Wednesday, August 8, 2018

Straws on the Water

En route to our nation’s capital to join my sister and (finally) bring our book club to a prison there, I watched the sun rise this morning from the Logan Express. Today, six years to the day I was first diagnosed, I was thinking a lot about paradoxes. It wasn't just nerdy English teacher thinking, but rather, an internal conversation spurred by one word that a kind person presented me with yesterday. Bittersweet.

A thoughtful man from the communications department at Dana-Farber wanted my patient perspective for a short publication, and we spoke over the phone for almost an hour. We covered the necessary details of my own treatment but more so, I told him about Kristin and Steve and Dr. Ng. I told him about our Jimmy Fund Walk team, my students, and my family.

Towards the end of our conversation, he asked me if my six-year mark was bittersweet. I have been thinking about that word ever since. Or maybe, about the two words, and the space, or no space, in between. Bitter. And sweet. I thought about that space this morning when I woke Annabel up to put her hair in a ponytail (despite a serious lesson yesterday, she insists Brian won't be able to do it in my absence today). I thought about that word and that space as the dog skipped back to our bed once she realized I was leaving. I thought about it as I drove by the restaurant in Braintree where I first met Marisa.

Now, waiting for my flight to board, I wonder, am I bitter? Actually, yes, I am. Not for myself, of course, but for others. I’m so deeply bitter that cancer is the relentless murderer and thief that it is. I’m bitter that Kristin is not in the passenger seat while her husband and kids travel north for a week of summer vacation. I’m bitter that this winter, Steve will not see his son play hockey nor his daughter play basketball. I’m bitter that the day after tomorrow a surgeon will remove a large tumor from my neighbor’s innocent body. I’m bitter for mothers and fathers who buried their children, for siblings aching for their brothers and sisters, for sons and daughters who no longer can call mom or dad, and for grandbabies who never got to be spoiled by their grandparents. I’m bitter because of the permanence and depth of a loss that I can only barely comprehend. I’m bitter, with deep fibers of my soul, at the enemy that is cancer.

Meanwhile, I don’t identify with the word “survivor” and I don’t feel a sense of victory today or any day. I hate my blog URL because really, I didn’t beat anything. I just got lucky. That’s it. In the words of the poet Wislawa Szymborska, I was closer or farther away (see poem here). Or maybe I survived because I was first or last, maybe because a shadow fell. Really, I have no idea why I’m here six years later and so many others are not. Maybe it was because somewhere a straw was floating on the water.

When I think of today, of six years, one word comes to mind. Humbled. I am humbled today and every day by life and by death. Maybe because of cancer or maybe just because it’s in my blood, I notice with sweet and with bitter detail the love and the loss that surrounds me. This week I am especially aware of those senses because right now, in my town, there is palpable pain.

Like countless others in my hometown and beyond, I remain shocked by the week-old news that a young man – a human being as good as they come – died by accident in a reservoir a mile from my childhood home. Cancer didn’t take Jimmy but water did. Why? No mortal could ever begin to explain it. A frame, a turn, an inch, a second. They are gone and we are here. Straws floating on the water. Full and broken hearts. Contradictions never to be sorted out.

I saw a billboard on the expressway this morning that read, “Real Christians love their enemies.” I can think of no better example of a paradox. But can someone ever love an enemy? If I love my enemy then that enemy is no longer my enemy, so doesn’t the statement swallow itself? Similarly, in this life, does the sweet swallow the bitter or the bitter swallow the sweet? Are we to expect Kristin’s family to cultivate a love for cancer or for Jimmy’s family to ever feel anything but anger and regret when they look out at the rez? That seems offensively absurd.

Rather, it seems to me that as humans, we are forced into a life of incomprehensible contradiction. Of fear that makes the night a ghastly monster, and of hope that somehow clears a passage to breathe when the air seems to have turned solid. Of love that, under the hot summer sun, forms a long orderly line down a small town’s main road, a line leading into a funeral home where a strong and kind 26-year-old rests.

