Lest she forget

Where oh where has my appetite gone? Who cares? I’m on the easiest diet ever, one that doesn’t involve any planning or effort. Let me revel in it while I can. Don’t be jealous; losing an interest in food isn’t much fun. I don’t recommend it. I’m headed out for lunch today with friends and wondering what I’ll not eat.

Today I can assure you that my appetite loss is not a sign that my health is in peril. Yesterday Dr. Blood confirmed that my blood test results were a-okay. I’m fine.

Enough about that; we had many other more important things than my health to discuss. Dr. Blood is leaving for her overseas adventure at the end of July, so this was my last appointment with her, for now.

I’m going to miss her. We discussed the young hematologist assuming her practice in her absence–I’ll need yet another new name, folks–whom she’s no doubt chosen very carefully. Dr. Blood would not leave her patients with someone she did not trust. She assured us that she’d be back, and I believe her. She told us she rented out her home here for a year; she didn’t sell it. That’s a good sign, isn’t it?

I promised myself I wouldn’t cry and I didn’t, or at least not once I’d arrived at the Cancer Centre. (The drive there is another story.) J. and I asked Dr. Blood about her plans because we’re genuinely interested and we wished her well because that was the appropriate thing to do. I did not plead with her to stay, not even for a nanosecond.

Then I gave her the thank you card I should have written years ago telling her how grateful I’ve been for her diligent care. I reminded her of when we first met and how she saved my life. It’s a great story, and one she should never forget.

I’m an awkward hugger at best, but I was planning to ask if I might hug her at the end of the appointment. She preempted my awkwardness altogether. As we were parting, she asked if she could give me a hug. It was a significant gesture from someone who has been such an important part of my life for the past five years.

Changing of the guards

Just imagine these are doctors.

I am genuinely excited for her, and I hope she has a wonderful year. At the same time, I feel sad that she will not be here to care for me. Am I a bad person for thinking of myself and my needs in this situation? No, I don’t think so. Still, I’m glad I refrained from bringing Sadness into the room. I will miss Dr. Blood, but I will welcome her replacement and put my trust in him. I’ll adapt to someone new because I’ve been through the changing-of-the-doctors drill many times now.

Dr. Blood has also left me with a new goal to strive for. (We cancerous folks like setting goals for our futures.) The new goal? I now have to stay alive until she gets back. Dr. Blood seems convinced that I will still be here, and since her judgement has been 100% thus far, why start doubting her now?

Remission by any other name….

Did you notice I popped the R word into the last blog post? Perhaps it would have been more accurate for me to write “complete molecular response”. What is this, you ask (or maybe you don’t, but since I think it’s kind of interesting I’m going to tell you anyway)?

As I explain, please understand as I dumb this math down for myself. Math isn’t my strong point. Did I ever tell you my high-school math teacher, after tutoring me for months, suggested I drop the course before the exam to spare me an F on my graduating report card? Thank you, Mr. Fox.

The very smart hematologist who suspected I had CML took a bone-marrow biopsy, both to confirm her diagnosis, to stage the illness, and to get a baseline count of how many mutated cells I had. She determined, from this information, that I was in the chronic phase of the disorder, which is the first of three stages. Forget the F in math; thanks to this doctor, I received an A in CML. Now, every three to six months, I undergo genetic testing of my blood (commonly known as a PCR in CML circles) to determine how many cells with my special Philadelphia chromosome are coursing through my blood.

Within 12 months of treatment, I had attained a 4-log reduction (apologies to any mathematicians if I’ve written this incorrectly) in these cells, which means I had 1/10,000 of the leukemia cells I’d had upon diagnosis. Most CML patients who are diligent about taking their special Philadelphia-busting medications fall within this range or even lower within the first year of treatment. I am nothing if not diligent. I imagine you would be too if a doctor told you that carelessness could result in your leukemia progressing and potentially killing you.

So here’s the $128,000 question (inflation and all): If CML patients are in remission, a.k.a., at the stage of major molecular response, what would happen if we stopped taking the medication we were initially told we’d have to remain on for the rest of our lives? Sounds like an interesting research question, doesn’t it?

Normally I’m first in line to try something new. Hot new restaurant in town? I may not eat there, but I’ll know all about it. Hot new clothing store? I’ll tell you where it is. Hot new park in town? Let’s check it out, Jelly.

