Spring!

SPRING!!!!!

That is the short version of why I have had no words recently. 

As I dance around my kitchen each morning, in a style that can only be described as Spastic Muppet, my husband sighs. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING???” 

He is not prone to fits of early morning exuberance.

“I AM DANCING BECAUSE SPRING!!!” 

Apparently daylight is my favorite. The slowly increasing warmth of days is my favorite. The magic of every morning when I walk the dog, seeing new buds, new tiny bits of green, new blooms on old ShopRite bulbs I planted after they wilted post-Easters long ago…all of these are my favorite.

Blue sky when I was doing 

yoga on my deck a few days ago. 

ALSO MY FAVORITE.

The trees I can see outside my home office window are still brown and twiggy, but the edge of my weeping willow just peeks past the window frame, and just this morning I think the number of buds on that tree have doubled, lime green dots of happiness.

By contrast, I see how extremely I am affected by the change of seasons…the challenges of late fall/early winter’s darkness are so quickly forgotten when I get more hours of daylight.  Not forgotten—but gosh I appreciate EVERY SECOND of spring.

Woo!

Even my house plants look so happy. 

Well, the succulent looks all spindly and straining to the window. I have to Google how to re-pot it. Even a little poinsettia I got for Christmas is still blooming!  Next to my spindly succulent is a little plant in a box, I think it’s some kind of kalanchoe? 

Last spring, as I prepared to leave the only job I ever really had, my principal, a mighty, compassionate, wise woman, gave me this little flower as a parting gift, with her thanks.  

This flower means a lot to me. No other administrative person, most of whom I have known for 20-30 years, most of whom have had many children in my classes—not one ever acknowledged that I left. Not one acknowledged I ever had even been there. Complete radio silence. 

This is ok. It is, in many ways, a confirmation of things long known. 

By contrast, that little flower means a LOT to me.

It sits on my kitchen windowsill, slightly tilted over the months of winter to drink in every speck of the western exposure’s light. The leaves are dark green and round, the stems strong…

And I realized the other day, as I came home from substitute teaching, tired but happy, that my plant has been growing like CRAZY. It is starting to get new blooms even, tiny white flowers that lean toward the sun.  It looks…happy, too. 

Look at all the Happiness! Tiny flowers on right...

Whoa. That’s kind of a metaphor, no? 

Growing, blooming, gaining strength—that parting gift from my principal is so much more than a flower, so much more than a sign of her gratitude for the time we got to work together. In a lot of ways, that little plant reflects so much of the last few months since I took my leap of faith—literally faith, I prayed so much to discern the right path. I wasn’t sure I could keep that plant alive all winter, but there are new leaves now, new blooms, new growth.  In the first few months after leaving my job, I wasn’t sure I could make it work. I knew I’d survive, let’s not be melodramatic (she says for the first time ever). But I guess I did not realize I could grow, too. I wanted to think I could, but my deep-seated defensive pessimism lurks always beneath the surface of my aspirational optimism.

But—I am so much happier now. Even in the dark of winter—so much happier. And so grateful for everyone who supported me in my leap (especially my husband, my children, my extended family).

Spring this year reminds me that there is ALWAYS possibility for growth. There is ALWAYS at least a window to lean towards when a door needs to be closed. 

A year ago at this time, Movin’ Right Along was a mantra I repeated to give myself oomph to do the hard thing I needed to do.  THIS spring, I am so grateful to be Movin’ Right Along in a different way, more of a hey, not sure where I’m exactly headed yet, but the uncertainty can also be exhilarating too, getting there IS half the fun, and hey, FORSYTHIA ARE BLOOMING ALL OF A SUDDEN!  

A little bit of space can provide a lot of perspective.

I can’t say things are perfect. Subbing has its own challenges—but they are the right challenges for right now, and that brings me a measure of peace, understanding that. I may not be able to create zen (still a bit irked about THAT reality), but acceptance and understanding of life are kind of what zen is all about.

If you feel stuck—if you are in the middle of a super dark place (and reading this and thinking SPRING YOUR FAT FANNY, KRISTIN!—I respect and resemble that) – hold on.  Just holding on is huge.  I have been there—in those moments where my life feels like an endless cycle of hospital time, anxiety, mom responsibilities, anxiety, work, anxiety, teenager troubles, anxiety, laundry, anxiety, oncology mom responsibilities, (anxiety)…the frustration of those seasons is so real.  So many years of winter… but Spring will come. I hold on to that hope for you. Spring can’t make the bad stuff go away, but its light and warmth can give us the strength to keep going.