Today feels especially bitter because I can’t shake the injustice of lives lost too soon. I am also especially grateful because soon (God willing) my plane will land, I will see my sister, and we will spend the evening talking about books with a group of men who may enjoy the pages we hand to them. But really, I am once again humbled. I’m humbled by the worry that still haunts me – that I could eat something (a strawberry?), breathe something (air near a turf field?), or do something (use deodorant?) that could cause another tumor to grow. Every day I know that death’s net could catch me or someone I love and, despite my daily anxiety medication, the realization of that vulnerability makes some moments feel unbearable. Indeed, the mesh of death’s net seems ever so arbitrary and suffocatingly cruel. For some reason, I squeaked through the mesh to be blessed with this day. But I will be forever humbled knowing that really, it may just be because somewhere a straw was floating on the water.

Wednesday, April 25, 2018

Book by Book

Just before my double mastectomy in 2012, I introduced the blogosphere to my sister, Rachel, in a post entitled, Page by Page.

My sister shares my love of books and, if I'm being honest, reads much more than I do. In the last year, our passion for books met in the most unlikely of places, and we set off on a mission together.

Rachel began working in prisons when she helped two inmates at different facilities (both convicted of nonviolent federal drug distribution crimes) apply for clemency under the Obama Administration. This program was designed to rectify the inconsistency between past and current sentencing guidelines. One of Rachel's two clients, a young father of three, had his sentence reduced by 10 years and was released earlier this month. Her other client, who we will call Joe, was denied clemency and will remain in prison until 2025.

I got to know Joe through Rachel. Rachel would tell me about her client and how much he loved to read, so I sent him some books. He read the books and we would discuss them over the prison email system. I immediately saw that Joe's intellect and passion for reading was something special.

Since Joe loved reading, I assumed he may like writing, too. Turns out he did, and he is great at it. In the last few years, Joe has sent me stacks of lined paper with perfectly printed stories about his life. I've been compiling and editing them, not knowing exactly what will come of the effort. One such excerpt is here:

My infatuation with money began at a very young age. As I reflect back this strong interest was more about the things that money could buy and not the currency itself. Growing up poor and not having things that other kids have and being told by my mother, “I can’t afford to get you certain things,” or, “I don’t have the money right now,” intensified my desire to have money.

I always saw other kids with cool toys, bikes, clothes, and shoes that I knew my mom didn’t have the money to buy me things. The thing I wanted most back then was a new bike. I never had a new bike. All the bikes I ever had were put together from the parts of other stolen bikes. We would use an old frame and take the parts from stolen bike tires, handlebars, seats, pedals, and even the chain. The chain was probably the hardest because you had to find the special link in the chain. Sometimes we would spray paint the frame. We could fix anything on a bike at a very young age. ...

My desire for money started when I was young but grew stronger as I became older. My older cousins and their friends who were teenagers at the time were selling drugs and they would give us a few dollars. I was always fascinated by the large wads of money that they often carried in their pockets. Any time I had a few dollars I would go to the convenience store and get a Thrifty Nickel newspaper. This was a free newspaper with local ads. I would cut the paper in the exact size of a dollar bill and place the real bills on the top of the cut up newspaper to make it look like I had a wad of money like the dope boys had. ...

The dope boys in the neighborhood I grew up in were good people. I know some might find this hard to believe based on how TV and movies portray things in the ghetto. But these were not guys that used kids to do their dirty work. They encouraged us to go to school. They brought all the kids ice cream when the ice cream truck came around. They gave us money for getting good grades on our report cards. I remember our schools would give kids boxes of chocolate candy bars to sell for a dollar each. And at the end of a certain period the people who sold the most candy would win prizes. I remember a brand new bike being one of the prizes. You had to sell a ridiculous amount of candy to win the bike and I never came close. But a few times the dope boys in the neighborhood would buy the entire box of chocolate candy bars and let us have them for ourselves.

My infatuation with money and the things it could buy eventually became an infatuation with the only people I saw with money – drug dealers. My dreams of becoming a lawyer as a young boy was just that to me by the age of 11 or 12. I didn’t know any lawyers or even believe it to be possible by that age.  



* * *

Less than a year ago, Joe had an idea: a book club for inmates at his prison. He found that he was lending his books to other inmates and they were all talking about what they were reading. He brought the idea to Rachel and they brainstormed. Then they set out to put their ideas into action. They decided they’d need to form a non-profit organization. They wanted to call it “Books Beyond Boundaries.” Joe thought of the name.

When Rachel shared their plans, we quickly realized that their mission aligned perfectly with that of Writing Saves Lives, a non-profit organization that I had created back in 2013 to promote literacy and encourage writing as a form of coping and discovery. And so Rachel, Joe, and I continued to plan.

