A few photos

 I finally got the cable for my camera so I can download a few non-camera-phone photos. I came across a few gems, including this one of me and Bruce...

 ...and this one of me in the final hours of labor. This was the night Oliver was born just after the last IV was placed and before the doctor declared we were heading into the OR. That face says it all.

And this face is much cuter, and makes the past few weeks/months of craziness worth it. Speaking of crazy, remember that nasty rash that magically appeared? It magically disappeared an hour or two after Oliver was born. Ahhhh, relief all around.

Presenting Mr. Oliver Mars Raymond

He is here! He arrived at 2:05 this morning after a combined 90 hours of labor, 4 IVs, almost two dozen blood draws, 22 days of hospital bed rest, 35 pounds gained, 5 moves between labor and postpartum floors, and at exactly 32 weeks gestational age. Oliver Mars Raymond weighed in at 3 lb. 7 oz. and measured 14 inches long. And this tiny guy is worth every bit of the trouble.

Yesterday morning I started bleeding a lot more than usual, which in the past few weeks has usually signaled the start of another bout of crazy - meaning fresh IV, hours of contractions, etc. Most of the day was peaceful: my nurse wheeled me outside for some fresh air, I finally toured the NICU, and I went through my inbox and deleted emails dated back to 2007.

Around 5 p.m., contractions started up again. I figured it was another false alarm, so I didn't bother Scott; he was at work until 10. I'd told him I'd call if and only if I was having a baby. My friend, Mithu, stopped by the hospital around 7 to visit and we chatted through contractions. They continued to get more intense and closer together. The doctor came in and declared that I was dilating and progressing, and was looking like I was going to have a baby. So I texted Scott around 9; I figured I'd call at 10. There's still time, right?

He texted back one word: "coming."

The nurse decided I needed an IV and set about placing it. To her credit, the nurse did about everything she could to find a decent vein: she put warm packs on my arms, looked them over carefully, had me make fists and slapped my arms up and down, called in a second opinion. But it still took three pokes to get it in; Mithu got to see me freak out, sweat with fear, and claw at her arm with my free hand. Scott walked in around then and Mithu left, thoroughly traumatized by childbirth forevermore I'm sure.

Scott and I hunkered down for more contractions. We waited for them to stall out like every other time, but they just kept getting worse and worse. I remembered all those ridiculous childbirth books I'd read and actually employed some relaxation techniques, so I guess they weren't a complete waste?! As much as it all hurt, I was still thankful for the experience of it all; it's what trillions of women have gone through and I wanted to be a part of it. Now I can check it off my bucket list.

Just after midnight, the doctor gave up on labor stalling out and delivery was planned. The doctor on-call wasn't the doctor I'd seen throughout my pregnancy and didn't feel comfortable attempting a VBAC with my two prior C-sections, so preparations were made for another C-section.

I wasn't crying through contractions, but I started at the thought of another C-section. I had figured things would go that way, but I still held onto the dream of having a normal birth and bouncing back to motherhood and running and the fast lane of life. Not to be. I was rolled to the operating room and prepped.

I scraped together any shred of bravery left in me, but I still couldn't stop shaking when the anesthesiologist shoved the needle in my back. The first poke made my left leg flail. A second poke and I started going numb from the chest down. I was rolled onto the operating table and the sterile field set up atop me with the blue curtain in front of my face.

Scott had to sit in the hall while they poked me, but he came in and held my hand once I was flat on my back. The doctors got right to work. I didn't feel the cutting, but just lots of tugging - like a dozen people were putting their hands in my belly and yanking a dozen different directions. Scott supervised while giving me a decent hand massage.

When the doctor pulled Oliver out, I felt it. A few minutes earlier I'd felt his every kick and hiccup, and even though I was numb I felt an instant emptiness that even the anesthetic couldn't cover up. I was sad that the pregnancy was over, but relieved too. Like I said, this was one long marathon. I'm just glad he's here.

He let out a good cry, which made me cry; it's so comforting to hear a good cry because it means good lungs. Oliver was a little blue at first, but pinked up quickly while the doctor worked on him. Oliver got an oxygen mask and worked hard to breathe at first, but made quick progress. He looks absolutely perfect and in his first 24 hours is already weaned off the oxygen mask. He will be in the NICU for at least a few weeks; we will see what develops in the next few days. Thus far though, he is doing very well.

