Missions of Mercy (updated to an annoying degree)

Before you read the following, please note that I am not actually complaining about blogging comments, except for the one that I mention in the post. The asshat derived comments I am referring to are NOT from blogland. These are asshats that I talk to every day in my non-virtual life. So, please don't read into this post, I am not at all upset with any of my regular readers (ashmc2, you can go ahead and assume I am not all that impressed with your comment though).

The former version of this post has been removed. For those who did read it and those who commented, please don't be concerned. It will be OK.

The old version was a mistake. I shouldn't post such a thing, and when I went back to read it, it made me sick. I am too vulnerable and unstable to read any comments to such a disgusting post which actually reveals a little too much of how angry and ugly I have become. I apologize. Nothing to see here, please move along and pay no attention to the woman behind the curtain.

update 4/10/07: Now that I have made such an issue of the removed post, I feel like I am hiding from the bloggies, and I never want to hide from you all. Here is the most painful part of the post that I took down so that you can all understand why I find myself so ugly right now. As you can see I am really struggling.

All in all, it went OK. I promised myself not to discuss the miscarriage with the in-laws, mainly because I knew whatever they would say during such a discussion would damn them to hell in my mind. And, well, I was right. I talked about the death of Pooter. It sucked. Husband's sister, a 30-something single woman, couldn't help but throw in the two people she knew who had miscarried. Repeatedly, she told me that they were "very common, you know, like, no big deal." Then she proceeded to tell me how everyone she knows who has miscarried had no problem staying pregnant later. Clearly we are in different social circles. Few things make me angrier than when someone tries to either tell me why a bad thing isn't really that bad or why my grief isn't valid because it's so common.

And at the risk of losing every single reader I have, I will say this one thing to preempt a particular comment. I am perfectly aware of the fact that people are well meaning when they make comments (specifically check out the one from ASHMC2) about the miscarriage. I am well aware of the fact that they were just trying to help. I am completely aware of the fact that they don't know what to say. I know all of this, really I do. And, guess what? That doesn't make me feel any better. One person who does get to "feel better" for having said something is the insensitive asshat who convinced themselves that their words of wisdom would wipe away the pain. Not to ruin SIL's mission of mercy or anything, but I am glad that someone is feeling better, even though it's definitely not me. Looks like she wins either way. Nice.

As an attempt at something positive from this mangled post, I will add the following link. "Helping someone after a miscarriage" It's a lovely compilation of do's, don'ts, and not to say's to a person who has miscarried. Any New Zealander's out there? That's one country that seems to actually get it.

Adventures in Medicine

So yesterday, Husband and I arrived at the hospital for my D&C at around 2:00pm. The very kind nurses got me situated in the same day surgery department and I was lounging on the gurney trying to appreciate the rare moment of watching cable TV. Plus, I was efficiently hydrating with my new IV line. Around 3:00pm, Mr. Doctor came in to brief me, and when he asked if I had any questions, I wondered aloud about the results of the last cervical smear Mrs. Doctor had done when she couldn't find the heartbeat. That day, she remarked that my cervix was looking rather raw. Concerned, she did a quick smear and sent it out. They got the results of that test late Thursday. No one had thought to look at the results before hand, so when I mentioned it to Mr. Doctor he ran out to call the office and find out if the results were indeed back and what they said.

Now before, I reveal what those results were, I need to remind everyone of something. Both Husband and I were married and divorced before this marriage. Both of us left our first spouses upon the discovery that his wife and my husband were in fact cheating on us. As I have previously mentioned, the first husband didn't just cheat once, he had actually been sleeping with other women the entire 10 years we had been together. Once I got a divorce and before I began my relationship with Husband, I went to Planned Parenthood and got a full work up concerning STDs, including HIV. It was scary, but the results all came back negative at that time. Little did I know that a few diseases can lay low and remain undetected for quite awhile.

The lab results came back as equivocal for chlamydia. Basically, the results were neither absolutely positive, nor necessarily negative. Nice, huh? I thought so. When Mr. and Mrs. Doctor consulted with me yesterday, they both agreed, and thus so did I, that they wanted me on 48 hours of the best antibiotic before doing this D&C. Too high of a risk of driving the bacteria further into my reproductive organs than it already might be. And while it doesn't currently appear that the bacteria has done any damage to the tubes, the bacteria may be responsible for the death of my fetus.