From prison in the South, Joe arranged for a graphic designer to create a logo for BBB (see below) and brainstormed ideas for book discussions. From Virginia, Rachel arranged for a prison in Joe's area to host BBB for a book club and drafted lesson plans for the two days we would spend there. And from Boston, I did my little part: I used my English-teacher skills to tweak the lessons.

Rachel and I coordinated our trip south. We raised money and were excited to bring something new to the 40 men who had signed up and had the grit to read all 1200 pages of our chosen book: The Way of Kings. 

Two days before we were set to fly out, our plan fell apart. The warden cancelled our workshop because he learned that Books Beyond Boundaries was largely Joe's idea and that we had named him a co-founder of the program. The prison explained that it could not "promote any one prisoner's agenda" and starting a book club was seen as Joe's agenda. 

Obviously Rachel and I were heartbroken. Rachel did everything to try to get the warden to change his mind but he wouldn't budge. The workshop never happened. 

Clearly, it was time for Plan B. When we learned that the men had gotten together on their own to prepare for the workshop (one inmate had even drafted a pre-test for workshop participants), we realized that our physical presence was not totally necessary; the men had already taught each other without us.

To acknowledge the inmates' disappointment (and ours), Rachel then sent individual letters to our readers. She apologized for the cancellation and gave them her email address if they had any questions. 

Last week, Rachel received email after email from these men, including this one:

Good morning and God bless you and your family. My name is --- and I was so happy to hear from you. Thank you for your time and also for believing in me. I also want to thank you because I have never been a reader and you have inspired me and encouraged me to read more and further my education. I really loved the book and I'm not going to lie at first I wanted to give up, but just looking forward to being a part of your book club and simply a part of something positive is what got me through. I was really looking forward to our meeting but it's ok .... Thank you for everything ...

And this one:

Hi, I just got your letter yesterday and I really appreciate you taking your time and resources to do a program for prisoners. For some of us, we have little to no outside support so anything that people do that can help us very far and is very much appreciated. I signed up for the book club because I am an avid reader but I was kind of shocked when The Way of Kings showed up. I'm really not into fantasy books and stuff like that so initially was kind of skeptical. However once I forced myself to read it, I found it to be a very good book. I like the leadership lessons and the lessons about thinking, strategy and self control. Especially in the face of conflict. These things can be applied to so many different things but to me as a person thats going back to the free world soon, these things are paramount and thats why these things resonated in me so much.

On the one hand, the emails broke our hearts, but on the other hand, they are one of the most hopeful things we have ever seen.

*   *   *

Rachel and I grew up surrounded by books. We read them, talked about them, and even as kids, wrote our own. As we grew up, Rachel and I did what we saw people around us do: we went to college and then to graduate school. As Joe grew up, he did what he saw people around him do: he skipped school and started to deal drugs. There but for the grace of God go I. And so we went. 

Joe is now working on earning his college degree through a mail program. He loves his classes and meanwhile, he keeps reading. He has creative ideas and inspiring ambitions, and he writes poetry that is so good neither Rachel nor I feel we can adequately provide feedback. He has been in prison for 13 years and will remain there for seven more. Twenty years for non-violent crimes committed when he was in his early 20s. There but for the grace of God go I. And so he went. 

Joe won't give up on the book club idea and we won't either. We all still believe that reading and writing save lives. We believe that books can break down boundaries and that conversations about books can change a person. 

And so Writing Saves Lives will support the Books Beyond Boundaries program not only by leading in-person workshops in prisons, but also by helping to connect volunteers outside of prison with inmates so that the pairs can discuss books over email. If you would like to be matched to an inmate to read and discuss a book, please visit our website. Because sometimes healing happens page by page and sometimes it happens book by book. There but for the grace of God go I. And so we go.

CLICK HERE to learn more about Books Beyond Boundaries

Sunday, January 14, 2018

My Person

From what I've seen in the last five years, when suddenly faced with a cancer diagnosis or another serious health issue, many patients end up finding their "person." Their person is someone who recently faced the same (or similar) thing and is somehow generous enough to guide another through it. Their person provides advice and comfort like only someone with similar firsthand experience could do. Their person provides hope -- hope that since their person survived it, they will, too. I was so very blessed to have my person. Her name was Kristin. 