I hope for everyone a moment of seeing where YOU HAVE COME A LONG WAY! Learning, growing, doing the things—every day! You are doing it!  Do you know how hard I am resisting the urge to quote a Barney the Dinosaur song??? GAH…

Instead—be proud of your own Spring, friends. YOUR growing. You are awesome. :)

Moments to Grow

If life were made of moments—

Even now and then a bad one—

If life were made of moments—

Then you’d never know you had one.

                                Stephen Sondheim, Into the Woods

              As much as that song gets stuck in my head on a regular basis—life IS made of moments woven together. Trying to be IN the moment, trying to remember all the moments—this has long been my work. I fear forgetting.

                This weekend held moments that made me stop, and think, and reflect, and weirdly NOT get emotionally overwhelmed by the racing torrent of time and loss that for so long has hijacked my response to most things.

                On Saturday morning some of my former students came to help us with yard work. They are fundraising for a trip, and I know they are great kids, so we got ourselves a little crew to help with the branchpocalypse our willow trees left in our yard after one too many windy winter storms.  I haven’t seen many of my students since I left my old job, so having a few come to my house was lovely.

Spring willow (last year--no leaves yet this year!)--one of 4 in the yard.

We had pros come take down the storm-damaged branches,

don't be alarmed. 

                I looked out my kitchen window as the boys arrived—did they have a new kid in the class? I did not recognize one of the young men bundled up against the cold. I went outside to say hello and realized the unrecognizable young man WAS one of my former students, who apparently grew 6 inches since last June.  Like, now he is taller than I am—which was NOT the case before.  And yes, I went out and said “OH MY GOSH DID YOU GROW LIKE 6 INCHES SINCE LAST YEAR???”

                He did, as did the classmate next to him, which I only realized when standing next to both of them.

                AGOG!

                Ok, so I know this happens, I have a son who grew through clothes before I even took the tags off, and even my formerly tiny child has finally grown to be a short teen—but in context of all, seeing this young man so tall and grown up gave me a moment of joy.

                I know, I know, me leaving would not stunt students’ physical growth—I just felt so happy to see these young people doing so well, growing, working together, chatting about silly things. It was a good moment that reminded me of a lot of good moments in my old job with these great kids.

                Once the yard was cleared, my husband started a job we have long discussed—taking down the swingset. We had put off this moment quite a while since my youngest was loath to part with the swingset, but the steps and rails were rotting despite our repair efforts, and with little cousins who come to play, I did not want anyone to get injured out there. Also, my youngest will be 17 in a few months.

The time had come.

I feared my response to this. I have often written about how hard it is for me to part with pretty much any part of our family history, especially in light of my daughter’s catastrophic illness. The Furby she received after very high stakes brain surgery in 2006 still stands as a creepy sentinel in the top of a closet. I can’t get rid of it. So I figured getting rid of the swingset would be excruciating.

Furby is Listening...always listening...

I remember agonizing over which one we could get on our very limited budget, spending hours looking online in the early internet days.  I remember getting it set up while my firstborn was away at camp, surprising him and his little sister when he got home. I remember the baby swing we had on there for my now almost 17 year old, and all the fun my kids have had out there over the years. So much remembering. So many good moments.

the last swing

But somehow, in this moment, I could remember all those moments and NOT get trapped there. Grace? Progress? Healing? No clue why. Just – it was ok. And I had to stop and say, whoa. This IS OK.

I didn’t see THAT coming. I fully expected angst galore!

Taking down the swingset, ending this era of my parenting is ok.

Letting go of a reminder of when my kids were young is ok—because we made it through. For so long I have been terrified to let go of ANYTHING, lest someday that be all we have left.

But our past can be better honored by taking DOWN the rotting cedar, and putting up something new. We will create a new lovely space out there for new rememberings, new moments of joy.

I am grateful for these moments, for zen flowing where normally anxiety and uncertainty rule.

Growth is good. Outgrowing a job, a swingset, heck, even a pair of jeans—ok, maybe less that one—celebrate those moments of growth. Know that you have them. And keep movin’ right along.