This is an incredibly painful time for me as it was. But now to know that my first marriage and all of the awful things that happened as a result of it continue to haunt me in the most important thing in my life right now. I am filled with rage, and anger, and revenge. I am going through life mostly in silence at this time. I just can hardly say anything at all. I fear that if I open my mouth, I won't be able to stop the explosion of hate that would come from within.

The fun never stops around here.

Just a very quick update to keep everyone in the know on the basics. My D&C was scheduled for today at 3pm. Right before they wheeled me in for anesthesia, my doctor cancelled the operation because of a potential medical problem I have. One that I will have more energy tomorrow to go over. It's not pretty. The D&C is now scheduled for 7am on Sunday. Nowhere in my life description does it say "simple". Nowhere! Lots more to say tomorrow, promise.

The Not-Baby Steps

Everyone's comments are proving infinitely helpful to me right now. At this point, I am living off of your support and that of my husband's. Thank you so much for your help. I am clinging to all of you right now to stay afloat in the pending storm.

Yesterday's visit with the doctor went pretty much as I expected. He laid out the risks and benefits of my options-the waiting game of a natural expelling, the chemical and technicolor pill route, and the "how could you do that to your body" method of the D&C. Clearly, he wants me to just go the natural way, and feels that there is too much risk involved in the D&C. He successfully scared the living crap out of Husband so that now he is begging me to reconsider my choice for a D&C. Husband finds the chemical version's risks more palatable. I really do understand his concern and anxiety about an invasive, surgical procedure that in his mind could be avoided by letting my body do what it needs to do on its own time.

But, here's the deal, at this point I don't have a lot of trust in my body. Pooter has left the building and now all I am left with is a fetus my body refused to support. My body had its chance and now it's time to step in and intervene.

So here's what I need some more of from all of you. Support and lots of it. Yes, I am a whore like that. I want to hear more of what you think of a D&C. I want to hear about your D&C's. The doctor filled our heads with all kinds of horror stories about how the procedure could cause future miscarriages. There could be fertility damaging infection. It will cause problems with my body not letting go of the placenta in future pregnancies. And on and on. Don't get me wrong, I love my doctors and appreciate their concern. He didn't fight with me when I made my choice either. Normally, I would be all over Dr. Google looking for information, but I don't know that it will help me right now. I need human perspectives, not just odds and statistics. This is hard and I am so very sad. I just feel so defeated, useless, beaten down.

Scotch or wine? Decisions, decisions.

No heartbeat. Just a 9 week old dead fetus. It is officially over. I will be meeting with Doctor this afternoon to "discuss" my options. I put discuss in quotes, because I have already decided that I want a D&C, and I want it NOW. I know he is going to try and convince me to wait and miscarry naturally or even to go with methotrexate, but for me that isn't even an option. I have had enough of the waiting game, and I just want to give Pooter the heave-hoe, and start over. Plus, I need to know when the enormous hormone drop is going to happen so I can schedule the Klonop1n accordingly. Not only that, but I have no desire to watch or see the products of the miscarriage in color. No thank you. Such a lovely Spring Break I am having. I will likely post again today after the ensuing argument I am about to have with Doctor.

Seeing Red

Around 2pm today I was perusing the baby section of our local K-mart, and I had the distinct feeling that my digestive system was about to kick in. So I ran to the bathroom. For the last day or so, my colon has been on hyperdrive. Reaching the bathroom just in time, I breathed a sigh of relief, and then I saw it. Red. Lots and lots of red. Yup, I was bleeding again, significantly more than before.

Fast forward about a half an hour and I am laying on the table with the dildo cam waiting to see the heartbeat. And, there was no heartbeat to be seen. Doctor didn't feel 100% confident that it wasn't there, but Pooter only measured to 8 weeks and 4 days, about 4 days behind schedule. Not good. No post could possibly describe the way I feel right now. So I will be back tomorrow evening with more info on the follow up ultrasound I have 12 hours from now, with a higher resolution machine and an ultrasound technician. I am convinced that it's over though. Just need to get the go ahead to buy that bottle of scotch.

