Thank goodness somebody remembered GivingTuesday

Picture of GivingTuesday, with heart with Maple Leaf inside, November 29, 2016.

It has been a very busy week, and we haven’t even gotten to J.’s retirement festivities, which begin later today with a party at work. I believe there may be cake, but if there is, I imagine I will pass. My sugar moderation is still in full swing, to my amazement. My whole identity is in question.

In case you missed it, yesterday was GivingTuesday, a day highlighting the importance of donating money or time. It’s no coincidence that GivingTuesday follows Black Friday and Cyber Monday. I volunteered at Canadian Blood Services on Monday but I don’t know if people are allowed to bank their weekly donated hours toward the Tuesday.

I tried to think of a way to give on Tuesday, but was at a loss. I had too much on the go that day. Then I received a call from a new client (Hallelujah!), who was clearly in distress. She wanted to set an initial appointment for later this week when her insurance coverage would kick in. I gave her a pep talk to tide her over, booked her for Friday at her request, and hung up.

I certainly could have handled that better. In fact, I was utterly selfish for no reason at all. I didn’t stop to consider the best needs of this client, who was in crisis and needed to see someone ASAP. Sitting around and stewing about her distress for a few more days would not have helped her in any way. And I had the time to squeeze her into my unusually frantic day. Why didn’t I think of that when I had her on the phone?

So I called this dear young woman back and told her if she could get to my office promptly, before my day moved into full gear, I was available to see her that morning without payment. Of course that offer made her cry even more, but hopefully those were happy tears. She needed some help so, after completely blowing it, I decided to step up.

I am not the hero of this story. A hero wouldn’t have hung up the phone first before realizing her mistake; a hero would have booked the client in immediately. This wasn’t a day to quibble about money but a day to help someone in acute distress get back on her feet. I needed to show this woman I was committed to helping her get well. Do you think I care about one measly unpaid session? Payment has always been the icing on my counselling cake, but I honestly prefer the cake, despite the Great Sugar Revolution.

This new client, my first in months, arrived right on time. We had a great first session, at least from my perspective. She is every psychologist’s dream client–motivated, open, insightful, and hard working. And unlike me, she must have remembered the charitable holiday because she left me with a tremendous gift, whether she knew it or not: she reminded me that I may have something to offer someone in need. Who could ask for anything more?


What it’s like to be in Cancer Limboland

Various random signs pointing "This way"

I was having coffee with my dear friend Dr. Mike awhile back. He brought my attention to research on the emotional challenges of people who had survived a bout with cancer. Imagine going through the upheaval of intensive treatment and then having the whole kerfuffle end with surgery or the last radiation or chemotherapy treatment, just like that. This ending should be a time of celebration, but for many people it’s not. Of course they are forever changed by their experience, and they may suffer from the aftereffects of treatment for months or years or forever. Even without a lingering physical impact, anyone can still feel lost post cancer.

I get that, even though I’m still undergoing treatment. Can I call myself a survivor? Is “chronic cancer patient” a better descriptor? I don’t get a day off taking my chemotherapy pills until I die. Dying might not be for a while, if Dr. Bloody Resident was correct, and if my liver keeps living. Did I mention Dr. Foie Gras noted in his recent procedure report that my esophagus may look even a bit better than when he last took a look? I may have some time yet.

Dr. Mike astutely observed that I’m in a weird place right now, suspended somewhere between living and dying. Rational Annie realizes this state of limbo is a gift that I never thought I’d receive. I imagine if my body keeps on ticking as well as it is currently, Dr. Blood will suggest longer spans between appointments, and with that fewer blood tests and other intrusive investigations. I anticipate Dr. F.G.’s doing the same. Consider me to be in maintenance mode, until something shifts. That’s the ominous part, knowing that something could shift. I imagine this unsettled feeling is quite similar to the real cancer survivor’s worries that the cancer could recur.

I need to get my head around being in this strange place where I’m a fairly healthy person with leukemia. Sure, I’m covered in bruises, and infections are easy to come by, but these are minor inconveniences. Now if I could just skip those leukemia-decimating pills, which I take first thing every morning, I could almost forget I have cancer at all.

Keeping busier (volunteer work, and maybe even a new client this week!) seems to help me somewhat–I’ve always felt better when I’ve had less time to sit around and stew. But the leukemia is always on my mind.