The doctor stitched me back together. She said the placenta looked "small and old," which sounds familiar and makes me think it might be to blame for all this drama. I need something to blame, yes?

Thanks for everyone's prayers. It is a miracle that he survived for so long in the deteriorating environment he was in, and it is a miracle that he is doing as well as he is right now. Thanks for the thoughts, silly emails, packages, and service.

The Never-ending Story

I have heard that childbirth is like running a marathon. It can be long. You work hard enough to sweat. You reach a point where you want to give up. You feel amazing when you're all finished. You forget about the pain and do it all over again (maybe?!).

I never got to experience much of the typical childbirth. I was only in labor with Bruce for a few hours before he became distressed and I developed worrisome symptoms that led to a quick emergency C-section. With Phoebe, I didn't get to labor long at all; once it was determined that her umbilical cord and oxygen supply were cut off, we were whisked off for yet another emergency C-section. So I've always been a little envious of those women who labored long and hard and had a natural childbirth. Those women are tough. I want to be tough too.

Now I'm getting my chance! When I was first admitted a few weeks ago, I had some good solid contractions for about 10 hours. A few days ago, I got another 10 or so hours of labor before it stalled out. As I write, I am now going on my 40th straight hour of contractions. And now that I've experienced labor, I can say with surety that I would much rather run a marathon. Or 2 or 3 or 4. Labor is harder. Period.

In a marathon, you know where the finish line is and you can predict where the pain will come and how much longer you have to endure it. But in labor, there is no solid finish line and certainly in my case I don't know how much longer it is going to be.

Two nights ago, I started having contractions again after a few boring days. They started coming in the middle of the night and it took me two hours to decide they were legit enough to push the nurse call button (I know, I don't make good decisions or move fast between the hours of 10 p.m.-5 a.m.). I was monitored for a half-hour to determine that they were indeed legit contractions, then transferred up to the labor and delivery floor (again).

I had contractions every 5 minutes for awhile, then every 4, then every 3 minutes. But every few hours they would ease up to every 10 minutes or so. Some were painful, some not as much. Because I just had magnesium a few days ago, my doctor gave me a different medication for stopping contractions. They didn't stop, but they slowed down enough for me to fall asleep last night. I was so exhausted that I slept for four hours. When I woke up, I checked the graphs that the monitor puts out and they showed contractions every 4-5 minutes with a few big monster ones. And so they have continued today (except for two blissful hours midday).

The plan is to keep the baby in as long as possible - so as long as I don't develop an infection and his vitals look good, I will keep going. The doctor thinks I'm within days of delivering rather than weeks, but that finish line is still looking ambiguous. Especially after having the course changed on me several times.

I've held it together pretty well thus far, but I totally broke down this morning. The nurse wanted to put a new IV in because the one I had was too old. I hate needles, but I really hate getting IVs placed; I hate the stinging, the pinching, and that feeling of plastic tubing getting shoved under my skin. Ick. I informed the nurse that I hated it and told her to place it wherever on me, but to please please please get it on the first try. She went over my arms thoroughly. I usually have decent veins (runners generally do), but I've been poked so many times that I'm nearly out of non-blown-out veins straight enough for an IV. The rash on my skin makes it even harder to find veins.

She settled on one and went for it - and didn't get it. "Awwww," the nurse said. "You're so brave." And that was when I lost it.

I'm tired of being brave! I want to go home! I miss my family! I hate needles! I hate hospitals! I miss running! I hate daytime TV! I want to tear off my itchy skin! I hate being tethered by the monitors! I want to sleep in my bed! I can't move the fingers on my left hand because of this stupid IV! I want a shower! 

The nurse got the IV placed, I had a good solid cry, I texted Scott pictures of my bloodied hand, I called my mom and had another good cry, then some medical student came in and asked how I was doing so I cried some more. In a marathon, I think this is where I "hit the wall."

Thankfully, a few friends stopped by this afternoon and buoyed me up enough that I'm feeling ready to face another day of this. Sticking to the marathon analogy, they essentially passed me some Gatorade and paced me through another mile while giving me a pep talk.