Top 5 things I will never say to my child

As a kid, I learned to be good under threat of grievous bodily harm. Dad's statements of consequences were more promises than threats, whereas Mom's statements were generally idle threats. But in the brain of a 7 year old, they elicited vivid images of the actions they described. I am deeply terrified that I will become my parents in this sense. I really don't want my child to fear me the way that I feared my parents. So I have compiled a short list of the statements I heard as a kid and promise never, ever, to say to my child.

1. If you don't (fill in blank), I will break every bone in your body.
2. Stop that crying, or I will give you something to cry about.
3. Go get my belt.
4. Just wait until your father gets home, then you will get it again.
5. I beat you because I love you.

Never, ever, ever. This I promise you, Pooter.

Reverse anorexia?

The bleeding appears to have come to a halt for now. Apparently the appearance of the great dildocam put a stop to the flow. And, the doctor never did identify the source of the blood, everything looked healthy to him.

I have to say that having my legs in stirrups with a doctor rootin' around down there was a strange experience to have with my husband in the room. All of you that have experienced IVF and other high tech procedures probably snort at me when you read that. But it was the first time for me, so it was a bit odd.

And now for something completely different...

Do you think reverse anorexia exists? Not overeating or anything like that, but the experience of looking in the mirror at your naked body and thinking that you can't really weigh that much. I frequently wonder where that 179 pounds is exactly. I know men who appear much larger than me and claim to weigh about that much. I think when I look in the mirror, I don't see the body I actually have. I think that I don't look that big, do I? I have done the same thing with my pants. I hold them up and think, holy crap, whose enormous pants are these? Oh, right, they're mine.

I have very broad shoulders and an enormous chest. Plus, I am apple shaped, which means my waist is bigger than my hips. Someone once told me that I have a diabetic body. Thanks. Also, my legs are kind of small and slender compared to my top half, it's a wonder that I don't fall forward from being so top heavy. Any one else out there have reverse body dysmorphia (my term for it only)?

Quick Trips

The plan was to go to Washington D.C. for a disability l@w conference. We were to leave Wednesday, stay overnight at the cheapest hotel I could find, and then I would go to the conference for the day while Husband explored the Smithsonian. We would reconvene around 5pm and have a lovely dinner somewhere nice. Friday, we would go to the Smithsonian together, specifically the museum of natural history, for the day and leave late afternoon to return home. Such a great plan, if only that's what would have happened.

As I mentioned in my last post, the vaginal bleeding had stopped by Wednesday. So we packed up and left for D.C. By the time we got to the hotel, there was a bit of pink going on down there. All went according to plan the next morning. The conference was very interesting. Then, we broke for lunch and I rushed off to the bathroom with a full bladder. It was then that I found out that I was bleeding again. Quite a bit more this time around. I wonder if the other women in the bathroom could hear my stifled sobs. I tried to call Husband and doctor but for some reason the calls wouldn't go through. So, I proceeded to the catered lunch ahead, but I was an absolute wreck to say the least. As I tried to focus on the buffet table through teary eyes, I almost lost myself right there in the buffet line. EVERY single dish on the table had tons of Gorgonzola on it. ALL of them. I was stunned and given my emotional state really felt the world was against me. Yes, you can see the level of sanity one has when Gorgonzola sends one into hysterics.

So I plopped a roll on my plate and sat down to lunch with 8 eager women talking vigorously about disability issues. Actually, I picked an empty corner table and the chair tucked into the deepest darkest corner of the room. But of course, when I don't want to see anyone is exactly when I become a social magnet. After finishing my lunch roll, I excused myself to try my phone calls again. Finally, I got a hold of Husband to tell him that I couldn't bleed and be at this conference. I needed him by my side. Unfortunately, it had taken him about an hour to walk to the museum from our hotel and would take him at least that long for him to walk back and get the car. By the time he picked me up, about 1 1/2 hours later, he was drenched in sweat from running the 2.5 miles back to the hotel, and then navigating the D.C. streets to get to me.

At that point in my life, that was the sweetest sight I have ever seen. My husband. I did finally get a hold of the nurse at my doctor's office and gave her the full run down of the gory symptoms, all while sitting in the hallway of the conference hall and of course within ear reach of at least a dozen horrified looking people. By that point, I did not give a shit who heard what I said. When I got off the phone, I just wanted to scream out, "Yes, I said discharge and blood, what are you all looking at?" But, I didn't.