I know that Kristin was so many things to so many people. She was the loving wife to one of Brian and my dear friends, Corey. She was a mother to two beautiful young children. She was a sister to four siblings, a teacher to countless students, and a friend to so many others who were blessed to know her. She was Peach, Kiki, Hen, Mommy, Kris, and I'm sure many more nicknames I don't even know. I would never attempt to try to sum up the life of this most incredible woman here, and indeed I don't know enough about her to do so. I can only do the smallest thing and tell you about who Kristin was as my person. I realize that it may sound terribly selfish -- to look at her through only my eyes. But these are the only eyes I have. And they are full of tears. So please forgive me if, for now, I attempt nothing more than to see through those tears. 

Think about it for just a second ... How many people can you name who have saved your life? I don't mean metaphorically; I mean literally. Well, Kristin is at the top of my list. It is because of my visit with Kristin in August 2012 that I found my tumor. She was going through cancer (for the second time) and when I got home from seeing her, I did my first self-exam and found my tumor. Five days later I was diagnosed with the same type of breast cancer that she had -- triple positive invasive ductal carcinoma. Same stage. Same hospital. Same medicine. Both with husbands who taught social studies in the same department and coached hockey at the same high school. Both with an older little boy and a beautiful baby girl. Both full of hope that if we had our breasts removed and sat through the infusions they told us we needed, we would survive. 

Kristin was a teacher -- beginning in Brooklyn, New York and landing in Westwood, Massachusetts. She taught kindergartners and whenever I asked her how she did it, she just laughed and told me she loved those kids. I say the same thing when people ask me how I teach juniors and seniors in high school. It's the best. I love those kids.

Since Kristin was several months ahead of me in her surgeries and treatment, she was also my teacher. She told me what to expect before my bilateral mastectomy. My doctors had warned me that after surgery I wouldn't be able to lift anything, including my arms, and I remember asking Kristin what to do given that Annabel was still in a crib and needed to be lifted out every morning. I don't remember exactly what Kristin said, but I know how she made me feel -- like somehow it would all be okay. And it was. 

When it came to chemo, Kristin was also my teacher. Unfortunately, in some ways, she taught me by telling me what she wished she had done differently. When it came to shaving my head before my hair fell out, she recounted how traumatic it was to have Corey shave her head in their kitchen, so thanks to her, I went a different route. A kind and gentle woman from a salon in my town shaved my head on an afternoon I don't remember as traumatic. (I took Kristin to Monique last year when she had to shave her head again.)

When it came to biotherapy -- the Herceptin to be precise -- Kristin kept on teaching me, mostly about resilience. She was dealt blow after blow with that drug -- haunted by heart failure despite that only a small fraction of patients ever experience that side effect. When I was hospitalized during treatment Kristin gave me faith that I would get out and get better. She was right. 

On February 13, 2014, Kristin got the devastating news that her breast cancer had returned in her liver. From that day forward, Kristin lived with metastatic disease. I have not experienced that crushing reality and am not qualified to speak about how hard it must be to do so. All I know is that Kristin lived with that cancer in her body for just about four more years despite that her doctors anticipated it would be half that. She didn't start dying that February day, as I had so feared that she would. Instead, Kristin kept hoping. She traveled with friends and family. She raised her family, moved into a new house, celebrated holidays. She was forced to stop teaching but she never lost touch with her students. In the face of the scariest reality, Kristin lived. 

All the while, cancer ravaged Kristin's brain and her body, causing her to have seizures and multiple brain surgeries, among many other challenges. Without complaining, she endured. With grace, selflessness, and faith, she endured. With hope, she endured. 

On Wednesday January 3, 2018, around 5:20PM, my dear friend Kristin passed away at home in Corey's loving arms. I have written a lot since then, but nothing that I will share in this space. What I've written is raw. It's dripping with anger and tears. It recounts the experience of watching Kristin slowly and ever so peacefully stop breathing. Of listening to the man from the funeral home carry her down the stairs. Of seeing her body for the very last time.

I always asked Kristin before I published anything about her and since I can't do that, I don't feel comfortable sharing such intimate details. But I do wholeheartedly believe that she would be okay with me sharing what she meant to me as my person.