I still don't know where the finish line is, and the course is likely to change a few more times, but I'm rounding the corner ready for the next stretch - however long it may be.

And just to keep things interesting...

...I developed a rash from head to toe on Saturday. The doctors asked me all those great questions about laundry soaps and lotions and whatnot, trying to figure out what changed and why my skin is freaking out. But I had this same rash when I was about 32 weeks along with Phoebe. Maybe this is my body's two-week notice?

My mom flies back to Ohio tomorrow. In preparation for her departure, she baked banana bread for Bruce's birthday snack at school, cleaned the house, did mountains of laundry, and even got a bed ready for Scott's mom, who flies in an hour after my mom leaves. Mom is amazing; thank you!

Bruce and Phoebe are doing well on the outside - they aren't misbehaving or acting out. But they keep asking when I'm going to come home and when the baby is going to come out. I wish I knew.

They are surprising me too. Phoebe has been napping for Grandma. And the other day, Bruce opted to spend six hours at the hospital with me rather than go to the Children's Museum with Aunt Nancy. I thought for sure by the end he would regret his decision to stay with me, but he didn't. Despite all the fun they've had with Grandma, I think the kids miss me a little bit.

Mothers Day

The last few days have been more of the same: lay in bed, eat, drink like a life depends on it, read books, sleep. The doctors and nurses asked the same questions and were getting a little bored with me.

And then things changed. I started bleeding and contractions started coming on Saturday afternoon. Scott had his first day off (after working 12 straight!) and spent it with me at the hospital. 

We moved from the chill environ of the postpartum floor up to the labor and delivery floor. I got re-tethered to the bed with monitors and an IV. The doctor gave me magnesium sulfate, not necessarily to stop labor but for "neuro-protection" - studies have shown that a dose of it within 24 hours of being born significantly reduces the risk of cerebral palsy.

Unfortunately, it also stops labor. And it's an all-around nasty medicine that makes me feel hot and woozy. A few hours of that medicine and labor slowed and then stopped.

Which is good and bad. I'm 30 weeks and 4 days along, so another week or two in the womb would be beneficial for the baby. But the thought of having to lay low a bit longer (and miss out on Bruce's birthday next week and not get to tuck my kids in every night and so on...) and have to go through the same traumatic IV placement, nasty magnesium dose, and inevitable C-section in another week or two sounds awful to me.

And so I am trying to find a little ray of sunshine on this Mothers Day. I might have to resort to listing things I'm thankful for.

1) modern medicine: sure I don't really like it, but without it I'd be dead.

2) breakfast: after not being able to eat solid foods for almost 20 hours, I was happy to get something to eat this morning - even if it was hospital food.

3) lilacs: Scott got me a bouquet of lilacs for Mothers Day and they make the whole hospital room smell good. 

4) my mom: she birthed me, raised me well, and saved me a zillion times over. 

30 weeks

Yesterday I officially made it to 30 weeks pregnant. The nurses tell me the next big milestone is 32 weeks. I'm just taking this day by day.

There haven't been any new developments lately. The doctor stops by every morning and asks the same questions, to which I give the same answers. Any pain? Changes? Contractions? Movement? Yesterday the doctor added, "Do you have any hobbies?" to the Q&A. Yes, I do have hobbies, but hardly any of them involve sitting still for long periods of time.

The kids are doing well all things considered. Bruce has a couple field trips at school and a few after-school activities that he looks forward to. Phoebe has warmed up to grandma and even takes naps for her (what?!). When they come to visit, Phoebe inspects my feet and will often rub lotion on them. Aunt Nancy drove up from Philadelphia to join the fun; she finished the semester at physician's assistant school and was planning on a camping trip and fun with the kids. Now that I'm in the hospital, we scratched the camping trip and put her to work. Yesterday she made a bunch of crepes and brought them over to the hospital. The day before she brought paper and we attempted to make origami flowers and butterflies.

My mom is still here and will be for Mother's Day. I feel like she deserves a parade, pampering at a fancy hair salon, fine foods served to her, and way more than what she's going to get. Scott works a long 7 a.m.-10 p.m. shift on Sunday, so my mom will have to get the kids to church and around town solo.

One week down.

