Happy Birthday!

"Today is your birthday. Happy birthday!" I've been wishing him a happy birthday all day today, and now it's evening. It is his seventh birthday post-diagnosis.

"It is?! I'll be darned," he exclaims happily.

"You didn't know?" I ask casually.

"I did not know," he responds with a smile.

"How old are you?"

"Harry," he replies confidently, "Why?"

"I was just wondering if you know how old you are now."

"I told you. It's Harry," he says. This has been his answer to "How old are you?" all day.

"Well, Harry, you are ___ years old!"

"I am?!"

"So, how old are you?"

"___ years old, just like it says here," he says as he proudly holds up the crayon he's been working with and shows me how long it is. It does not, of course, have any numbers on it.

"How old are you today?"

"Harry," he answers. Okay, then.

Time for a Shower

Just over a year ago, I noticed that his hair didn't seem very clean after he had taken his shower. I started reminding him to use shampoo. A while after that, I noticed he wasn't using soap, either. So I started reminding him to use soap and shampoo. And I stood on the other side of the glass shower door to make sure he was doing that.

But soon I noticed that I was having to remind him to take a shower. And that he was just standing under the water, wetting down one side and then the other and then the first again, until I handed him the soap and placed shampoo in his hand. The shampoo sometimes was used to wash places you don't usually clean with shampoo, if you know what I mean.

So I decided it would be more efficient to kill two birds with one stone, especially since I was starting to have trouble convincing him to take a shower at all, much less regularly. I started showering with him.

Sometimes he stands with his arms out so I can make quick work of it with the soft shower puff and a nice body wash. Sometimes he doesn't know what I mean when I ask him to lift them. Most times I have to explain several different ways that he needs to get his hair wet so I can shampoo it. Then I must remind him to rinse the shampoo out. I reach around the shower door to get his towel so I can hand it to him. He sometimes leaves the shower area before I can grab mine.

If I'm not quick about getting out and drying off, he will have donned the underwear I've placed at the ready for him before I can remind him to use deodorant. I've decided not to worry about it too much. He's clean; that's what matters. Right?

Jason Bourne

Yesterday afternoon, we went to see the new film, Jason Bourne. We love Jason Bourne movies and own all the ones that have been released. Like all Jason Bourne movies, it was full of excitement and action and good-looking people with lots of muscles. And car chases. Lots of chases of all kinds. We both enjoyed the film, and he didn't even fall asleep.

When we got home, he sat down in the kitchen as I went to our room briefly. He came to find me almost immediately, because that's what he does now. He needs to know where I am. Perhaps being alone makes him anxious.

"So, are we going somewhere today?" he asked somewhat impatiently.

"We just got home from the movies," I replied.

"Okay, but I didn't see any movies!"

"The new Jason Bourne movie," I explained, hoping this information would help him retrieve the memory. Apparently, I still don't "get it" that his memories can dissipate like vapor.

"Jason who?!"

We went down to the Man Cave to watch some television, as is our habit in the evening. I sat next to him, as I always do.

He looked at me thoughtfully and said, "Where have you been lately?"

Quite often when he asks me a question, I'm not sure exactly what it is he wants to know, so I ventured, "With you..."

"Really?" he smiled, "With me?"

For a moment, all was well with the world. I smiled back and suggested, "Let's watch Bourne Identity!"

"OK!" he answered, "I love those movies!"

Where's Mom?

Just about every day, sometime in the early afternoon, my husband looks up from the 100-piece puzzle he's working on laboriously (he can still do those with 'a little help') and asks, "Where's Mom?" It's a different question than the "Mom's gone, isn't she?" he used to ask.

This is a relatively recent development. He used to ask about his mom during sundowning time in the evening, not earlier in the day. He also asks about his siblings as though they've gone out without him and are expected home any moment. Or maybe he's expecting me to say they are playing in the back yard. I think he thinks I am one of his siblings sometimes. Or some other random adult.

His mom passed away in 1973 at the age of 49. My husband was 24. Usually, I remind him that his mom is in Heaven with mine and with our dads. Sometimes, he receives this information matter of factly; other times, it makes him very sad and tears well up in his eyes. Which is interesting, because I don't recall that he allowed himself to cry at the time. And it breaks my heart to see him cry. But I digress.

Today, instead of reminding him once again that his mom is deceased, I asked him, "Where do you think she might be?"