As my person, Kristin taught me how to fight, how to adapt, how to surrender, and how to fight some more. She showed me that despite tremendous personal pain, a person can still be compassionate to others. She taught me that real teachers never stop teaching and that the most important teaching happens through a person's actions. Kristin, my dear sweet person, showed me how a mother can live even when she knows that death is fast-approaching. She showed me that death, while horrifically tragic beyond all measure, also -- for the luckiest -- reveals the purest and deepest forms of love.

I am so angry at cancer for what it did to Kristin and her family. I am so angry at how it stole her soul from her body and left only a skeleton in her bed. I am so angry that it hurts. So sad that my heart feels a heavy physical ache.

There are no words, no last paragraph, to make any of it better. So I'll just end it simply -- with a thank you and with an apology.

First: Kristin, thank you. Thank you for being my person, my friend, and my teacher. Thank you for making me less afraid to live and less afraid to die. Thank you for saving my life.

Finally: Kristin, please know that I'm sorry. So so so deeply sorry that the medicine didn't work for you. That the dozens upon dozens of pill bottles that we emptied into the trash with the hospice nurse didn't help. That your hope for a cure never came to be. That you saved me, but no one could find a way to save you. 

Saturday, October 21, 2017

#metoo

I wrote this last night in a separate document and never intended to share it in this blog. But tonight, I want to. Not sure why. And not sure I won't regret it. 


*   *   *  

With very few exceptions, I don’t jump on social media bandwagons. Granted, I am a white suburban mom (with a blog) who lives in the town she grew up in, so trust me, I don’t claim to be a rebel. But I’m not a follower, either. I tend to think pretty independently in most parts of my life and when it comes to social media, I don’t post because others are posting. But #metoo was different.

Let me admit, I have a few significant concerns with #metoo, the first one being that the hashtag seems to put sexual assault and sexual harassment in the same category. I have never been the victim of sexual assault and I would never suggest that the two are equivalent experiences. Even within those two categories, the degrees of harm vary greatly. A hashtag seems like a gross oversimplification of so much pain but still, earlier this week I did a quick cost-benefit analysis and made it my Facebook status.

This morning on my way to work, I got to thinking more about that hashtag. About the stories that led me to join the millions of other people who posted it. All of the sudden, I wanted to write. That’s what I want to do when pain enters my heart.

I thought about what I would say. But quickly, I was flooded by all the reasons I could never write about the most painful parts of the sexual harassment I have experienced in my life. I’m not talking about the ridiculousness I saw in the restaurant industry when I worked as a waitress in my twenties. Back then I somehow found the strength to tell most of the men who called me “Hon” or “Babe,” “That’s not my name.” After those brave assertions I am certain I went from “Honey” to “Bitch” but that was (pretty much) fine by me as long as I made the money I needed on my shift.

I’m also not talking about the time on the crowded Orange Line a few years ago when a random stranger (a professionally dressed middle-aged white guy with dark hair and a briefcase) grabbed my butt as he exited at Back Bay. I was so shocked and felt so dirty and so violated that I didn’t even tell Brian right away. I’m not talking about that, nor am I talking about the time a car full of boys screamed the awful "c" word at me while I was running or the time a colleague called me a "f--cking princess" or the time a boss made a lesbian joke to me referencing my short hair as it grew back after chemo. I'm okay sharing all of that.

But the truth is that I would never share about the most painful parts of the sexual harassment that I have experienced in my life because I still know those people. Because they may read this. Because in many ways, I like some of them and/or members of their families. Because they have struggles, too. Because of shame. Because time has passed. Because I was younger then and they were, too. Because maybe they aren’t like that anymore. Because maybe it was my fault for not stopping it when it first started. Because it’s not as bad as what other women have experienced. Because I don’t remember all of the details. Because my husband and my dad would be mad. Because other men reading this may think it was them, and it wasn’t. Because what’s the point.

In many ways, #metoo was just easier.

And that’s what got me thinking today. Did I take the easy way out? It’s in the past. Don’t bother now. Focus on your job. On your family. On being grateful. On the piles of laundry in the basement.

Most of the above somehow processed through my brain before 5:30AM. Yep, it was still pitch black this morning as I sat in one of two lanes at the main traffic light that leads out of my town. The sun hadn’t risen yet but somehow I had already worked up feelings of guilt, shame, anger, and confusion about #metoo and the experiences that resurfaced with it. I know, it’s ironic. Because I know I’m not alone.