Husband and I agreed that we would be going back first thing in the morning to make the noon doctor's appointment I now had. From that point on, I kept thinking about which alcohol I would be drinking first upon hearing the doctor give us the bad news. "I nice port perhaps...a good red wine...no, I think I will go with the finest single malt scotch I can find. That should do it. Hmmm, and I wonder if I could find some good her0ine on the streets of D.C. to take home for the party. Surely, I could at least find some crack." Then, I wondered whether I could have had that Gorgonzola after all.

We broke every possible traffic law to get back here for the appointment today. Then, the doctor sat with us and gave us his "this is your first pregnant lady appointment" lecture. And as I sat there, all I could think is, "Don't waste your breath buddy, just stick in the dildo cam so I can see a sonogram of absolutely nothing." And I laid there holding Husband's hand, while the doctor confirmed that my cervix was still closed up tight. Then came my new favorite form of picture making, the dildo cam. And there it was, an apparently healthy, right-sized, peanut of a baby complete with a heartbeat. Unbelievable. So instead of the liquor store, we headed out to pick up our doggies from the kennel. Never a better day was had.

Blood

I saw a bit of red blood in my last trip to the bathroom. And, now I just sit and wait to see if that's it or if that's just the beginning. I am trying to remain calm and remember that there is very little that I can do at this point. But that is soooo difficult. No cramps or unusual symptoms, just the same pregnancy symptoms I have been experiencing for the last 4 weeks or so. Tomorrow I will call the doctor if I see more blood in the morning. For now, we wait...

Is that good news in your pocket, or...

So, after all the whining and complaining that I put you all through in every one of my posts, I thought you could all use some good news for a change. And hey, so could I.

I woke up this morning in a terrible mood. Terrible. Bad dreams really seem to set the tone for the day, even if I can't remember the details of those nightmares. Sometimes later in the day I recall something and am not sure whether it happened in the dream or not. Take yesterday for instance. I approached Husband and asked whether he told me to stop whining about being so tired all the time and to just keep it to myself. No, he did not tell me that in real life, it was indeed part of a dream. But I had so much trouble shaking the thought.

Anyway, I was equipped with horns this morning and not happy about yet another week of classes ahead of me. By the time I got to campus I was consumed by the knowledge that I had not yet heard back from the leg@l clinic I interviewed with last Monday, despite the fact that they said they would contact me by now. Sure that I had not received an offer, I pretty much stomped around all day wondering why the hell I was even continuing to go to class if I was unemployable. Hell, why did I even get out of bed?

And then a miracle occurred. At 4pm today, I got a phone call from the clinic and they offered me the summer position!!!!!!! I cannot quite contain my excitement. While the position is not paid, I will be able to get a public interest grant from my school to allow me to survive the summer, AND I will be doing the work that I really want to do. AWESOME!!!!

And because I cannot help but worry about the next thing, I leave you with my newest anxiety issue of the moment. How in the world am I going to give birth and care for a newborn in the first few months (assuming this pregnancy actually sticks and gives me one of those take home babies) while I am smack dab in the middle of Fall semester of l@w school? I can barely handle this stuff as is. Thoughts anyone?

Operation Freak-Out

I think someone should have committed me immediately upon my announcement that I wanted to try and have a baby. Toss me into a padded cell and throw away the key. If I can't handle the few simple rules of pregnancy, then perhaps I am not really cut out for the more complex task of child rearing. So here's what I am freaking out about now...

Husband left town for today and tomorrow and that is always a recipe for disaster in my insane brain. To console myself, I went to brunch with a dear friend at my favorite brunch place. I successfully avoided the swordfish tacos out of concern for the mercury, but apparently my brain shut off there. I proceeded to consume Eggs Benedict complete with Hollandaise Sauce and creme brulee. Once home, the whole raw egg ban while pregnant came racing into my mind. Holy shit, I am now certain I will be puking my brains out from Salmonella poisoning. Convinced of it. Mind you, I have never gotten sick from this restaurant before, but you know how that goes. For sure I have threatened the life of this embryo with my indulgence. I am such an idiot.

Now I am trying to decide whether to try and go purge it all up. I am not very good at that, but I could give it a try. Or perhaps that damage is already done. I have been frantically searching the internet for what I should do now, but all I can find are the 101 reasons why I shouldn't be eating Hollandaise sauce. I found one comment on the APA site that said that most restaurants use pasteurized eggs for these types of dishes, but who knows if this one did. And, since they are now closed, I can't call and ask.

