was, I knew it was important.  I was silently panicking as I tried to make my brain think of something other than the possibility of mom losing her leg; I could feel my blood pressure going up and my heart was pounding so hard I thought maybe everyone in the room could hear it.  I was afraid if I didn’t remember whatever it was I was suppose to remember soon, I was going to have a heart attack.  Stupid brain, THINK!


Had I called to make all moms’ follow-up appointments?  Yes, I think so.  Did I tell the hotel I needed to extend my stay?  Pretty sure I took care of that.  Had I called to put mom on the active prayer list at church?  I wasn’t sure, but I was pretty certain they would keep her on there until we returned home.  “Today’s the 30^th, isn’t it?” I asked no one in particular while looking at my phone to confirm the date, “I’ll be right back”.  I hurried to the car so I could charge my phone while I made a call; I couldn’t believe I had forgotten.

I was almost to the car when my phone rang in my hand; I knew who it was before I even looked…..damn, he always beats me to the punch.  “Happy anniversary, babe!” I offered as my greeting to my husband of 27 years.  Do we know how to celebrate, or what?

Priceless

Some events are hard to put in to words.........some posts are very difficult for me to relive as I tell our story.  Please be patient with me as I struggle to spare you some of my very raw emotions on this subject.  Many posts are written (and re-written) several times as I attempt to capture the meat of the story and leave some of the seasoning behind!

For those of you just tuning in and wondering what I am rambling about, I hope you will read my earlier posts and catch up with our story.  For those of you who have been along for the whole wild ride, thanks for hanging with me!  I would very much appreciate your comments/thoughts.....

........it helps to know someone is out there!

One year ago...............

Priceless

“Thanks for sharing your birthday cake with me” mom beamed as she wiped the cheesecake from around her mouth.  I don’t know if I looked tired or if mom just knows how much I like to sleep in the mornings (since I don’t do so well night), but before I left that evening mom said, “I’ll be fine in the morning, you should sleep in a little tomorrow for your birthday”.

I had celebrated my 50^th birthday a day early with my older daughter and her beautiful family at the Cheesecake Factory; I had never been there before.  Getting lost on the way was frustrating; circling the parking lot, for what seemed like forever, was maddening; watching my grandson enjoy my birthday cheesecake was PRICELESS; the delight in moms’ eyes as she finished the last of it was just as priceless.

I have to admit, sleeping in sounded like an awesome way to start my birthday.  “Are you sure you’ll be OK if I wait to come in until a little later?” I asked mom.  Mom assured me she would be fine and would call if she needed anything before saying, “I’m sure toothache girl will be in at 5 to make me use the bedpan”.  Huh?  (we didn't know her name, but had called the aide "toothache girl" ever since she had informed mom that she knew what kind of pain mom was in because of her toothache).

When I questioned mom about using the bedpan rather than the commode, she told me that when this particular aide worked she always made her use the bedpan AND she had woken mom up the past two mornings so mom could “try” to go.  “It’s OK, it’s just hard to get back to sleep”, mom was resigned to it being the way things were.

“Why does she wake you to use the restroom?” I wanted to know, “have you had accidents?”  My mother assured me she had not had any accidents and the reason the aide gave her for waking her was that the aide was leaving early and there would be no one there to help for a “couple hours”.  WHAT?

Obviously, it was too late that night to talk to the director, so I mentioned to the nurse on my way out of the facility that I was not happy that my mother was being inconvenienced because an aide had “other commitments” and I was concerned that there wouldn't be “anyone to help for a couple of hours”; he didn't understand why I was upset.  I didn't understand why this was happening and he couldn't explain it.

On August 28^th, 2013, I opened my eyes and squinted at the clock; it was just after 7:30am.  “Happy birthday to me”, I said to myself as I drug butt out of bed and got ready to head to the SNF.  I knew it was too late to save my mother from the indignity of the bedpan that morning, but I planned on being perched on the bench outside of the director’s office when she arrived.

Of course, the director feigned the proper amount of disbelief regarding the problem and was adamant that mom would not be woken to use a bedpan “at that hour”.  “Or any other hour”, I reminded her that mom was still able to transfer with assistance and that I expected her to have that assistance when she said it was time; not when someone else decided she should be ready.

Knowing I was fighting a futile battle, I left the bedpan incident to rest and headed to moms room; at least toothache girl wouldn't be back before I got mom out of there.  It hated that I would be taking her out of the Skilled Nursing Facility and right back to the hospital instead of home; just thinking about mom having to have another surgery annoyed me all over again.  Unfortunately, this hadn't been the first time mom had been further compromised by incompetence, arrogance, ignorance and/or negligence; I could only pray it had been the last.

It seemed no matter how many times I attempted to explain moms’ fragility to various medical professionals (doctors; nurses; CNA’s; therapists; etc.), I was always met with a condescending look or comment.  It wasn't that I thought they were ALL incompetent; my mothers’ conditions were very complex and her body was extremely fragile.  I just don’t understand why the “whole person” is not taken in to account when providing care.