"In Redding?" he ventured. This is the area where he grew up, but he hasn't lived there for decades.

"Oh?" I replied, "And how old are you?"

He seemed to be mulling the question over for a moment or two, and I asked again to make sure we were on the same track. He has a tendency to forget what I've said rather quickly these days; but, then, he has a tendency to forget everything rather quickly these days.

"45?" he offered tentatively.

It reminded me of a time when my dad started laughing as I mentioned my age. He said it was impossible for me to be that old, since he was younger than that himself. In fact, 45 is the number he used. He was in his early 90's. He had dementia, you see. A lot of the experiences I am now having with my husband remind me of things my dad said or did. Double your trauma, double your fun (new words to an old jingle. Hum along if you remember it).

I find it so interesting how my husband's brain hops and skips around. I thought memory would be affected chronologically, in reverse. But that doesn't seem to be how it works, necessarily. Sometimes he remembers things, most times he doesn't (even right after they happen), and lots of times the "memory" is an exercise in creative writing.

The human brain is a thing of wonder, isn't it?

The Screwdriver

I look up from my work to see my husband rummaging through the kitchen drawers, obviously agitated and impatient.

"What are you looking for, sweetie?" I ask.

"A screwdriver," he replies, "It needs to be tightened."

"What needs to be tightened?"

"The screw," he says sarcastically as if to imply that perhaps I have a screw loose for not knowing this simple fact.

"Okay," I venture, "What screw?"

"A SCREWDRIVER! You know what a SCREWDRIVER is?!"

"Yes, honey, I know what a screwdriver is. I'm just wondering what you're working on is all," I respond cautiously, fully aware that there's no telling what in the world he is "repairing" and what kind of mess I might have to clean up in a little while. But not mentioning that concern.

"SEE?" He shows he a handful of screwdrivers he has brought from the garage and has found in my tool drawer. "A long thing? With an end on it? To do things with?!"

"Yes, I see," I respond, trying one more time, "I was just asking for more information about your project."

"It's a SCREWDRIVER! You're making me crazy!"

Oh, my darling. The feeling is sometimes so very mutual.

An Alzheimer's Moment - The Laundry

We just got back from a trip. I unpacked and separated the clothing into piles on the bedroom floor, ready for load after load of laundry. While the first load was in the washing machine, I started dinner.

A few minutes later, my husband came to the kitchen, huffing and puffing and complaining of an aching back. He had folded the piles of laundry and put the dirty clothes away in the drawers and the closet.

It hurt my heart that he had done all that work for nothing, but it was so sweet that he tried to help. If only the clothing had been clean...

I resorted everything, left the room, started writing this, and heard some noise coming from our closet. He is hanging up the clothes again. And so it goes. Sigh.

Where Is Everyone?

For several months now, mostly in the evening but increasingly during the day as well, my husband becomes confused about whether or not others are in the house with us. I don't know if that's because he is seeing things (I hope not) or because time warps for him. Maybe there have been people at the house that day, but they have gone home.

Unfortunately, almost every evening, he is also confused about why I'm in the house.

"How did you come to be here?" he asks.

"I live here," I explain. I then explain that no, I am not his sister. I explain that this is our home, that I am his wife, that we've been married for 45 years, that we've been living here for 32 years. Together. The whole time. He takes my hand and says he is glad, then he mentions that he's been having trouble with his brain and that he does remember me. He was just having a momentary lapse.

The other evening, we were sitting in the family room. It's downstairs. It was almost time for bed, so he checked the doors to make sure they were locked. Then, for some reason, he went upstairs for a few minutes and came right back down.

"Where is everyone?"

I wasn't entirely sure what he meant by that, since nobody had been at the house. It occurred to me that maybe he was wondering if the kids had gone out for the evening and hadn't returned home yet. I took a stab at it.

"The kids are all grown up and off on their own, honey."

"Oh," he said softly, looking a little lost and more than a little sad.

It's ironic, isn't it? We are so busy when the kids are home, raising them and earning a sufficient income to take care of them and providing for their needs, we hardly realize they're growing up until they leave for college. The time passes so quickly, and then they are gone.

And we're alone in our big house, just us and the dog, wondering how it could have all happened. Just the way everyone said it would.

Happy Father's Day.