To the left, are the offending organisms at a magnification of 9020x. Salmonella infantis

I should warn you before you decide to comment, that in my current mental state, I really can't handle any heinous horror stories of salmonella poisoning and dead babies. Without my husband, I cannot take this kind of stuff right now. So if you have something soothing to say, then please comment, but if not, for the first time (and hopefully the last) I am kindly asking you to keep it to yourself. Now, I must excuse myself while I think of purging strategies. I should have been locked away long ago, clearly.

Just call me Chesty LaRue.

Now with more boob.

My deepest apologies to those of you who will find this post annoying. But being annoying has never stopped me before, so why start now?

A few days before the great pee on a stick event, I remarked to Husband that the girls seemed to be outgrowing their luxurious home. He agreed with a big grin. I hate to say that I am well-endowed because that would imply that I like the size of my chest. I do not. All throughout high school, I was lucky if I could fill out an A-cup. In fact, I was smaller chested than my younger sister, Anne. So I would lie in bed praying (this was back when I was a practicing Roman Catholic) and begged God for a bigger chest. Nice that I bothered the supreme being with my pressing needs, right? Well, be careful what you ask for. By the time I was in my second year of college, I was bursting out of my D-cups. After visits back to my high school town, rumors could not be quashed that I had had a boob job. Believe me when I say that I did no such thing. So up until a few weeks ago, I was buying $70 minimizer bras made by W@co@l to accommodate and support my double D girls.

But now, those don't even do the job. Sigh. I am terrified that I am going to have to buy G's. So last week, I ordered 2 new W@co@l bras of the triple D variety. Honestly, it made me so sad. I know, I should be grateful that I am still having all the "right" symptoms, but I really could have done without this particular one. I may be able to buy maternity clothing used, but I draw the line at used bras. Plus, it's a bit hard to find used ones in that size range.

Some say that my size will go lower than what I started with, once the gestating is over, but somehow I am not convinced. You see the skin has already been stretched and we would need new laws of biophysics to get these things to take a pleasing perky stature again. So even if they get smaller, they will be like tube socks with a rock stuffed in them, hanging down to my knees. Doesn't that sound sexy?

Let the games begin...

Awww, you all just warm my heart with your well wishes and happy dances for me. I was very worried about posting about our news because I didn't know how it would affect my readers, especially those who are still fighting the good fight against infertility. I desperately worried that I would alienate some of my readers with my news and you would hate me and be bitter towards me, in the same awful way I am bitter toward my pregnant sister. I eventually decided that everyone is entitled to their bitterness and anger and if it helps to be angry with me then so be it. And so I trust that if I say anything lame or insensitive in the coming months, that you will all call me on it and I will be a slightly better person for having learned a lesson. Just promise me that you will call me on it, OK?

That said, I will give you a few details on how the whole thing is progressing at this point. I am at the 5 week mark. Pooter is the size of a sesame seed and already causing me problems. Apparently I didn't inherit the non-nausea gene from my mother (she claims she never experienced morning sickness with any of her 4 pregnancies). So, if being green is equivalent to glowing, then I glow like a mo-fo. Or if being bright red from a recent trip to the bathroom and an attempt to squeeze out the tiniest poop qualifies as glowing then I am practically nuclear. My dreams seem to illustrate my anxiety through all of this. Last night, I had a dream that I gave birth to a 1 year old boy, and after a good amount of unsuccessful nursing attempts, my left nipple fell off. That's right, it fell right off and didn't even bleed. Nice, huh?

I should also mention that the fabulous doctor that I found a few months ago will no longer be delivering babies as of July because as a small 2 doctor practice they can't afford the insurance any longer. So I am going to stick with them for a little while until I can make an educated decision on who will birth it if I make it that far. I am considering going out of town for two reasons. First, the other single practitioner doctor is addicted to episiotomies and doesn't appreciate input from the mom on how things will be run. Second, the big practice that births almost everyone's babies in this town has been labelled by my G.P., my pdoc, and a number of nurses I have talked to as a "Baby Factory". Now, I have at least a couple of friends here who went through their system and were quite satisfied. I, however, am a self proclaimed difficult patient, and they don't deal well with people like me. I have tried them for routine GYN stuff, and walked out in tears or in a fit of rage. I don't need either while I am pregnant. My friends think i am a bit crazy, I think, because of my view point. So, I am looking into the neighboring areas for good docs and my current doc will have some info for me about what they think of the other doctors.