Um, officially outgrew the swing. 

Zen and Slo-Mo Metanoia

Of course as soon as I post Magnify the Good, I come up against a giant Monday through Friday sized barricade ala Les Miserables, but instead of a barricade built out of random wagons and barrels, mine was comprised of a broken water bottle, an anxiety tsunami (not my own, but I find anxiety contagious so it became mine), having those same old resentment scars poked this week,  still going on social media beyond my self-prescribed limit of just a quick 2x a day to post positive things and check on family/friends in medical yikes--and reaping the consequence of THAT fail (sigh, ugh, alas), driving all over Jersey as Mom-chauffeur, and the dog peeing on the floor because she was mad I left the house...twice...

At least the dog is really cute and lovable.

So many, many opportunities to practice staying positive!

Yup. That is exactly what  I di...gah, I can't even type it. I found everything challenging. I am the worst at practicing.

Full disclaimer (again), any time I suggest any kind of strategy for positivity or dealing with piles of ugh, you have to know I am saying that first of all to my own dang self, because I do not listen to me very well. Case in point, this week. 

About some things, I am a slow learner.  Zen is one of those things. Another is dancing. Some time I will tell you about my attempt at Irish step dancing in a Celtic Theater Company show...

My knees have still not forgiven me. 

Anyway, I really do want to learn, to grow, to practice healthy striving for zen. That's why I keep writing. That's why I started the new blog page. I want a "beginner's mind" (quoting Jonathan Fields).  LEARNINGS GALORE!

To that end, recently I read a quote by John Paul II describing metanoia, a super cool word that describes a radical change of ideas and mindset--the BEAR LEFT! BEAR LEFT! moment in life that goes hand in hand with the original theme of this blog years ago. You know,  Movin' Right Along with Kermit and Fozzie. :)   Life is a road trip, don't panic if you inadvertently end up in Rhode Island when you thought you were going to LA. Make the most of it.

This is where I feel the last two years or so have really been leading me--towards accepting new roads, towards radical change in a lot of areas of life while understanding that we are on a road chugging forward, not static or trapped in one spot--but perfectionism and anxiety and resistance and ugh just keep getting in the way. 

But really, don't we all have to change? Nobody is the same person they were 5 or 10 or 15 years ago.  We can all keep learning and growing--life forces us to, in some respects--and to magnify the good is to acknowledge that, really.

We don't have to be stuck in the things that weigh us down.

Admittedly, as much as I enjoy the word "metanoia", I loathe change (OH THE THINGS THAT CAN GO TERRIBLY AWRY!!!—Dr. Seuss’s unwritten sequel to Oh, the Places You’ll Go), but to keep moving on the zen path, I need to radically change my mindset over Do vs. Be, over seeking zen vs. trying to control every variable and force zen to produce itself, to demanding perfection instead of gratefully accepting and celebrating progress. 

Brene Brown’s facebook entry for January 8 clarified ALL THE THINGS caught up in my personal Wrestlemania of what the constant struggle is about, so I will let her say it better than I can. 

BRENE BROWN 1/8/19

…Perfectionism is not the same thing as striving for excellence. Perfection is not about healthy achievement and growth. 

Perfectionism is the belief that if we live perfect, look perfect, and act perfect, we can minimize or avoid the pain of blame, judgment, and shame. It’s a shield. Perfectionism is a twenty-ton shield that we lug around thinking it will protect us, when, in fact, it’s the thing that’s really preventing us from being seen and taking flight.

Perfectionism is not self-improvement. Perfectionism is, at its core, about trying to earn approval and acceptance. 

Most perfectionists were raised being praised for achievement and performance (grades, manners, rule-following, people-pleasing, appearance, sports). Somewhere along the way, we adopt this dangerous and debilitating belief system: I am what I accomplish and how well I accomplish it. Please. Perform. Perfect. Prove. 

Healthy striving is self-focused – How can I improve? Perfectionism is other-focused – What will people think? ….

Oh snap. 

Herein lies the heart my personal struggle of Do vs. Be.  Healthy achievement and growth vs. perfection to avoid shame of failure. This is where I need ye olde metanoia.

It isn’t that we aren’t supposed to TRY, to work, to strive, to improve, to be faithful in the little things ala Mother Teresa. It is WHY are we trying—if our trying is to be perfect, to earn approval or cosmic brownie points, to protect our mind from our soul’s feelings, we are going to be frustrated and miserable.