It's official: I've been in the hospital for a whole week. I woke up this morning at 4 a.m. - between the nurse's station, alarms, getting my vitals taken every few hours, and crying babies, I wake up a lot during the night - and fumbled for my phone to figure out what time it was. I accidentally texted Scott the letter "X," to which he responded within a minute, "Everything okay?" Oops, I woke him up. I assured him I was fine and just clumsy with my phone in the middle of the night, then laid in the dark remembering what happened exactly one week ago on Sunday morning at 4 a.m. Ugh, I can't believe this.

Yesterday and today I've sworn off TV. Maybe it's a slow news week, but the newscast has been the same every day with Boston Marathon bomber news developments and the same sunny weather; it almost feels like Groundhog Day. The TLC Network has done a number on me too. For a few days, I watched a few sappy semi-reality shows - "like a moth to the flame," as Scott said after I told him about this. It's true. I watched "A Baby Story," a show that follows expectant mothers throughout their pregnancy and birth. After a few episodes, I grew tired of all the normal pregnancies on the show and the glamorously quick births. I also watched a show called "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant" that profiled women who just magically popped out healthy babies out of nowhere. What?! That was the last straw: I'm getting too bitter watching TLC, so I'm turning off the tube.

Instead, I wrote about a million thank you notes, finished writing an article for the July issue of New England Runner Magazine, wrote pages and pages into my journal, and am currently working on a post for this blog.

As far as a medical update goes, there isn't much of one. Nothing is happening, but the doctor assures me that's a good thing. Hanging in here.

Glamour Shots by Ellen

Ellen came to visit last night and brought her camera along (of course!), as well as chips and guacamole and tales of her many adventures (some of which make it to her fantastic blog). On her blog, she says I'm "one of [her] favorite people," which I think is a distinction way better than being named to this (which, being bored in a hospital, I've read about now).

On the inside looking out.

I'm still here without much to report. I've gotten to know some of the nurses and staff; my day nurse is leaving tomorrow for her timeshare in Aruba. She said she'll be gone for two weeks and added, "I hope you're still here when I get back." I have mixed feelings about that.

I don't really want to be here. Let's face it: I'd rather be carting Bruce off to school, playing with Phoebe at the park, starting the day off with a run, ending with laundry and chores. It's super-boring in the hospital; there are about 30 TV channels, one of which features a round-faced clock where you can watch the second hand sweep around the circle minute by minute. It's maddening. I also don't enjoy having random people pop in the door wanting to poke me at all hours (have I ever mentioned how much I hate needles?!).

But I do want to lay here, knowing what the alternative is. The nurses like to say that one day in the womb is equivalent to three in the NICU. With that in mind, I can start to wrap my mind around a few weeks of this confinement. I would much rather lay in bed with this little guy contentedly kicking around inside me than be separated from him, worrying constantly about his health and prognosis, leaving him at the hospital and always feeling torn between baby and kids while trying to recover from birth, pump milk, and maintain some normalcy for Bruce and Phoebe. If you think I'm going crazy from hospital bedrest, just check out the October/November 2009 blog archives from when Phoebe was in the NICU. That drove me crazy.

And so I'm trying to make the best of this. I lay around, I have food prepared and brought right to me in bed, I have a drawer of chocolate-covered goodies next to me, I have books I've never had time to read, and I'm getting to relax more than ever before. I'm also uplifted by the many, many people who have offered prayers, babysitting, meals, rides, visits, and anything to make this experience a little less harrowing. Thank you, I love you all.

Still waiting for the little Mister

"My momma always said, 'Life was like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're gonna get.'" - Forrest Gump

Day four

I am now untethered from the IV and constant monitoring, which means I can now shower and use a legit potty (seriously so happy about this). I'm still in bed 99.99999% of the day, but it feels good to roll over in bed without getting tangled and to stand up and walk the five feet to the bathroom.

Today's photos include my sweeto toe socks, my arm that was mangled after the nurse had trouble getting the IV in, the IV in my hand that might come out today, and my smiling face just where you're likely to find it at any moment throughout the day - on my pillow.