Even if I manage not to think about the illness, cancer is everywhere around me. I’m reading a novel where one character dies of ovarian cancer. I wasn’t expecting that. Cancer rears its ugly head in the media all the time. I can’t even watch hockey (not that I like to watch hockey) because of the players’ cheesy Movember moustaches. It seems like cancer is inescapable these days, at least to me.

I may have to go into hiding. No watching television or reading the news, no more novels unless I can be assured there’s no cancer subplot. But don’t worry, you can always reach me on my cell. If I respond inappropriately to your emojis, however, it’s because my phone lacks my finesse at interpreting your feelings.

Beware the unexpected role reversal

Basset sleeping on couch with purple eye mask on

I can imagine what you were up to yesterday. Perhaps, if you live in the States, you were having a heated discussion over Thanksgiving dinner about your newly elected president. Or maybe you were scouring the internet planning out your Black Friday shopping. Did you know Canada now has Black Friday sales even though it’s not Thanksgiving here? I don’t get it either.

While you were out and about, I was sleeping. That’s not entirely accurate. First J. and I headed to the hospital at the crack of dawn, where I underwent my annual esophageal inspection. That’s where the sleeping comes in. Sedation is my saviour. Sometimes it’s best not to remember a thing.

After I was prepped, a nurse wheeled me into Dr. Fois Gras’s procedure room. I was first on the roster since I wanted those hands at their most steady. First Dr. F.G., who is nothing but thorough, reviewed every possible way the procedure could go wrong. My excitement about the impending sedation allowed me to tune him out. Then I confirmed he’d had time for his early-morning coffee, which would hopefully prevent any of these untoward outcomes. Finally, I went under. Everything subsequent to that is a blur, although with J.’s assistance, I arrived home stoned but in one piece.

Some people choose to have this scope without sedation. Why, I ask them, why? Why would you tolerate discomfort and anxiety if you didn’t need to? What if the doctor had needed to do a little cleaning up in there during my procedure? Would I really want to be awake? No thanks. I’d rather wake up after the work is done, sore throat and all.

I did have a prolonged discussion once with someone who chose not to undergo sedation. This woman, the Jewish chaplain, paid me an unsolicited visit a few years back when I was in hospital. This particular admission was especially stressful because my spleen was misbehaving. Doctors discussed scary interventions with me, including risky major surgery. During their investigations, they discovered my esophagus was a mess, prompting a procedure identical to yesterday’s, with bonus intervention. Wish I could tell you more but I slept right through it.

In the midst of all this scariness, the chaplain dropped by to offer her support. The chaplain is a lovely woman and it is kind of her to make time to visit me but I’d prefer she didn’t, not because I’m a bad Jew, but because her visits are exhausting. On this occasion, after hearing about my scope, she mentioned that she had undergone the same procedure just that morning without sedation. I would have praised her for her bravery but my inside voice was rudely scoffing her.

The chaplain then proceeded to share at length her current health concerns with me. I was  in considerable pain at that time (hence the hospital admission), and I wasn’t in the mood to play psychologist, but I am not a rude person so I listened patiently. By the time she left, I needed a nap. Next time she visits, if there is a next time that I’m in hospital, I may pretend to be sleeping. Better that than my impolite inside voice leak out.

Selective attention in the terminally anxious patient

I don’t go to many doctors’ appointments alone since J. likes to be there for support. She insists on coming along for Dr. Blood and Dr. Liver. It’s a good thing she does because she usually leaves with a completely different impression of the meeting than I do.

Let’s use my last visit with Dr. Blood (it was actually Dr. Bloody Resident) as an example. Every three months, I undergo a special blood test to determine how well my chemotherapy is suppressing my leukemia cell counts. If my counts are low, as they have been for a long time, my chemo is doing its job.

Dr. Bloody Resident decided that, since my leukemia cell counts have been so low for so long, this blood test could be decreased to once every six months. So of course I asked him whether he thinks I’ll get my 5-year pin. (If I survive 5 years of CML, the Leukemia Society will give me a special pin that looks like a little drop of blood with a 5 on it. I want that bloody pin.) Dr. B.R. said: At this rate, you’ll get your 10-year pin (this is the part J. heard), unless your leukemia progresses in some way, which we’d know by blah blah blah. (Anxious Annie started listening after “unless”, somehow blocking out everything else the doctor had said.)