Many times when I would try to explain some of the nuances of moms’ rheumatoid disease, I would hear about their knowledge and/or experience with “arthritis”.  It’s obvious that many people don’t understand the ramifications and/or the systemic effects of RA, or that OA (while still very painful, I’m sure) is not quite the same.

http://www.diffen.com/difference/Osteoarthritis_vs_Rheumatoid_Arthritis

Fortunately, and interestingly (at least to me), since she had been on the antibiotics that were prescribed to treat the Mycobacterium Avium Infection, moms’ RA had not flared; her lungs seemed to be clearing some; and, in spite of the pending “urgent” surgery and again the possibility of losing her leg, her spirits were good and her faith in God was solid.

Unfortunately, the advanced stage of moms’ Rheumatoid Disease came with other

complications.  Even when she wasn't in a flare, moms’ crippled hands made it difficult for her to hold things and impossible to open things; the deformities in her feet made it painful to stand; her “good” knee, as well as her shoulders; wrists; hips and ankles made a grinding sound every time she moved; and a good day was any day that her pain could be brought down to a 3 on the pain scale.  Of course, she has lived with RA for 50+ years, so a “3” for mom would probably be a twelve for me.

As I sat with my mom that morning and in to the early afternoon, I wondered if there had been something, anything, I could have done to alter the course we seemed to now be on.  Maybe, if I hadn't been such a brat when I was a teenager and not caused my mother so much stress, she would have had fewer flares resulting in less overall damage.  Maybe, if I hadn't been such an accident prone child moms’ stress level wouldn't have been so high.  I know she was diagnosed around the time she was pregnant with me, so maybe I caused this horrible disease in my mother.  I didn't voice any of these ridiculous thoughts to my mother; my despair would only be another burden for her.

By the time I returned to the hotel I was feeling pretty depressed and very alone.  As I

pulled in to a parking space, a voice in my head reminded me I was never alone; I sat in my car and prayed.  Another voice reminded me the course we were on was, somehow, the road we were intended to travel; that I was not powerful enough to have in any way altered the course that God intended.  I was feeling better by the time I inserted the key in to my hotel room lock; not so alone.

The next thing I felt was sheer panic as I stepped in to my hotel room.  Someone was (or recently had been) in my room; something was different, I could feel it.  I glanced toward the counter in the small kitchenette hoping to spot something I could use as a weapon in case someone was hiding in the bedroom or the bathroom.  Deciding a butter knife probably wouldn't be an effective weapon, I thought maybe the best course of action was to back out of the room and get help at the front desk.

As I backed out as slowly and as quietly as possible, I scanned the room looking for

something out of place.  I had almost pulled the door closed when my sight landed on something that certainly hadn't been there when I left that morning.  I just stood there staring; wanting to know who had left it and how they got in.  I nearly jumped out of my skin when my cell phone rang in my hand.

“Hi mom, Happy Birthday!” my younger daughters’ voice made me relax a little.  I stepped quickly out in the hall and closed the door as quietly as I could before saying “Thank you, honey”.  I was halfway down the hall toward the elevator and was getting ready to tell my daughter about the mystery in my room when she asked, “Did you get the flowers we sent”?

I stopped in my tracks; mystery solved; no need to alert the authorities!  Sure glad she called before I got downstairs!  I could just picture myself explaining that someone had broken in to my room and left me flowers; talk about priceless!

I don't always like the answers

Some events are hard to put in to words.........some posts are very difficult for me to relive as I tell our story.  Please be patient with me as I struggle to spare you some of my very raw emotions on this subject.  Many posts are written (and re-written) several times as I attempt to capture the meat of the story and leave some of the seasoning behind!

Thanks for hanging with me!  I would very much appreciate your comments/thoughts............it helps to know someone is out there!

I don't always like the answers

When I opened my eyes, at nearly 10:00am, on August 24^th, 2013, I almost panicked before I remembered that my husband had left the hotel early to go have breakfast with mom; he would have called me if there had been a need for me to hurry to the SNF.  It felt good to not have to rush; to just lie there; to just relax.  As I lay there, I wondered how long it had been since I had actually slept in; I honestly didn't know the answer.

Since March of 2012 I had been up early each morning to take care of mom; even when she was in the hospital, I felt the need to be there almost immediately after opening my eyes to help mom with the things that seem to get overlooked (or ignored) by medical personnel; things that were important.

Other than when mom was in an Acute Rehab setting, getting help with basic things like brushing her teeth; washing her face; or even getting to the bathroom on time, were luxuries (without enough staff to afford them).  While it’s true, especially in the beginning of moms’ decline, these things could be very time consuming (she couldn't even hold a tooth brush, much less use it); in my mind, they are necessities, not luxuries.  The times I had questioned the lack of staff to accommodate the individual needs of each patient; I hadn't liked the answer.