I can personally attest to the accuracy of that. 

This is why Brene Brown’s work continuously blows my mind. Her research opened for me (for the first time) a window into why the heck I am the way I am—and by extension into why a lot of folks probably are the way they are.  Understanding that 20 ton shield that so many people carry fuels compassion—for others, and for me. Because nobody is harder on me than I am. 

And I know that spills over into me being hard on everybody. Ugh. 

So much of my life I defined my identity in doing, in meeting some standard of perfection, of doing things RIGHT. Either do all the things scrupulously so I would get the invisible (or literal) gold star…or avoid hard and scary things like the plague, because my fear of imperfection or failure swallowed my oomph to step out of my comfort zone and try new things. 

I have missed or avoided a lot of things in life that I wish I had not, because I was so very afraid of failing, of revealing my less than perfection.

When I can’t DO, or can’t do something well, or fear I won’t do something well, I question who I am, and do I even matter? NO,  I SUCK! 

It is a slippery slope that slides me right off the road of any healthy growth.

I am learning, oh so slowly learning, that I do matter regardless of flaws and perpetual failings. Failings are lessons, not condemnations of personal worthlessness. 

Ugh.

I find that even hard to type. Like, awkward pause…mental question, “do I say this?”…then type really fast.  Weird, right? I totally believe everyone matters, regardless of what they do—that is THE critical component of a consistent pro-life world view, that every single being has dignity and worth just by existing.

I am only a preference utilitarian with regards to MY value. Meh.  Work in progress. No pun intended.

I am grateful that in recent years I have learned to recognize my anxiety and frustration with imperfection to identify WHY I am plummeting into the depths on any given day, but I can’t remotely pretend I avoid the depths entirely. Instead of “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!”, now I am more “I tripped on that pile of expectations and I can’t get up!" 

An important step, I guess, but I’m still on the floor far too often for my liking. 

And that’s ok. If you are down here too—know you aren’t alone. We can get up again. We will.

I need me some more metanoia. I want some metanoia. I like saying metanoia.

also, it is fun to write metanoia

 

A radical change can be a knocked off the horse moment ala St. Paul in the biblical story of his conversion (I know, the knocked off the horse part got added in artistic representations later, but whatever, it's a memorable visual, especially you are the guy plummeting from the horse, artistic or otherwise)—OR it can be teeny tiny steps, like when Adriene Mishler says in a yoga video to take little steps to the top of the yoga mat…or jump, or float (?) or get there, "Yogi's choice". Little steps  still get you where you’re going--just choose to take a step. Little steps can get me where I’m going.

Slo-mo metanoia is better than no metanoia at all. It is the choice to change that matters.

I can’t jump right into radical change.  I am who I am. But tiny steps can lead down the road toward healthy, positive striving, too. 

I can practice tiny steps to self-acceptance (which helps me accept other people, that is why it matters). With practice, I can keep movin’ right along.  I choose THAT. With practice, we can all keep movin' right along...in a way that is healthy, happy, and hopeful.

How do you approach changes large or small? How do you make peace with the uncertainty in moments of change? Where have you seen your own "metanoia" moments? I learn so much from the things people share...

Also, how the heck does one "float" to the top of a yoga mat? How is this different than hopping? gah…

Storm in the Playroom

I almost forgot to post today...
This one is a little discombobulated, but it is so late, I just want to get something up...and as I mention below, THIS ptsd fest is still fresh.  I just don't have the energy to dig out pictures, but I will tomorrow.

May 26


As we entered summer 2011, we made another med switch for Genna in a desperate attempt to help her with her anxiety, we realized Rosie needed to wear an earplug in her bad ear while swimming, and we tried to get my son to survive sophomore year of high school.

July of 2011 was full of fun, a trip to Lake George with friends, a wondrous trip to Camp Sunshine with our bt friends, and then birthdays for Andrew (16!) and Genna (13!)…I officially had TWO teens in the house.

In all the haze of frosting and festivity, I almost forgot a double scan day was on the horizon.

Ok, that’s a total bold-faced lie. I didn’t forget.  Scan day is always like an elephant on my head.

July 26 was scan day. It went like this. (this PTSD is much fresher, so…yeah).