If my leukemia progresses? Why would it progress? Won’t my chemo keep it at bay forever? I’m assuming, based on what Dr. B.R. said, that at some point, the bone marrow will develop a mind of its own, and the CML will progress despite the formerly-effective chemotherapy. No one told me about that part, and I have wisely chosen not to ask.

Maybe someone did actually tell me about this you-have-no-control part, but I promptly and intentionally forgot. My diagnosing hematologist handed me a CML 101 pamphlet when she gave me the news. I glanced through the informative pamphlet while I was still in shock, felt my anxiety rise exponentially, and promptly tucked it away, only to recycle it months later. From my brief perusal of this informative booklet, I learned that CML has three phases: chronic, accelerating, and blast crisis. My CML was caught in the first (chronic) phase, which is a good thing. I can’t tell you anything about the other two phases because I have chosen to put my head in the sand, until Dr. B.R. so rudely yanked my head out.

Maybe I should seek more information on the internet. Nah, forget it. If you’ve followed my blog, you know I don’t consult the internet for answers to health questions because what I find only exacerbates my pre-existing anxiety. As it is, I haven’t been sleeping well the past few weeks.

J. and I debriefed after the appointment, as we always do, even though we both know exactly what the other is thinking. J. summarizes her hopeful take on the meeting and I predict doom.

I spend too much time worrying about what could happen in the future; time to appreciate what is happening now. The sun is shining and Jelly is wagging her tail in her sleep. Life is good.

Basset hound sleeping on back ledge of couch

On the couch? Not our Jelly!

Sugar mommy: it’s not what you think

Being married to someone who is always right is challenging. I spend considerable time trying to avert situations where J. can say: “I told you so.” Some days, this is not easy, like today.

Please sit down before I go on. I don’t want you to faint when you read on.

I have largely dispensed with my last remaining food vices, sweets and sugar. I say “largely” because I would never banish these evils in their entirety; were I to, I’d be setting myself up to fail. But I have recently become one of those people who eats one square of chocolate for dessert rather than the whole bar. I’ve become blind to the supermarket’s tempting bulk bins too. I despise people like me.

Following our strudel-filled vacation, I spontaneously slashed my sugar and, I must say, I feel like a million bucks, for someone who has leukemia. Miraculous things have happened since I’ve made this change. I can see my toes again, and my belly no longer enters the room well ahead of the rest of me. My waist circumference is barely recognizable. I’m no longer having blood sugar crashes, or insatiable cravings, and, watch out, I’ll fight you for that washroom stall. Look at me, the incredible peeing wonder!

This shift was unplanned and unexpectedly easy. One day I asked myself why I cook healthy food if my chaser is sugar-laden dessert. I have always known that sugar consumption leads to fluid retention via osmosis. (Don’t ask me to define osmosis; chemistry is beyond my soft-science scope.) Simple sugars spike insulin release, resulting in the body’s hoarding sodium and retaining fluid. Hence, just like Chinese food, excess sugar causes bloating.

J. has been asserting this truth for years, but I have not been listening. (I can be a petulant child sometimes.) I did not want to give up sugar; I love sugar. I can’t get enough of wine gums and licorice and chocolate and baked goods. Leave a bowl of Jelly Bellies within reach and I’m the first to dig in, and dig in, and finish them off.

Don’t confuse this change with dieting, however. I don’t believe in diets. Diets inevitably lead to a binge-starve cycle. No thanks. Rather, I’m making a minor adjustment to my diet, which so far seems to be helping. My goal is to feel better, not to lose weight.

Drawer filled with chocolate and sugary treatsHow have I accomplished this wondrous feat? With the support of my sugar mommy, who is keeping our current treat stash out of my sight and out of my mind. (I understand she plays a similar role at work, where her colleagues are permitted reasonable access to her snack drawer.) When I want a little something, I have to ask J., which I do surprisingly infrequently. I’ve discovered her hiding spot, by the way, but no matter; I’m treating the easy-access container like a safe with an uncrackable code. I could dig in, but since I’m feeling so much better, why would I?

So no, I’m not dieting, I’m breaking a bad habit. Reducing my sugar consumption hasn’t killed me; it’s made me stronger pee. And so today I concede publicly but begrudgingly: J., you were right. You always are.


What does it take for a volunteer to get fired?