How about a hot new study for CML patients who want to rid themselves of the nasty side effects of their medications and are willing to stop taking the drugs altogether just to see what happens? No thanks. I’ll pass.

I’ve been a guinea pig for physicians in training over the last 17 years now. I can’t tell you (and not simply because I’m terrible at math) how many hands have palpated my ginormous spleen. That being said, I’m perfectly happy with my major molecular response, thanks; some other brave CML patients can step up to this plate and ditch their drugs in my stead. Once you docs are sure my leukemia won’t return or even progress to a more dangerous stage without my medication, maybe then I’ll consider going drug free. Good luck finding subjects!

Guinea pig

This is the old me.

 

Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin’ alive

 

Did you miss National Cancer Survivors Day yesterday? Not to worry, so did I. I scored nary an invite to any of the festivities. I’m not even sure I am a cancer survivor; all I know is that my cancer hasn’t killed me yet.

Turns out I’ve got a good cancer, if there is such a thing, one that people can live with for many years. And since most of the time I’m in complete denial about my co-existing conditions (my impaired liver and my polycythemia–Happy 17th Polycythemaversary, by the way), I can pretend I too will be one of these people who will live a long life.

One of the main reasons I don’t feel like a true survivor is that I still take daily medications to keep my leukemia at bay. Oh, and my regular visits to the Cancer Centre. There’s nothing like hanging out amongst my cancerous peers to remind me I’ve still got the big C.

Unlike many other cancerous folk, I have very few leukemia cells now, according to most recent testing. So few that, in a CML patient booklet I just read, I am considered in remission. No one has used the R word with me before; in fact, when I was first diagnosed, I was told people with CML don’t go into remission. I was as surprised as you may be. If I’ve misled you, I did it unintentionally.

I also learned from that informative booklet that, with the advances in treatment of CML, many of us are living to a ripe old age. The focus of intervention has shifted from treatment to our quality of life. That part I get, now that I have reached Day 7 of The Wrath of the Gouty Finger. The leukemia isn’t so bad; it’s the symptoms and medication side effects that I find challenging.

So I’d like to suggest a new day of celebration more appropriate to those of us with CML. Let’s call it National Cancer-Symptoms Survivors Day. We’d be celebrating maintaining our quality of life while living with the threat of a potentially terminal illness hanging over our heads. We gatherers could compare notes on our various medication side effects and how we have survived them. We could share information about the interventions we’ve added on to manage those side effects.

I can think of many ways such a get together could benefit me. I’m sure there’s a CML survivor out there who would know how to manage yoga postures that require my lying on my belly. “Do you also have to rearrange the position of your football-sized spleen when you lie down?” I’d ask. Or how about our unrelenting fatigue? “Do you too fall asleep during matinees? How do you keep yourself from snoring?” Then there are the challenges of taking all those drugs. “How do you manage to time your medications to minimize all drug and food interactions?” The possibilities are endless!

We’ll plan our special day to coincide with the National Cancer Survivors Day. Then those of us who feel left out will have somewhere to go where we feel a sense of belonging. We all need to feel we belong somewhere.

Cut out figures holding hands

Things I should know by now, but sometimes forget

Handicapped door button

I’ve been going to have my blood taken on a regular basis for 17 years now. After all that practice, you’d think I’d know all there was to know about the process. This is what I know to do following the procedure:

  1. Put pressure on spot where the needle left a wee hole for at least a few minutes to promote clotting and minimize bruising.
  2. Anything that interferes with clotting makes this pressure all the more critical. Consider factors such as being on blood thinners (that was me once) or being low in platelets (that is me now).
  3. Any heavy lifting soon after the procedure, like holding the absurdly heavy lab door open for the person behind me as I exit, is contraindicated because it could interfere with clotting.
  4. Wearing a white shirt to the procedure is just plain dumb in light of my propensity to bleed.
  5. If any of these procedures aren’t followed, I may end up with blood stains on my clothing and/or a bruise.

Can you tell where this story is headed? Do I still get to tell you what happened this morning when I went to the lab to have my blood taken? It started off well. The needle prick was painless. I placed pressure on my wound following the needle withdrawal and, upon inspection prior to bandaging the spot, I appeared to be clotting well. Then I got up, put my jacket back on, walked through the waiting room, and pushed the heavy outside door open with the same arm that had just been taped up, first allowing the woman behind me through.