Precious Memories

As I've mentioned before, my husband and I have a long common history. This has been a very valuable tool in helping him to remember things, because I was there, too.

Some of the memories are fun to relive together, looking at photos and being reminded of little details that get lost in the course of daily life, anyway. He probably doesn't actually remember being in some of the exotic locations we've visited, let alone the ordinary ones. But if I show him a photo of a place we've been together, he seems to connect with it. Or maybe he just likes the picture.

My mom's been having health issues of late. Not unusual for a woman in her 90's. But whenever we discuss my mother's health, the subject of his own parents' deaths comes up. He says he doesn't remember how his mother died, so I fill in the blanks for him. She died of cancer at the age of 49. In the early 70's. And then he says he doesn't remember what happened to his father. I remind him that his father was murdered at the age of 65. In the mid-80's. He asks if the responsible parties were arrested and prosecuted. I assure him that they were. He wants to know what has happened to them. One died in prison, the other is still in prison. Knowing this seems to calm him and bring him peace.

Lately, he's even been able to shed a few tears in association with these painful memories. This is something he didn't necessarily allow himself to do before, when his memories were properly filed in cabinets that worked. His emotions are not as tightly controlled as they once were.

This evening, when I was answering his usual questions, I said, "Wow. What would it be like if I wasn't here to answer these questions for you?"

He replied, "I would be a lot less happy."

So would I.

There's a Guest Room

I've been down for the count with a terrible case of the flu this week, so there's been more opportunity than usual for me to notice my husband's newest idiosyncrasies. I will focus here on one that's kind of cute, if seen in the right light. Right now, it's a "brain hiccup" rather than a permanent fixture; however, the horizon looks an awful lot nearer than it once did.

We were working on a jigsaw puzzle (a 100-piece one) together, and he confused me with one of his sisters. He realized he'd made a mistake, so he called me by the other sister's name. So I looked at him and asked him if he knew who I was. He said he'd been a little confused, but he knew who I was, and he said my name.

Then he said, "There are a couple of guest rooms, if you want to spend the night."

I said, "What?!"

Sometimes, it's hard to think before reacting. I took a breath and said, "Of course I'm going to spend the night. I live here."

On the plus side, he seemed delighted that I was staying. And then he seemed relieved to know that, in fact, we are married (to each other). I was happy to know that, should I have been a stranger, he would not have slept with me. Necessarily.

He then started his usual evening questioning. When did we meet? How old am I? How old are you? How long have we been married? Were you with me when I lived in [insert name of place]? What do you think of me? And so on. He is trying to fit the puzzle pieces of his memory together, and I find it interesting that his memory is stuck in the places where it is stuck.

I've noticed lately that he is beginning to have trouble expressing himself and relies on me to know and understand what he's trying to say, because he's lost the rest of the thought before having a chance to say it. It's a sad thing.

Sometimes, It's Just Hard

Hello, my friends. I know it's been a while since I've posted anything. Thank you to those of you who are curious as to why, because it encourages me to know there are people out there who are following our journey with care and prayers.

Sometimes, it's just hard. There will be a couple of months of "plateau," followed by several weeks when every positive moment is chased away by drama and trauma. I prefer not to post during the frustrating times, because nothing good can possibly come from negativity. And talking about it only makes it harder.

So, if you haven't heard from me in a while, I hope you are praying for us. Because we need those prayers. Sometimes, we need them badly.

A Visit with the Neurologist

At the end of July, we had our regular visit with our neurologist. She is fabulous, very interested in my husband's case, and is on staff at UC Davis Medical School. Her specialty is Alzheimer's, I may have mentioned already. I appreciate her and trust her.

This appointment was weird, though. The questions she was asking me are, I'm sure, routine, but I wasn't comfortable answering them right in front of my husband. I did the best I could, but it just wasn't possible to be really direct or entirely honest or even to think of specific examples of incidents or behavior with him sitting right there!

He was his usual joking and funny self and seemed to be trying to make the best of the situation, but he was visibly upset and defensive about the line of questioning. Who could blame him? What must it be like to be confused, to know you don't remember things, to be asked questions about things other people think you should remember, but you don't? It must be so frustrating. It must feel as though a trap is being set for you, and you must be careful to step around it.