Imagine you are in teachers’ college. You spent time in plenty of classrooms as a student, you’ve observed in classrooms through your training, but this is your first time in front of a full classroom of disrespectful, misbehaving junior high students. And not only is the class’s usual teacher there to evaluate you, the school principal has dropped by, and the school board superintendent is visiting the school and decides to visit to your class.

Keep this story in mind as I tell you about our inaugural PALS experience. Yesterday afternoon, Jelly and I packed our little bag with dog treats, toys, and a blanket, and took the train downtown. Jelly was so excited she began howling in the echoey station as we bought our ticket.

Dogs are welcome on public transit in our fair city. I’m assuming many fellow travellers wondered if Jelly was my therapy pet, possibly sensing my acute anxiety, when in fact she was my travel companion. After diligently licking the train platform clean, Jelly settled once we were on the train. We arrived at our destination absurdly early, loitered outside in the cold only briefly, and went in.

Jelly and I were attending a major event, the Art Market artisan craft fair, where our talented silversmith friend Simon displays his wares at a coveted booth every year. (You can check out his website here.) We were not there to shop, although I did spot some artisan dog treats; we were there to man-and-dog the PALS booth. My job was to inform people of all the good that PALS does, and Jelly’s to share her love far and wide.

Imagine anxious Annie, the newby, trying to ensure that Jelly and I are not booted out of PALS before we begin. There were several other experienced PALS participants there with their dogs (consider them the teachers and perhaps the odd principal). To top things off, the executive director of PALS (yes, the superintendent) was there keeping watch over her volunteers as she promoted the program.

We were acing it for most of our two-hour shift. Jelly accepted affection from people of all ages and sizes and colours, showing a particular fondness for the children. I daresay she was a hit. People even complimented her on her calm disposition. (Calm? Jelly? She jumped on our dining room table not so long ago. She off leashes regularly in the house. Are we talking about the same dog?)

Then Mother Superior (a.k.a. J.) and our dear Basset-loving friend showed up to drive us home–by that point I was practically sleepwalking–and Jelly started howling, as if she hadn’t seen her preferred mother for months. Her voice echoed through the grand atrium, causing many a neck to crane our way. I was sure Jelly had just made our first PALS outing our last. In fact, Jelly’s irrepressible joy enticed many shoppers over to meet the little dog with the big voice.

As Jelly lost all control, I sheepishly caught the eye of Ms. Grand Poobah, and saw that she too was smiling. Thank goodness she has a sense of humour. Maybe we’ll live to see another visit after all.

basset puppy howling

I’m just a girl who can’t say no

Running shoes standing on the road at a yellow line that says Do not cross.

Have you heard of The Life-Changing Magic of Not Giving a Darn by Sarah Knight? (I have substituted “darn” for the F word, which is on my forbidden-word list.) This book has been on the best-seller list for some time so, however light and trite it might be, people are devouring it. It’s a parody of that famous book on how tidying up your sock drawer will unclutter your mind and your life, which J. will confirm I have not read.

Knight’s book is about setting priorities in a way that allows us to spend time with the people we like and to do the things we want to do. Sounds good in theory, doesn’t it? Give up the stuff that doesn’t bring you joy so you can focus on the things that do. Ditch all you do out of obligation if it doesn’t bring you pleasure.

As a light and trite reader, I like this message. How many times this past week have I found myself doing what I felt I should rather than what I wanted to do? Okay, maybe not all that often; I don’t work after all. I think I’m fairly good–some might say rigid–at setting boundaries in general, except when it comes to my well-being.

Case in point: Did you know that yesterday was National Philanthropy Day? I was too busy volunteering to notice. But I must have known subliminally because I committed to four volunteer assignments this week. What was I thinking?

I am finding that volunteering is much more fun than sitting at home feeling sorry for myself. I cannot get enough of it. At Canadian Blood Services, I dole out soup and cookies liberally to donors and thank them for the good they do. After three hours meeting other people’s needs, I’m spent. As a dear friend reminded me recently, it takes considerably more energy to be on than to sit on my couch all day. As I revel in the novelty of volunteering, I’ve somehow forgotten that I have leukemia.

Not only is this week hairy, I overbooked myself with extra shifts throughout November. Add in that recent mouth infection and my feeling under the weather, and it’s no wonder I’ve hit the wall this week. Note to self: I still have cancer.