As I got outside, I felt a strange wetness on the same arm of my blood draw. “What might that be?” I thought curiously. “Why is my arm feeling increasingly drenched as I walk toward the car?” No lightbulb yet.

I’m sure you know exactly why my arm was wet. I too should have known, but it was fairly early in the morning and all my cylinders were not yet firing. I stood by my car, the unexplained wetness spreading down my arm, at which point the blood made its way beyond my jacket to my exposed hand. I have felt this wetness many times before, yet the physical sensation was not enough to jog my memory; I needed visual proof before accepting that I’d need to do a load of wash that day (or two, because I was wearing a white t-shirt).

With my evidence firmly in hand, I returned to the lab, using the handicapped button to open those heavy doors. I marched straight to the desk to seek help from the phlebotomist. My bloody hand proved sufficient evidence for her rally her troops to clean me up forthwith before I spread my gift of life all over the lab.

Oh well. What’s another load of laundry? Easy for me to say since J. does the laundry. She worries I’ll fall down the basement stairs. The ways I can be a danger to myself are infinite. Oh, and I bruise easily. Let me show you my arm….

The dangers of dependence: a tale of two doctors

A tree that is unbending is easily broken

Did I happen to mention that my beloved Dr. Family will be heading off on maternity leave in August? The gall of that fantastic physician to place her family ahead of her patients, placing her family ahead of her patients. I was diagnosed with leukemia during her first maternity leave. Who knows what will happen this time she leaves?

I don’t talk about Dr. Family much because she is, in some ways, a peripheral member of my care team. By necessity, I spend more time with my specialists than with her. She has always diligently reviewed my file before I do visit, though. She is an astute diagnostician and has cared for me well over the years I have known her. She has arranged for excellent coverage during her two prior leaves.

Her upcoming departure for baby #3 happens to coincide with Dr. Blood’s leaving for her year-long sabbatical. That’s a lot of change at one time for a change-averse gal like me. Thus I considered becoming completely overwhelmed when I first saw Dr. Family’s baby bump, but I’d recently reached my fretting threshold over Dr. Blood.

That’s how I decided to approach to Dr. Family’s leave differently. I recalled my shutting my practice temporarily–unlike me, my clients had no opportunity to ready themselves for my departure–and how, unsurprisingly, my clients survived without me. I’d expect no less of them.

As a clinician, I am always walking a tightrope between assuring my clients they can rely on me when they are distressed and encouraging them not to become overly reliant on my support. From the outset, we discuss those supports available to clients outside the occasional hour that we meet. I’d never want a client to think he needed to talk to me and only me in a crisis because that would set him up to be overly dependent on my care.

I’ve always known I’m not the only psychologist in town. Other highly competent clinicians jumped in when I got sick because they had to. I redirected clients that asked; others muddled through in their own way. Some clients may have ditched therapy altogether to see how they’d do without a therapist’s support. I trust they managed well.

Those who transferred to someone new may have had to share their story from the beginning, which is certainly harder than returning to someone who knows them. Nonetheless, unexpected change like this can be good for clients. I may have missed something or focussed excessively on one domain when they could have used a different kind of support. I realize my former clients may have found a therapist who was better suited to care for them. Sometimes a client reaches an endpoint with a psychologist and a new perspective is beneficial.

If my clients can survive or even thrive without me, maybe I can do the same with my new physicians. I’d hate to become a needy patient, and I trust both my physicians will find solid interim replacements. Who knows? Maybe the change will give my flexibility muscle a good workout. I may even learn that there’s more than one doctor in the world who can keep me alive. That would be reassuring.

Two women walk into a home improvement store….

Picture of yellow and black drill

Sounds like the first line of a joke, doesn’t it? Well, it isn’t. Or maybe it is, if you’re thinking of klutzy me. J. is less injury prone and better with a drill. I am wisely relegated to a supporting role on home improvement tasks, e.g., “Honey, a beer/iced tea/lunch would be nice.”

We went to the store to buy planks for raised garden beds. According to J.’s careful calculations, we had room for two 12 x 3 foot beds. What we hadn’t considered was how we’d get those 12-foot planks home my little black car. Remember the car I said I’d never eat in and forever park at the far end of every parking lot to prevent door dents? I know, sounds a touch unrealistic.