TUESDAY, JULY 26

just a short note...

Rosie's scan was rock solid stable. They did an extra series of ear pictures, her bones & nerves are intact. She didn't need contrast, (ergo no iv), the scan was shorter, she was triumphant and happy.

G's scan...not stable. The nurses took 4 sticks to get her iv...she needed extra meds to fall asleep, then was nearly inconsolable when she woke up (a side effect of the meds). Thanks to Joan Kerpan and Kyle's Peace G did recover from that with a new tie-dye shirt, a blanket, and coloring pages. But in the middle of her activity the neurosurgeon came into the playroom...

and time stood still.

My insides just curled up like the feet of the Wicked Witch of the East after the house fell on her.

He asked us some questions about how G has been feeling, palpated her shunt (which was working ok), said her ventricles were a little funky (my word)...and left.

Well, it doesn't take a brain surgeon to figure out WHY the ventricles might look compromised....

In some ways it was better, I had near cardiac arrest THEN, so when Dr. B cheerfully talked to the girls without the normal "stable!" at the start, I was prepared.

G has another area of growth, again in her hypothalamus, this time across from the area that scared the crap out of us last summer. So we have a blob on one side and Halley's comet on the other (that's last year's yikes, so 2010).

Sigh.

We rescan in 6 weeks. Then, if it's still bad...

Good thing we learned so much at Camp. We might need that info sooner rather than later.

I am going to go collapse (or, more likely, wander the house in a kind of wired dismay, I was too calm at CHOP) , and I will likely hide a few days...thank you for praying for us, and please pray for my G. She's ok right now, but I don't know how she'll feel once she thinks about this with a clear head tomorrow.

thank you, and peace,

k

Brain tumor note: if a neurosurgeon comes to find you in a playroom, you are totally, epically, thoroughly screwed. SCREWED.

Monday, August 1, 2011 1:04 PM CDT

Hey again.

So…here we go again.

I should be researching, I should be reading up on things, I have not started that yet. I feel the inexorable passage of time acutely, but I am finding it hard to get ahead.

For those who have asked, Genna is doing ok right now. She really hasn’t said ANYTHING about the scan. I mentioned at Costco the other day that we were going to stock up on snacks and such (pretzels, granola bars, the staple foods of our house) before September, and she put her hands to her head…I hastened to remind her that we did this last year, too, and just ended up with months’ worth of peanut butter.

We can always hope, right? It’s just that last year’s Yikes was NOT introduced by a neurosurgeon in a playroom. Mega Eek.

G did ask me, oh so quietly last night, if she had to start chemo again would she get another port.
The 4 Stick Yikes of last week’s scan has been bothering her.

So she IS thinking about it, and I expect I’ll be fielding more questions with uncertainties and crappy answers over the next 5 and a half weeks.

She had an odd moment the other day, her eyes felt blurry…but she passed the maternal shunt check, and after a little rest felt better. Ugh.

Personally, I kind of don’t know what to do with myself. So…did I call a therapist finally? Did I go and spend time at church? Did I find a quiet spot to think and regroup?

Um, not exactly.

I signed up for a half marathon.

It seemed like a reasonable idea. I was so angry. So upset. So determined to run. To pound every last cellular yikes out of NF. So angry. Any time I went out to run I muttered "f-you, NF, F-you, NF" as a cadence to keep me going.

Anger is a powerful motivator.

Of course I was also terrified. So I asked Rosie to cheer a lot for me, but really, what was the worst that could happen?

“Well,” she said, “you could collapse. Or there could be a tiny rock on the ground and you don’t see it and you fall down and don’t finish the race.”

Yes.

So once again we were waiting, waiting to see what would happen…and you know, This time, G was scared. For the first time ever, she asked me if she would die.

HOW THE HELL DO YOU ANSWER THAT?

She still wanted to celebrate 5 years off chemo. Sigh. Hard to be festive when disaster is lurking.

And then we were back to scan day, August 31, 2011…

Wednesday, August 31, 2011 7:59 AM CDT

quick word:

stable.

no chemo now.

I am road kill, but so relieved. This roller coaster is killing me, but we are so grateful and relieved.