I may be naive, but, it seems to me that it should be a requirement that EVERY medical facility (hospitals; nursing homes; skilled nursing facilities; rehab facilities; etc.) maintain a staff to patient ratio that allows for adequate personal hygiene.  And, yes, I've looked at both the state and federal regulations that state (in part):

7.3.1 Staff shall be sufficient in number to provide prompt assistance to persons needing or potentially needing assistance, considering individual needs such as the risk of accidents, hazards, or other untoward events. Staff shall provide such assistance. (and)

§ 483.30 Nursing services. The facility must have sufficient nursing staff to provide nursing and related services to attain or maintain the highest practicable physical, mental, and psychosocial well-being of each resident, as determined by resident assessments and individual plans of care. 

http://www.hpm.umn.edu/nhregsplus/NH%20Regs%20by%20Topic/NH%20Regs%20Topic%20Pdfs/Nursing%20Staffing%20Ratios/category_nursing_services_staff_ratios_FINAL.pdf

In my opinion, both regulations are written in such a way that much is left to interpretation and open to manipulation.  I’m pretty certain “helping Mary brush teeth” was never written in to ANY individual plan of care, so does that mean there just isn't time?  Seriously, if a patient (who is unable to be completely self-sufficient) doesn't even get good oral hygiene, how can they say they will “attain or maintain the highest practicable…………well-being”?

Although I had slept in, I certainly didn't relax that Sunday morning.  I had spent an hour obsessing over the indignities my mother had suffered at the hands of medical professionals (I use the term loosely); the injustices I had witnessed and perceived; the cavalier attitudes of many providers; how it use to be; how it should be.  I had so many questions and very few answers.

Has it always been this way and I was just too removed to really see it?  Was I just as much to blame as the next person for what our medical society had become because it was easy to ignore and turn a blind eye to things that hadn't affected me personally?  I wish I knew the answers.  Yeah, I think obsessing pretty much covers it.

My obsessions carried over in to the shower as I thought about moms’ imminent surgery and the chances of them not being able to save the leg; amputation had been discussed a number of times over the past year and a half and I hoped, with this new set of problems, that wasn't the only answer.



I also thought about all the past surgeries; what she had gone through; the preparation; the instructions.  Uh-oh, had the SNF received the instructions?  Did they know what the preparation entailed?  It’s always better to obsess over something you might be able to do something about, don’t you think?

As soon as I arrived at the SNF I went looking for moms’ nurse and make sure things

were on track.  “Yes, we have them”, the nurse said as she quickly flipped through moms’ chart.  I thanked her for her help and started to head to the dining room to meet mom and Mark for lunch when the nurse smiled and added, “As soon as our doctor gets back on Wednesday, we can implement them”.  Excuse me?! I really didn't like that answer.

I wasn't sure I had heard her right and I couldn't believe we were going to do this dance again.  “What?” I asked incredulously.  Some of moms’ medications should have been stopped the day before and some of them were to be stopped Monday morning, there was no way I was going to wait until Wednesday to address this.  Someone needed to answer to this NOW.

I can tell you that there weren't enough hours in a day for that nurse to have managed to have a minimum of two hours per patient that day; at least a third of her day was spent dealing with me.  It was well after 5:00pm by the time a PA finally came in and signed the orders.  One would think after all that, the problem would be taken care of; I wasn't so sure.

As I was helping mom get ready for bed that evening, I alerted her to be on the look-out for the discontinued medications; we went through her list of meds and discussed which ones she should not take before surgery.  Luckily, although my mother has certainly dealt with her share of physical disabilities, with the infections under control and her no longer taking morphine for pain, her mind was still pretty sharp.

For two days after my discussion with the nurse and the PA signing off on the orders, they were still trying to give mom the medications that were to be discontinued; mom politely refused them.  Mom also had to remind therapists that she was now NWB over and over again; couldn't they read their notes?  I couldn't wait to get mom out of there, even if it was to go back to the hospital!  How sad is that?

Sadness seemed to be the theme for me for the next few days.  I was sad when my husband left to go back home; I was sad I hadn't gotten to go back home; I was sad that mom was facing another surgery that could cost her leg; I was just sad.  I needed something to pull me out of this funk; something to lighten my mood and comfort my heart.  Wait!  I know the answer to that one!

How long had it been since I’d really prayed; since I had “Let go and let God”?

That night I prayed like the sinner I am; I thanked God for the many blessings He has bestowed on me; asked forgiveness for my sins and to help me forgive others; pleaded with Him to not let mom lose her leg; and I tried not to question His plan.  OK, I said I “tried”.  I really needed answers.

I mean, I know He has a plan and that somehow everything we were going through was part of it, but I still struggled with it; I still cried myself to sleep as I wondered how my mothers’ pain and suffering could be part of any plan.

For the next several nights, I had vivid dreams about how I would take care of mom if she only had one leg; let’s face it, they were nightmares.  “Oh, Dear Lord, please don’t let this be an omen” I prayed silently each morning when I woke.

In my heart of hearts, I know God answers all prayers; I also know I don’t always like the answer.