The helpful and eager young employee–let’s call him McDreamer–believed we could somehow get those long planks home in my teeny car, so he and J. attempted to manoeuvre them while I watched in fascination. (I bruise easily, remember?) All was going well until McDreamer decided to move the planks a bit farther up the dashboard, at the expense of the windshield. Once he realized what had happened, McDreamer was so upset he bolted off in tears to seek help.

How would a normal person respond in this situation? J., ever the normal one, uttered the F-word several times. I am not normal, however, so my instantaneous response was to flash back through my many job disasters over the years and feel McDreamer’s pain.

I clearly recall the first time I really messed up at a so-called job. Early in my babysitting career, which was quite busy and lucrative, I somehow forgot a booking altogether. I remember feeling so ashamed by my error, and my shame was compounded by the parents’ rage. Needless to say, this family never asked me back.

Since then, I can think of critical moments with clients that I haven’t handled well and wished I could revisit. I addressed these mishaps with the client if I had the opportunity, but sometimes, because of circumstances, I did not. Unfinished business is unsettling.

In case you’re wondering, no, I did not immediately put on my psychologist hat and offer McDreamer my services. We’ve recently reviewed the prohibitions against ambulance chasing, and, in this case, I was the one in the ambulance. Rather, McDreamer appropriately sought help from an older and wiser employee, who explained that 12-foot planks could not safely be transported by a 6-foot-long vehicle. The store manager then magically appeared and offered to pay to replace the windshield. She was lovely and gracious, including with McDreamer, so everyone breathed a sigh of relief.

J. returned to the store the next day with a revised plan. If we built 6-foot rather than 12-foot boxes, the shorter planks would fit easily in our friend’s van. Since McDreamer had not been fired, he gladly helped us out. Even without my professional help, he seemed to have fully overcome the prior day’s trauma. The shorter planks were loaded in and nobody got hurt.

Even my car has learned an important lesson about knowing her limits. I doubt she’ll ever try that again. Or at least not under my watch.

If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.

Young girl holding lips closed, as if zipping lips

I am returning to the fold after the longest hiatus I’ve taken since initiating the blog. I’ll skip asking whether you missed me because I don’t want to know. I missed writing, but I didn’t have anything to say, so I didn’t say anything at all. I look back on all my grasping-at-straws posts with shame.

We are now back from vacation. Let’s say the trip was not Facebook worthy, even though I lack a Facebook account. I had no beautiful pictures or inspiring moments to share, and, failing those, no great insights or lessons learned. I was too busy trying to keep dry and warm amidst the torrential rain, the pounding sleet, and the gale-force winds.

We travelled into a disaster zone, a bracingly cold and unpleasant spring in la belle province. While we wandered the streets of Old Town, fearing that our umbrella would do a Mary Poppins at any moment, flooding displaced two thousand residents from their homes. There’s something discordant about enjoying the splendours of the area knowing so many people were being profoundly affected.

Maybe that wasn’t it at all. Maybe it was not having Grover, who stars in so many of my vacation pictures, with me. But he would have been so scared by the wind and the rain and the sleet and the snow (yes, there was snow, in May), and he doesn’t own a raincoat to protect his blue fur from the elements. It’s best I left him at home.

We needn’t factor in the exhaustion of trying to think and speak in French. Let’s just say that, beyond understanding French menus, food labels, and public signs, I failed abysmally at speaking and oral understanding. I am in awe of people relocating from foreign lands who master our language.

No, my silence was mostly due to utter exhaustion, I’m afraid. Usually, the excitement of exploring a new place keeps me awake and alert. (That, and the hyperstimulating morning coffee.) When I go away, I leave fatigue, and leukemia, and all those worries I usually carry around with me, at home and pretend I’m healthy for the duration. I crash once I return home. But this time, for whatever reason, fatigue insisted on joining us.

Baby screaming (shot of head only)In fact, I was so exhausted that, to stop my falling asleep on the way to the airport, we moved up our return flight by a few hours. A nap on the plane, and I’d be fine, I figured. I was all ready, earplugs in hand, and then the screaming started. No, not mine, that of the baby one row back. She started wailing before take off and kept it up past landing, with only a few short breaks. I kept telling myself, “I’m sure I was that child” so as to keep myself calm. By flight’s end, my exhaustion gave way to giddiness, which, thankfully, the harried mother could not hear over her screeching daughter.