Hotel Momma

I've been on some serious bed rest in the hospital. My left arm is tethered to an IV pole that gives me antibiotics, magnesium sulfate to ward off labor, and fluids. My right side is wired to a fetal monitor that tracks baby's heart rate and uterine contractions. I have about a two-foot reach from bed, so everything has to come to me.

Last night the kids came to visit. They think the hospital is "fun" because I have a bed that moves up and down at the touch of a button, a TV that has Cartoon Network, and food brought to me on a tray in bed. Phoebe rubbed my feet, made me a card with a caterpillar on it, and fed me chocolates. Bruce watched Cartoon Network and asked a few serious questions about the baby. He knows what's going on and looked a little scared.

I'm sooooo glad my mom is here taking care of the kids; it gives me much-needed peace of mind knowing that they can hang onto some shred of normalcy while I'm not there. She knows her way around our neighborhood, knows their quirks and routines, and seems to genuinely enjoy filling the need. She took the kids out for Dunkin Donuts on her first day here, so I can only imagine the spoiling that will go on over the next few weeks.

As she focuses on Bruce and Phoebe, I'm focused on keeping this baby in as long as possible. I am reminded that mothers will do anything for their kids. I've grown a double chin, endured painful steroid shots in my thighs, laid in bed and watched 70-degree sunny weather from a window, all in the name of getting this baby here.

And so when I see my mom drop everything at home (and have I mentioned she is a busy lady?!) and catch the next flight to Boston simply because I called, I get it. But I still don't know how to ever repay that - except maybe to do the same for her grandchildren.

Mom, I'm turning into you. And I love it.

Bruce the Wolf, Phoebe the Ninja, Emily the Boat, and Scott the Doc

 Last week we attended Bruce's Cub Scout troop's Blue and Gold Banquet. He completed all of his "Wolf" requirements and got some bling for his shirt; I'm still trying to figure out what all this scouting stuff means besides more sewing for me. One of Bruce's requirements was to learn how to cook a meal; he chose macaroni and cheese, of course. He can now turn on the stove independently (which scares me), and has made his classic dish twice without help.

 Besides providing grub at the banquet, the scouts had fun activities for kids. The theme was "knights of the round table" and there was an obstacle course complete with stick-horse-riding, cardboard-wall-climbing, catapult-slinging (pictured above), and cave-crawling. Phoebe jumped right in with the boys and had a blast.

 Phoebe blended in with the boys again when she was invited to a friend's birthday party. It seems she was born among a wave of boys, and almost all her friends are boys. This was a "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle"-themed party. Phoebe hadn't heard of them, but wondered why these ninjas looked different than the ones Bruce plays with. Still, she enjoyed pounding the bad-guy-ninja balloons, chucking ninja stars into a bucket, and swiping candy from a ninja pinata.

 She was also excited about eating frosting that made her tongue pink. She may have eaten a little cake too, but mostly frosting.

And because seeing photos of me on the blog happens as often as a bigfoot sighting, here I am at 22 weeks. Just last week I felt like I doubled in size and had a few really sluggish days when I was really glad for a nap. Overall though, I'm still feeling pretty good. I'm still running 4ish miles a day and have been going at a respectable pace for the past few months, but I feel my pace will slow very soon. I've felt the baby kicking around for a few weeks, but just this week the kicks have been big enough that Bruce and Phoebe can feel them too. They like to put their hands on my belly and wait for a "high-five," as Phoebe calls them. Phoebe makes up elaborate stories about tickling the baby, making him laugh, giving him high-fives, and so forth. Sometimes she says she hears him laughing. She is so excited for Knox, as she calls him. Everyone has a different name for him; Bruce likes Edmund and Scott is on a Greek-mythology-kick with names like Apollo and Perseus (still!). I like Elliot right now, but I change my mind about every other day.

Scott is pulling really random shifts in the ER lately. He often works overnight, which means he sleeps in during the mornings and I have to try to keep kids quiet (impossible) or get out of the house. Afternoons are nice though because Scott can spend time with the kids or work on projects around the house. He put together a whole wall of wardrobe-type closets in our room last week so we now have more storage space. Next up is painting the living room and Bruce's bedroom. Anyway, Scott enjoys the fast pace, immediate reward, and quick thinking that the ER requires. Most nights it sounds like he spends 60% of his time sewing up lacerations on drunk college kids, 30% of the time diagnosing stupid stuff people shouldn't show up at the ER for ("Yes, those bumps are completely normal, sir" and "Vomiting? Nausea? When was your last period? You're pregnant"), and 10% of the time finding and treating a real problem. He has made a few rare diagnoses that he was proud of, dusted off his Russian language skills for a few patients, and perfected his sewing skills.