I have mixed feelings about midwives. Some seem fabulous, while others seem like old battle axes. And I don't really feel like leaving it up to the luck of the draw. Plus, all the local midwives are in cahoots with the baby factory. It's like a monopoly around here.

Then, there is the idea of a doula, added into the mix. Sounds like a particularly attractive option for someone like me who has a very high chance of postpartum psychosis, according to my pdoc. Given those odds, I think Husband and I may need a little help and coddling, especially after the birth. I am a bit concerned that Husband will feel like the doula is usurping his position as my supporter, but perhaps the doula will be a good person for him to talk to if and when he has concerns about me, especially once he becomes comfortable with her. We will be talking to my doula choice next week sometime. I will let you know.

In the meantime, I have an incredible craving for turkey, mashed potatoes, and gravy. Trying to convince my vegetarian husband to incorporate gravy into all of our meals has been a bit of a stretch. Although, he is really trying hard. Mushroom gravy seems to do the trick, but it still doesn't go well with pizza or salad. It's incredible how I can be so nauseous and so ravenously hungry at the same time.

There's a pooter in my cooter. (now with a photo, per your request)

I have been really really struggling for the last week on how to post my news. And since I haven't come up with a good way to say it, I'll just get it out there. There is a pooter in my cooter, and that's a good thing. Let me explain...

Monday, AF still hadn't shown her ugly head, so I thought, "What the hell, might as well waste a stick." And because I have no patience, I interpret the results as soon as I see the urine do the capillary crawl into the test area. I know, I know, this is a big no, no. Of course, there was a brilliant control line, and apparently nothing in the test area. So I sat there contemplating my extended stay in Crazyville and then finished up. Right before I was about to throw it away, I looked at it again, and what do you know? If I squinted, I could see the faintest of lines. "Is THAT a line? Is that really a line? Is that what positive lines look like? Holy crap, I think that's a line." So I ran upstairs and stuck the urine soaked stick in Husband's face, and asked if he saw a line. He saw the line too. Then I ran downstairs and pulled out Friday's BFN stick from the trash, there were two lines on that one too. (Yeah, I know, that's another big no, no. But hey, I am past rational at this point.) Holy cow, I think I am pregnant.

Then I took a picture of it and sent it to 2 women friends for a second and third opinion. They saw the line too. Husband was still skeptical and tried to remain cautiously optimistic. In the meantime, I couldn't stop rolling the word line over and over in my head, all day long. I am sure it's the only day of this pregnancy that someone could say that I glowed. Not from the hormones, but from the shear excitement of it all. By the next day, I was sure I had imagined the whole thing and tried another stick. Another line, a bit darker than before, but not by much. As I repeated the test every 24 hours, the line got increasingly darker. By Thursday, I was convinced that I was pregnant.

By the way, with the first positive test, I started to freak out about the Ser0que1 I am still taking for sleep and sanity maintenance. I had successfully gone down from 300mg to 100mg, but any lower and I couldn't sleep at all. After consulting every possible drug and pregnancy database, I remained concerned about the drug's affect on my blastocyst. So, I made the unwise decision to go down to 25 mg on Wednesday night. I didn't sleep but maybe 2 fitful hours. Plus, the stress of being snowed-in, caused a flare up of my supposed interstitial cystitis, and then the nausea set in. On Thursday, I was a puddle of tears. A bawling, mess, who eventually threw a magazine across the room out of frustration.

Thursday night, I succumbed to exhaustion and insanity, and ramped my Ser0que1 back up to 50mg. That did the trick. I slept soundly and dreamed like crazy. I will skip the details of the main dream to get to the good part. In the dream, I am riding my bicycle while nursing my newborn. Oh, and my nipples were 4 inches long. My mother, on another bike, asks me what we named the baby boy. My response: Pooter. I named our child Pooter. I have no idea where in the world I came up with that name, but there it was. When I woke up, I thought, hey, there's a Pooter in my cooter. Husband does not find this nearly as funny as I do.





Ask and you shall receive...










As a side note, I am going to try to comment on the last post right before I write another post now. This way, I can respond to your comments. So, now you know, in case you feel like checking it out. Otherwise, just ignore me.