And so, dear readers, now that that baby and I have parted ways, I am catching up on my sleep. I will be back to regular posting soon. Stay tuned for a “Believe It or Not” story about my day with my pharmacist. It’s truly ah (awe? ugh?) inspiring.

Fatigue is a many-splendoured thing

I’ve been struggling with more fatigue than usual of late. I should be napping daily, and on the days that I don’t, despite my best efforts, I spend part of the day in a fog. Last Monday, I napped before my volunteer shift so I’d be able to serve soup safely.

Despite my fatigue, I dragged myself out of bed this morning so I could write this post. If I let myself, I could return to bed and sleep for another few hours. My self-denial does not allow for the stimulating effects of caffeine. I am hoping writing will get my brain cells firing.

I try not to belabour you with stories of my fatigue day in and day out. I’d hate for your reading to put you to sleep. And I don’t want you to view me as a whiner. But since people often ask me why I’m tired, I thought I might list the known reasons here.

  1. Medical factors:
    1. Leukemia (I expect you to know that one)
    2. Polycythemia (maybe less obvious)
    3. Liver disease (yes, my sick liver makes me tired)
    4. Related to C, pharmaceutically-induced low blood pressure
    5. Several other medications with those little warning stickers on the bottle, “Do not operate heavy machinery….”
  2. Environmental factors:
    1. Bedroom is too hot/too cold/not just right
    2. Pesky songbirds that awaken early in these parts
    3. Pesky dog who takes her cues from the pesky songbirds
    4. Stanley Cup playoffs

Let’s focus on 2D, since the playoffs, however transitory, are currently compounding the chronic fatigue caused by medical factors (1A through 1E). Now that Calgary is out, I am rooting for the Edmonton Oilers under duress. They are making a notable run for the Stanley Cup. Now in the second round, they continue to play brilliantly, despite last night’s loss.

The Oilers’ performance should be of no matter except (and this is a big “except”) their games have been taking place late in the evening. Because I am a devoted hockey pool member with players selected by my beloved (my love for hockey only goes so far), I am invested in how well all teams are performing.

(For the benefit of those who do not know what a hockey pool is [primarily my family], I choose the well-performing players from teams I believe will have success in the playoffs. [Liar. J. chose my players.] Players are eliminated as their corresponding teams are. By retaining the most players through the final round, I have the best chance of winning the title.)

So I’ve been staying up late watching hockey and counting my points. Thanks to J.’s wise selections, Annie’s Agitators is currently second, neck and neck with Jesse’s Water Wings. J. lags well behind, having chosen an inferior team for herself. (I take credit for my success, despite J.’s doing all the heavy lifting.)

But, let’s not forget the compounding role of factor 2C: Jelly, never an avid hockey fan, sleeps through long evenings of our rooting for the underdogs. She startled awake once to J.’s raucous cheering after a goal, but the rest of the time she has slept soundly through our deriding the referees. Jelly would never manage to awaken with the birds if she stayed up with us to watch. Perhaps I should follow her lead?

Basset hound Jelly sleeping in awkward twisted position

 

Tears for fears

Pill with image of Canadian flag on it

I visited the pharmacy today and left $74 poorer with a large medication stash. I whipped out my credit card to pay for the portion that was not covered by my insurance plan. I am lucky that I have adequate funds to pay for my drugs. Some people don’t take their drugs as prescribed because they can’t afford to.

The prohibitive cost of drugs in our land of universal health care has been in the news recently. The reality of the problem hit me last week, when Dr. Foie Gras seemed overly preoccupied with the prohibitive cost of the new gout-busting drug he thought might help me. He actually checked whether my drug coverage would be adequate during our visit.

Then yesterday at the Cancer Centre, I asked Dr. Blood’s fellow about the safety of my taking this new medication. Dr. Fellow noted that, in order to cover the drug, the insurance company would need a letter explaining that I could not take the cheaper alternative. Since the cheaper drug may have caused my liver to fail 4-1/2 years ago, I’d imagine that letter would be fairly straightforward: I’d be taking my life in my hands if I took the cheaper drug.