Doctor:  "Have you done anything out of the ordinary lately?"
Me:  "We went to a couple of concerts. Do you remember those?"
Him:  "What concerts?"
Me:  "There were two. One was on your birthday, and one was with your brother. The James Taylor one and the Led Zeppelin one?"

Oh, yes! And his face lit up as he talked about how good the concerts were and how much fun we had. Either he was remembering them very well, or else he was pulling in other memories, or else he was doing a very good job of covering up. And you know what? It's hard to tell.

Doctor:  "I haven't seen you for a while. Didn't you take a cruise last year?"
Him:  "A cruise?"
Me:  "Remember our cruise last year to the Caribbean?"
Him:  "Who did we go with?"
Me:  "It was my class reunion."
Him:  "Oh, ya. I was stationed in Puerto Rico when I was in the Navy, you know."

And, he had fallen through the cracks. An appointment should have been scheduled several months before, but the information had apparently not been entered into the computer properly. The reminder postcard was not sent out; the appointment was not made. It's the first time that's happened, so I plan to start a spreadsheet for appointments. While I'm at it, I'll start a spreadsheet for medications. Might as well, right?

I Miss You

We sit on the couch together, watching a movie we've seen many times. He is holding me close, and I can hear his heartbeat. I tell him I love him. He kisses my forehead gently and gives me a little squeeze. It is a tender moment that pulls at my heartstrings. A wave of nostalgia passes over me, and tears fill my eyes. I sigh deeply to regain control of my emotions. I hope he will interpret this as a sigh of contentment, and, in a weird way, it is. I miss him so much. But he hasn't gone anywhere.

Have I Eaten Yet?

I think I have figured out why my husband is gaining weight, seemingly for no apparent reason.

Thursday morning:

This morning, he had a large helping of cold cereal and a small bowl of strawberries for breakfast. That was about two hours ago, at the usual time. Since then, because I have been in the kitchen on my computer, I have spotted him going to the cupboard to get a bowl with cereal box in hand. Twice so far.

"Honey, why are you getting a bowl?"
"I want some breakfast."
"You already had breakfast."
"Oh."

And the bowl goes back into the cupboard. Until the next time.

Is it that he's actually hungry? Is it that he doesn't remember having eaten already?

Thursday evening:

It was a friend's birthday, so we all met up at a sidewalk restaurant to enjoy the beautiful summer evening and grab some eats. It was a very informal affair, and people were joining the group intermittently, causing the food orders to arrive helter skelter. Some before ours, some with ours, some after ours.

We'd already eaten a light meal, so I ordered a carne asada quesadilla to share. It was smothered in sour cream and delicious guacamole. It was fabulous. There were chips and salsa on the table, too. Anyway, we emptied our plate, and rightly so!

More food arrived at the table for those who had ordered after us. My husband seemed distressed, so I asked him what was the matter. He was upset because he'd been patiently waiting for his food, and when was it going to arrive? I reminded him that he'd already eaten, pointing out the empty plate. But he wasn't having it. Thankfully, someone else had an extra burrito. That seemed to make everything okay.

Sunday noon:

A group of us went out for Chinese food. Unfortunately, most of the orders looked pretty much alike, which was kind of confusing for all of us, but especially my husband. How are you supposed to know whether or not you've already tried a dish? So, that part was understandable. But making sarcastic remarks because no one told you there was rice available when you, in fact, have already just eaten a large helping of rice? That's somewhat less understandable.

So, I think I've answered my own question. When he fills up his plate again at a potluck, it just might be because he doesn't remember having eaten the first plateful rather than because he's still hungry.

What am I supposed to do? He's a grown man. If he wants something to eat, he should be able to have something to eat. Sometimes, I feel like the food police, and I don't like that. I don't like it at all.

Time Warp

All of us have experienced the sensation that hours have gone by, only to check our watches to see that we've only been waiting impatiently for that friend or phone call or event for half an hour. We quickly realize our mistake, perhaps chuckle at ourselves and our impatience, and move on to more productive thoughts. For instance, forgiving that friend for making us wait so long.

At first, I thought my husband was just being impatient like that. He would say something like, "Where have you been? I've been sitting here waiting for you for an hour and a half!" In actuality, it had been more like fifteen minutes. I've been realizing lately that he isn't simply exaggerating. He really does think it's been that long.