Longest day ever (left home at 5:17 a.m, home at 8:20 pm), clinic was insane, drive home was awful, but G is stable. The @^#&(@umors stopped again. They did not shrink, they did not do ANYTHING...and you only treat low grade tumors if they are causing symptoms or growing (since chemo is mostly intended to stop them...G had gallons of chemo and it never shrank ANYTHING). So the good news of STABLE...which is awesome beyond all...is still in the context of holy @^#@That's a pile of tumor in my kid's head.

But tonight, I will sleep and hopefully not dream of oncology, and G will hopefully sleep (she is a train wreck right now, who can blame her?)...we live to fight another day.

I asked our doc how many bullets can we dodge? A lot, she said. So we keep dodging...

thank you all. thank you God, and thank you all for pulling for us. This round has been hard, it's so hard. It means so much to G to know you are in her corner...

Another reprieve. G could start 8th grade, she could just be a kid again for a little while…but this scare knocked us down, badly. And dang, I still had that half marathon to run!

Three out of Ten

For the month of May, in honor of brain tumor and NF awareness month (so convenient to have them at the same time!), I am trying to tell our family's story of living through both. I hope that by the end folks have a sense what brain tumors and NF can do to a family, why and how we can work for better treatments (and maybe a cure!), and why we should always, always hope.


Today's side request: please send every good thought /prayer/vibe of strength to our friend Caitlin, who got the worst news possible today on her MRI. Caitlin was at onco camp with my girls last year, and visited G in the day hospital about 4 weeks ago. Our hearts are broken again today because of brain tumors.

May 9

It was almost MRI day, and G was losing vision.


On Caringbridge I said it this way:

I'm really too upset to say much right now other than please pray. We're trying to figure out what to do with this--we don't see the neuro-opth. (see, I couldn’t spell it then, either) until Nov. 29, but now I'm really worried about what the MRI is going to show. I'm worried that I've been letting Genna cross the street alone--she's so careful about looking both ways, but I'm not sure that "looking" is particularly useful. Getting on the bus each morning for school has become a challenge, as she frantically looks for a seat while the bigger kids won't budge (we asked the neighbors today to help us with that, so Genna can get on the bus first).

Genna was very pleased that she saw the first 2 lines on the nurse's eye test (which is exactly what alarmed the nurse!). She is so pale, and tired, and frustrated with school--maybe because she can't see? We had no idea it was so bad.

please pray for us. this is almost as bad as the initial diagnosis for me.


It was a hard time, reading through those early caringbridge entries is so weird.

Right after this day, we finally met another kid with NF, a teen in our church who we had been praying for but never met. Sandra was battling sarcoma, a very rare NF manifestation. G was very pleased to meet a new friend.

Scan day loomed, the Monday after Thanksgiving (where G mooched Grandma into making her pizza, G didn’t LIKE turkey), I was so scared and praying that things would be ok, but G’s deteriorating vision scared me so badly, despite our doc telling us that didn’t necessarily mean the tumor was worse.

We headed to Philly on the 29th, got G’s scan, and headed home. Nobody called that day, so I figured maybe we weren’t smote. I didn’t start calling our doctor until the next morning, and it took me all day to get through (the nurse was NOT AMUSED that I kept calling, and I was so non-assertive then,I just apologized and carried the phone with me the rest of the day). Finally Dr. B called me.

The chemo had failed.

 The tumor had grown larger.

All I could whisper was, “of course it did. Of course it did.” We were the 3 out of 10 that carb/vin doesn't work for. We had come to THAT bridge.

Not only had the tumor not shrunk or stabilized, it had grown. And a teeny speck of potential tumor spotted on the original scan was now a centimeter sized blob in G’s cerebellum.

I just remember crying with my mother, crying and crying, how could it not work? Those months of G feeling miserable were all wasted…

This was all I could say

Tuesday, November 30, 2004 2:53 PM CST

Hi everybody.

It's not working. The chemo is not working. The tumor is growing, making its inexorable progress through my little girl.

I don't really know what to say. Right now I have more questions than answers. Next Monday I will meet with the doctor to discuss what chemo we are switching to. There are a few options, but the risk of secondary leukemia is higher....but radiation and surgery are really not options.

Genna's only question was "will it hurt?" when told she would need new medicine. I told her no. She was fine then, matter of fact about it.

Please pray for us extra today. Please don't take it personally if I don't answer e-mails or calls.

Thank you,

And then, while I hid from humanity, we had to figure out what to do.