Yesterday I told Shelley, the lovely volunteer coordinator at CBS, that I’d recently remembered I’m cancerous and I’d have to bow out of the extra shifts I’d committed to. I assured her I was in it for the long haul but I’ve learned I can only manage one shift per week. I set my illness-induced boundary with myself and then I shared it with her. And she was nothing but supportive and accommodating, as expected.

Work-life balance was never a forté; how is volunteering-life balance any different? I feel less tired already after my chat with Shelley yesterday.

Now that I’ve sorted out CBS, PALS starts up later this week. Jelly and I will love it, I’m sure, yet I expect it too will be exhausting. My compassionate boundary setting may not be done yet. Jelly won’t suffer the same stresses, however. She can be lovable for hours on end if need be.

Annie and Jelly in our first PALS picture

Diagnostic criteria for foot-in-mouth syndrome

Baby with foot in her mouth

Foot-in-mouth syndrome is a little-discussed disorder because of the deep shame associated with it. The diagnostic criteria include:

  1. The individual is verbal.
  2. The individual sometimes does not think before expressing herself, either orally or in writing.
  3. Despite the individual’s intent to be socially appropriate, non confrontational, supportive, and kind at all times, occasionally she blows it.
  4. As soon as the individual puts her foot in her mouth, she regrets what she has said.

The severity of this disorder ranges from mild to severe based on number of occurrences per month, or week, or day. (Further study needed.) The disorder can be acute (e.g., brought on by a short-term stressor), or chronic (some people are born this way; it’s similar to breech position).

The prevalence of the disorder is 100%, i.e., we all have it. The incidence is higher in times of stress, such as the election of a misogynistic, xenophobic, homophobic, idiotic and completely unqualified and ill-prepared president last week.

There is no known genetic basis for the disorder, but modelling within families plays a significant role, i.e., foot-in-mouth parents are more likely to nurture their children’s foot-in-mouth behaviour.

Differential diagnoses: Attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder, substance use disorders, both due to related poor impulse control; antisocial personality disorder, whose sufferers don’t care how others feel.

Oh sure, I’ve got foot-in-mouth. I’ve had it for years. I cannot tell you the number of times J. has cringed when I have said something inappropriate in her presence, and sometimes I even transgress when she’s not there. Why just the other day…let’s skip that. I shame myself enough in here.

Today, allow me to share someone else’s example as a teaching point. I was talking to a dear friend who felt she had spoken unduly harshly to someone she has long known. She was quite distraught over the interaction because she works very hard to relate to others in a careful, considered, and respectful way. In fact, I have spent many hours with this woman over several years, and I’ve never seen any sign of foot-in-mouth disorder. Sometimes I’m amazed at how well she manages to keep her foot so far from her mouth under all circumstances. But that day she felt she acted inappropriately. I was not there to witness the event; I just saw how upset she was afterward.

I put on my supportive-friend hat and told my friend that we have all suffered from the disorder at one time or another–I personally have been fall at the chronic and severe end of this spectrum–and that she was not a bad person for behaving so that day. She felt she needed to apologize directly to the person in question.

Sometimes an apology may be warranted, but more often I believe we need to forgive ourselves for the moments that we dare to be human. This insight is not mine, of course. I gleaned it from The Gifts of Imperfection by Brené Brown, an insightful book about the importance of self-compassion. It’s worth a look if you too suffer from this disorder. My completely biased and unfounded research suggests we all do.

What I get for the price of hospital parking

Line of cars awaiting parking

You may have been glued to the television or internet on Tuesday, but I didn’t have the time or energy for that. I must say it took considerable effort to avoid watching the U.S. election results. I had to resort to Chopped on Food Network for distraction. While you were fretting about the election, my Tuesday was a typical day in the life of a cancer patient.

I visited the Cancer Centre with J., where I attended my regularly scheduled appointment. We arrived early to secure parking and I trotted off to the lab for an up-to-the-minute blood-analysis (ca-ching). While we awaited my appointment, the volunteer Cookie Ladies appeared with their warm tea and snacks (ca-ching for that endless supply of cookies and drinks). Sipping on tea is the perfect antidote to the stress of a cancer-related appointment.