Truthfully, I sat down at my computer after school today to plan lessons for next week. The house was quiet and the weekend is packed so it was the perfect time to get ahead on work. But something led me to a blank document. Something led me to this.

Maybe that force was #metoo and the other women I deeply respect who posted it. Or maybe that force was the Irish girl I met on a ferry from Long Island years ago. I don’t remember her face but I remember that she told me she had just been raped didn’t know what to do. Or maybe that force was a combination of other secrets women have told me about similar experiences. Maybe it was my mom or my sister or my daughter. Granted, all of them are crazy strong and they don’t take shit from anybody. But that doesn’t mean anything; the very strongest women have been victims.

In the end, I think I know what led me here tonight. It was the car stopped next to me this morning at the traffic light. That car was right beside me in a parallel lane so that if I looked over, I could catch the driver's eyes. Only I almost never look at anyone stopped beside me at a traffic light. Of course half the time it’s a woman, but still, I don’t risk it. Because one too many times, a stranger-man-driver-beside-me has made a disgusting gesture or given a flirtatious look or blown a dirty kiss when our eyes met. A perk of getting older is that these looks are very rare. But I don’t think I’ll ever forget how those looks and gestures and kisses made me feel. Too gross to talk about. Which is why I never did.

Until #metoo.

Because this morning, just after I decided to just “let it go,” just after I decided that “it’s in the past,” I realized that I still dread being stopped at a light right next to a stranger-man. And I still would never share about the other harassment I have experienced. Because those dark feelings -- the ones behind my #metoo -- still haven’t gone away. And I’m still yet to decide if #metoo has changed any of that.

Thursday, October 12, 2017

"On Being a Teacher"

I have the best job in the whole world. Okay, maybe that's subjective, but seriously, for me, teaching English at Boston Prep is the absolute b-e-s-t job. I honestly can't begin to explain how much I love it and even if I could, I probably wouldn't because it would just be annoying. It's not normal to love a job as much as I love mine.

This week, the 350th reminder of how lucky I am to teach where I teach came by way of an essay I shared with one of my English classes (juniors and seniors in high school). The essay appeared in The Atlantic in 2008 and is titled, "Is Google Making Us Stupid?" It's linked HERE for those of you who want to know the answer. (If you read it you'll see the awesome irony in the fact that no one else but you did.)

In the essay Nicholas Carr explains that the internet has changed the way that we think and particularly, the way that we read. He explained that he used to be able to read a challenging text for long stretches of pages (and time) but now he finds himself unable to do so. Carr uses this great analogy to explain the change: 

My mind now expects to take in information the way the Net distributes it: in a swiftly moving stream of particles. Once I was a scuba diver in the sea of words. Now I zip along the surface like a guy on a Jet Ski.

I tried to review the concept of irony with my classes by pointing out that I could barely get my students to focus long enough to read the whole piece (okay, a full paragraph would have been nice). But even I didn't do it in one sitting, and it's only about 11 pages long. Either way, this essay really got me thinking. Because with reading, and maybe sometimes with life, I'm afraid I've become a Jet Skier, too. 

*   *   *

The short piece that this English class read before Carr's essay was one by Nancy Mairs called, "On Being a Cripple." A copy of that one is HERE. As part of this unit, my students take short pieces of writing and then imitate those pieces, while substituting their own experiences and ideas in for the original author's ideas. For instance, after we read Mairs's essay about being (as she explains it) "a cripple," they had to write their own piece, "On Being a ____."

In response to this prompt, I read everything from "On Being a Narcoleptic" to "On Being Black" to "On Being a Homosexual." Students wrote about having learning disabilities, physical disabilities, and mental and emotional illnesses. I read about soccer and basketball, of course, but I also read about video-game addiction, about traveling all over the world despite not having much money, and about being "a ghost." I learned more about my students in this one assignment than I ever could have imagined. 

Tomorrow they will write their own version of ("Is ____ Making Us ____?"). And I will likely join them. I was going to do ("Is Facebook Making Us Fake?") but just now I had a better idea. I'm going to do, "Can Writing Make Us Smart Again?" and I wholeheartedly believe the answer is YES. But my 20 minutes of quiet are up (hockey and gymnastics are almost over and my stomach is hollering it's so hungry) so I'm going to have to wait to explain myself. And so I mount the Jet Ski until the next time I can sit down in this space and be a scuba diver again. 

To be continued...