His concept of time is becoming warped. How frustrating is this? Very. When I tell him ahead of time that we have an event coming up later in the day (in response to his query, "So, what's happening today?"), he really does think I've asked him to hurry up and get ready for that event, even though it doesn't start until 5 o'clock, it will take ten minutes to get there, and it's currently 11 a.m. Then he's upset and irritated because I'm not ready to go. And then he's frustrated and irritated because he thought it was time to go, and it isn't, and now he's going to have to wait.

And you're thinking to yourself, "Well, so, big deal. He's going to have to wait." For most of us, it wouldn't be important at all. We would find something else to occupy our time for a couple of hours. But for him, in this case, ten minutes elapsed equals an hour imagined. He'll be frustrated and irritated again as the conversation happens again. And again. And again. And, naturally, this is frustrating and irritating for me, too.

"Okay," you say to yourself, "Just don't tell him what's coming up." I know this because I've thought of employing the method myself. In fact, I remember saying that very thing to my Mom in reference to my Dad.

But here's what I'm wondering:  How would you answer his question, then, when he asks you what's going to be happening, and you answer him with enthusiasm because you think it'll be an exciting change of pace, something to look forward to (which it is)? I'm all ears.

Executive Function

In some Alzheimer's patients, so the neurologist tells me, language skills are the first out the door. In my husband's case, the language skills remained stable long after the executive function started to go.

That means he might at one time have known how to accomplish a task, and he probably can still accomplish that task with help, but he can't remember the task, plan the task, get the supplies for the task, organize the task, and complete the task. In other words, he can paint the room for you, but you need to pick the colors, pick up the supplies, make sure all the necessary tools are there, and give exact instructions (to be repeated) as to what it is you want done. And you must be patient when he gets sidetracked.

For instance, today, we went to gas up the truck. As I exited the vehicle, I asked if he had checked the oil lately. He didn't remember, so up went the hood. He found the oil stick, he pulled it out, wiped it off, and...well, golly...it was down two quarts. He didn't remember what grade to get, so I suggested he check the oil sticker on the windshield from the last time the oil was changed. He got sidetracked in the small print, so I looked over his shoulder and saw that it was the second thing listed, right between the date and the mileage.

I said I would go into the station to get the oil while he filled up the tank with gas. When I came out, I saw that he was standing next to the vehicle, but he hadn't filled it up. Upset with himself, he found the appropriate key for the gas tank after a few tries, opened up the little door, took off the gas cap, placed it on the dash, and came to where I was standing in front of the vehicle. But he didn't actually put the nozzle in and started the pump.

I handed him the two quarts of oil, which he placed inside the cab of the truck. I suggested that it might be a good idea for him to go ahead and put the oil in, reminding him that he had checked the oil level and that it was very low. "Oh, yes. That's right." I helped him find the right place to put in the oil. He took the cap off, poured in the oil, checked the level again, and it was all good.

That's when I noticed that he hadn't filled up the tank. You know, it had slipped his mind because he was distracted. He said he didn't know what was wrong with him these days, a comment which, happily, he will soon forget. However, I will not. It is another reminder, another punch in my heart. It makes me weep inside.

He filled up the tank, locked the little door, put the hood down, and started to get into the truck. I mentioned that the gas cap was still on the dash, and he unlocked the gas door again, allowing me to put the gas cap back on while he shook his head at himself.

Now, you might think to yourself, "So, what's the big deal? The truck got filled up, and the oil got put it. It's all good." Yes, that's true.

But this is our new normal:  Every task requires reminding. Every procedure requires gentle prodding. Every chore requires instructions. Repeat step one. And, at the end of a long day, that's wearing. And you know what else is hard? Nobody understands how frustrating it is, for both of us. I mean, how hard can it be, right?

I know you don't understand, though you think you do. You can't understand unless it's happening to you, and it's happening every day, and it's happening every time anything needs to get done. It's emotionally devastating, and not everyone has a support system, and not everyone has hope or faith.

You might be wondering how you can be helpful. Just be there. This time, your kindness and the offer of a shoulder to cry on might be needed. But next time, it could be you who needs the shoulder and the kindness. Especially the kindness.

A Normal Life

Originally published in Chrissie's Confessional on Tuesday, May 20, 2014

My Life Was Normal Once

So, I was cleaning up some files at work today. At the back of a drawer, I found a folder that contained some personal stuff, some business stuff, and some combination stuff. Including an appointment calendar from 2005. I know, right? Throw that thing out, for crying out loud!