Then Dr. Fellow questioned who would write the letter, asserting that hematology was too busy and that I should ask Dr. F.G. or even Dr. Family, although he wondered whether Dr. Family would have the authority to speak to my exceptional status, blah blah blah. After Dr. Fellow left the room, I became overwhelmed and even a bit teary.

J., a master at not reacting prematurely, ignored Dr. Fellow–or is that Dr. Roadblock?–and hushed me up so she could listen to his conferring with Dr. Blood. Dr. Blood immediately recruited the clinic pharmacist, who wrote the necessary letter.

Then Dr. Blood came in to inform me that she would be facilitating my approval for that drug. She noticed I was a wreck and said, “You look teary.” Of course her compassion sparked more tears. As I collected myself, J. said, to my surprise, “Annie is just worried about your leaving.” Why hadn’t I thought of that? Of course I was, and am, worried about Dr. Blood’s departure and how I’ll manage with her replacement. I’m worried that simple things, like getting approval for a new drug, will become more difficult. That’s enough to make anyone cry, isn’t it?

There is an ease that comes with a doctor’s knowing me and understanding my needs. Were I not so overwhelmed by her imminent departure, I’d have trusted that Dr. Blood would solve that day’s problem on the spot. And now I must trust that whomever she chooses to replace her will do the same. I am relieved to report that Dr. Roadblock won’t be her replacement; he told us as much.

I have one more appointment with Dr. Blood before her sabbatical starts. I’ll probably cry since, among other things, she’ll be missing my fifth cancerversary. Without her, there would be no fifth cancerversary. But there’s a more important matter at stake: what if the new doctor doesn’t like my baking? I’d rather worry about something trite for a while, if you don’t mind.

A simple recipe for poisoning your loved one

Picture of pasta with cheese and pepper

Two years ago, J. celebrated her birthday in the ER, where I had gone to seek urgent medical attention. I made the one day of the year that’s supposed to be all about J. all about me. After spending several hours ignoring my symptoms, I could no longer deny their seriousness.

I’ve since succeeded in avoiding hospital visits on J.’s birthday. Last year I left my cancer at home and celebrated J’s birthday in her favourite London pub. This year, staying healthy was a piece of (birthday) cake, for me at least. I have been the picture of health for a chronically ill person.

J.’s birthday this past Saturday started out like any other day. I had carefully planned a special meal for her. I chose not to tell J. what was on the menu so she wouldn’t try to simplify the offerings.

I then carefully gathered my provisions. On Friday, I made sausage and bean soup because soup always tastes better on the second day. I planned to make the pasta and dessert on Saturday.

At dinner, J. enjoyed the soup and the pasta so much that she even took seconds. Then she had her first bite of the Portuguese custard tarts I’d laboured over that afternoon. She left the rest of her tart untouched while I scarfed mine done. She became increasingly quiet, and then she abruptly fled the dinner table.

J.’s using the facilities during a meal is not unusual. Her kidneys are so healthy that she pees hourly. I found it odd when she did not returning promptly to the table, however. I waited and waited, and then I went in search of her, only to discover she had spent the last 20 minutes ridding herself of my carefully cooked dinner. She was so sick that night that she couldn’t even watch her beloved Oilers clinch Round 1.

Ever the catastrophizer, I was sure my special meal had poisoned her. I reviewed the meal ad nauseum. I was sure I’d cooked the sausage meat properly. Yes, I’d adequately heated and then cooled the soup. I’d baked the custard tarts, with their six egg yolks, long enough. And then I considered the fresh pasta. Was there salmonella instead of semolina in the flour mix? (Recalled flour is all the rage lately, but E. coli are the offending bacteria.)

The cheese did have a bit of mold on it, which I cut off before grating, but did I miss a spot? How dangerous is moldy cheese anyway? Turns out some molds are fine–Brie cheese is made with mold, for example–but others molds can make you sick. Then I learned that some molds have a toxin that is precursor to liver cancer. Oh great, I gave J. cancer on her birthday.

Before you throw out all your cheese like I did, consider this: people don’t react to food poisoning as quickly as J. did, according to my wise neuroscientist friend. And despite my questionable immune functioning, I didn’t get sick. Perhaps it wasn’t my cooking after all.

Once I’d determined I hadn’t killed J., J. told me that she’d been feeling off all day. Sorry to hear that, honey, and please excuse my huge sigh of relief.

 

P.S. Turf that green cottage cheese pronto.