A lovely hematology nurse called me in and assessed me (ca-ching). Then I saw a knowledgable hematology fellow (ca-ching, ca-ching), who consulted with with Dr. Blood (ca-ching ca-ching) and sent me off for another two months. My body and my blood are stable, except for an odd mouth infection I developed after a trip to the dentist last week. My magic mouthwash–yes, that’s what it’s really called–seems to be helping. Finally, I stopped by the in-house pharmacy to pick up two months’ worth of free chemotherapy (ca-ching ca-ching ca-ching, although there could be more ca-chings; those drugs are expensive).

Have I ever mentioned that Dr. Blood had to seek special dispensation for the government to fund one of my chemotherapies because it is not normally used for polycythemia? I’ve often wondered how I’d pay for that medication out of pocket or, even worse, whether I could afford it at all. Would my functioning decline were I not taking it? Thankfully, I needn’t worry about those things.

Man vandalizing parking meterFor my excellent and timely care on Tuesday, we paid solely for the cost of gas and parking. I’d pay an arm and a leg for parking in order to receive such fantastic medical care. (As an aside, I saw this picture in the news recently: in it, a hospital-parking-fee protester vandalizes the parking meter. Mr. Destructive, who do you think will be paying to fix that machine? Perhaps you might consider another means of protest.)

All this has me thinking of J.’s decision, at age 53, to retire in 13 work days (not that anyone’s counting). She could not have fathomed doing so if we lived in the U.S. Our health care costs would have been daunting, and early retirement would have been impossible.

While that new president was being elected, our grand niece was admitted to the children’s hospital in need of delicate spinal surgery to remove a growth. Imagine any family having to bear the cost of neurosurgery. Thank goodness these parents don’t have to worry about paying for treatment and can focus on more important things.

The results of the U.S. election remind me of how lucky I am to be sick in Canada. 20 million people in the U.S. have benefitted from Obamacare, and I can’t imagine their fear that their new government may alter or eliminate their health-care benefits. If need be, moving to Canada is always an option.

It’s time to catch up on my filing

Variety of office supplies in small compartmentsYesterday, J. seemed intent on my eating the pomegranate she had lovingly prepared for me. She kept harping at me until I opened the fridge to find a gummy eyeball sitting atop my fruit. Trick and treat all in one bowl.

Soon J. is going to have considerably more time for practical jokes, since her retirement date is December 2. While we were away, J. mentioned that she’d miss buying work clothes, which she won’t have the same need for anymore. Although we barely shop when we’re away, J. often scores work attire, e.g., a blouse, a pair of shoes, to remind her of our trip.

Her revelation opened a discussion of other things J. would miss when she retired, and things I’ve missed since I’ve stopped working. Income isn’t the only thing people lose with retirement, and my losses are probably different from yours.

I wonder if J. will miss the esteem that comes from working well with others and receiving positive feedback on her contributions. I imagine she’ll miss the frequent contact with colleagues she respects and enjoys, and the easy access to lunch mates. She told me she’ll miss feeling that she’s making a difference since she’s devoted her work life to public service. I imagine some days she’ll miss the break from the stresses of home.

I’ve had a bit more time to realize that I most miss helping people. I miss trying to provide comfort to a new client even in that first call. I miss figuring out how I can best help that new client, or whether I can help at all. I miss those calls from former clients who want to reconnect, and my confidence that if I’ve helped before, I may be able to help again. I miss consulting with colleagues about clients that challenge me. Even more, I miss my colleagues’ consulting with me, and feeling like I might have valuable input.

I miss other mundane activities as well, like shopping for office supplies or for toys for the playroom (J.’s equivalent of work clothes, perhaps), depositing cheques at the bank, and other errands involved in running a business. I miss prepping my office for the arrival of a client, and even settling into my therapy room, which is bright and airy and welcoming. I miss buying and learning a new psychological test, which may seem odd to you if you are not a psychologist.

Since my basement desk has sat largely unused for four years now, J. will soon be using it for her wedding business. She’ll retreat downstairs when she has work to do. I’ll have to clear out the space for her. (My filing is long overdue, don’t you think?) It’s about time someone use this desk, yet I feel sad to relinquish it. I spent long hours writing reports there at one time.

Now I can’t even recall the last time I sat at that desk, since my report writing days ended with my leukemia. On second thought, I’ve never felt sad about giving up those reports, so enjoy the desk, J., it’s all yours. But you’ll have to scoot if any of my clients mysteriously reappear. Stranger things have happened. Take that eyeball, for example.