But, wait:  2005. That was the year we went to New Orleans at Mardi Gras, and then we went to Aruba for the first time, and then we went to Houston and embarked on our first Caribbean cruise. There were also personal milestones of others which are their stories to share but helped make up the rich tapestry of that year. So, why did I hang onto this relic of memories past? I think it must have been so I wouldn't forget how tenuous "normal" can be.

You see, in 2005, my life was just about perfect. In fact, I remember thinking to myself that life was beautiful, and I couldn't imagine it getting better. You know that advice older people give you about doing things while you can and not putting everything off until retirement? Well, that's what we were starting to do.

And then, maybe a year later, things just didn't seem right with my husband. We attributed it to exhaustion, overwork, and so on. I'm sure most people do that. It was hard for his work to get done on time and with excellence. He was working ridiculous hours, leaving home at 6 a.m. and sometimes not returning until after midnight. I started helping him with his spreadsheets and reports, because he was so busy and working such long hours. In retrospect, I was helping to cover for him, to help him get by. He only had a few years to go before retirement.

And then he lost his job. It became obvious to others that his memory wasn't what it used to be. That he was having trouble picking up conversations where they'd left off. That he was repeating himself and asking questions over and over. And we began the testing process. The rest, as they say, is history.

All of that to say, your life as you know it could go on and on swimmingly until you someday ride off into the sunset with your love by your side, having lived, shall we call it, a "charmed" existence. Or, the fairy tale could be over tomorrow. Pack as much gusto as you can into today. You know that advice I was talking about a couple of paragraphs ago? Just do it.

You're Beautiful!

Overnight travel and a strange bed can make sleep come at a premium, especially if confusion sets in before drowziness happens. Wakefulness means conversation:

He asks, "Where are we?"
I answer, "My mom's bed. We're at her place for a few days."
"Oh," he says, touching my arm. "Your skin is so soft."
"Thank you."
"No, really. It's really, really soft."
"Thank you. I use a lot of lotion to keep it that way."
He chuckles.
I say, "What's funny?"
"I can't believe I'm here with you."
"Why?"
"You're so beautiful!"
"Thank you," I say, with tears in my eyes. This has never happened before in all our years of marriage.
"No, really, you're the most beautiful girl I ever dated."
This has never happened, either.
"Thank you," I whisper, "You're kinda cute, yourself."
Now it's his turn to say, "Thank you. I love you." And he chuckles again.
"I love you, too. What's funny?"
"Nothing's funny. I'm just so happy. You're so beautiful! I can't believe I'm with you. I love you. I really do!"
Wow.
"Are we married?"
"Yes, we've been married 44 years."
"44 YEARS? Wow. You're so beautiful. Really. You look great. Your body looks great, so curvy and soft. I'm so happy!"

This more or less exact conversation was repeated over and over all night long, until he finally fell asleep just before dawn. And so did I, curled up in his arms, amazed at this wonderful discovery of deep love and continued attraction. Why didn't he romance me like this from the very beginning? I don't know. But he's doing so now, and that's what matters.

One of my friends told me years ago, upon learning of the diagnosis, that she felt sorry because the relationship I'd always dreamed of having with my husband would now never happen. I was taken aback at the time and tried to dismiss her comment, discounting it as baseless words that should not have been spoken. Because you know what? She was wrong.

UC Davis Study Update

Yesterday afternoon, we went to Sacramento for the second PET scan at UC Davis Medical Center. Why UC Davis Medical Center is in Sacramento instead of Davis is anybody's guess, and it's confusing for my husband. As we drive past Davis on the way to Sacramento, he always wonders why we aren't taking the freeway exit to the university.

I'm pleased to report that it all went very well. We've completed both PET scans and an MRI, and now we get to take a breather until next month. We are hoping that somewhere down the road, someone will benefit from all of this. Researchers are working so very diligently to identify markers, a gene, something on which they can concentrate preventive care. And, who knows? A cure later could be the result of a breakthrough today.

As stressed as I felt in my last post, it's truly amazing what a good week we've had. I am so thankful for rest, for encouragement, and for the prayers that I know are holding us both up. I am believing that this evil report regarding my husband's health will be completely overridden and invalidated by a miracle. That is my hope.