Perhaps he can sew all the badges and beads and whatnot onto Bruce's shirt; it won't flinch and curse as much as a drunk college kid.

Running preggers

There isn't a lot of information out there about running during pregnancy. Most pregnancy books dodge the subject by saying, "Talk with your doctor to see what's right for you." Some people say running diverts the blood away from the baby and to your legs. Some say all the bouncing and shock is bad for baby and your increasingly delicate ligaments and joints. Some say your bones are at risk because baby saps all the calcium. Some say running is simply too strenuous.

When I was pregnant with Bruce and Phoebe, I had an awesome doctor that capped me at 20 minutes of running per day. I was just fine with this. My view is that 1) pregnancy is all about getting a baby at the end rather than a PR so I should put away my somewhat selfish desires anyway, 2) it allows me time to strengthen and stretch, 3) it's nice to slow down and enjoy running just for the joy of running instead of constantly training toward some goal race, and 4) while I will lose some fitness, I will at least retain the comforting routine of running.

In both Bruce and Phoebe's pregnancies, I ran up until a day or two before I was put in the hospital at 33 and 34 weeks. Both came early, both by emergency C-section. I was afraid that their early births would flag me this time around as too high-risk for running. This time, I have a different doctor because I have a different insurance plan that doesn't cover my old doctor. My new doc is awesome though; I'm excited to work with her. Because the prematurity was not caused or related to running, my current doc is just fine with my keeping up the running habit.

When I asked my doctor about running, she said as long as I'm not starting anything new (judging from my heart rate of 46 in the office, they believed me when I said I was a runner) and I feel good then I can keep going. If I am short of breath, I have to stop. If I feel pain or tightening, I have to stop. If I bleed, stop. If it's too icy or too cold (which she defined as below 10 degrees), don't go. Got it. As long as I keep gaining weight consistently, I can keep going (so far, I have absolutely nooooo problem with that).

Running during the first trimester went well, all things considered. I wasn't going to my track club's workouts because I was still recovering my stupid hip injury. In fact, I only did one track workout to test out my hip: I did 4 x 400 solo at 4 weeks running 76-81 seconds each lap. I ran by the drug store on my cooldown and picked up a pregnancy test because I had my suspicions. The next morning, it was confirmed: no more workouts.

I made it for eight weeks without telling my running partner (meaning I could still keep up with her!), then I finally told her because I thought for sure she would see how my tights were getting tighter already and how I was all the sudden top-heavy whereas I used to be more pancake-like. It's hard to hide in spandex. She claimed I wasn't as lumpy as I thought (you're so nice, Anna), but I felt clunky and chunky nonetheless.

Clunky and chunky, but never out of breath or painful. Between weeks 8-12, I missed 4 or 5 morning runs mostly from exhaustion. For the past few months, my run has fit in the 5:15-6 a.m. window. There were a few mornings where nothing could get me out of bed at 5:04. I have a treadmill, so I could have run a little later, but I usually lazed about until 6:30 or 7 when the kids dragged me out of bed, then felt lousy and almost instantly nauseated. Then I really didn't feel like running. Indeed, the days I didn't run were the ones I felt the nastiest. Most of the time, though, I felt like I could outrun the nausea if I got up early and got it done before the Wave of Nausea hit around 10 a.m. and resurfaced again and again throughout the day.

I am lucky enough to not get super-sick early in pregnancy; I don't spend my mornings hovering over the toilet like a lot of pregnant women. I just feel like I could throw up, so I sip my ginger ale and nibble at crackers and hang in there. I am also lucky enough to be able to get a nap most days. Phoebe is still napping 1.5-3 hours most days, and Miss J naps at the same time so I've been sneaking in some Zs. This is a luxury I didn't have when I was pregnant with Bruce or Phoebe as I was still working, and it has been a lifesaver some days.

I think the best rule of thumb regarding running during pregnancy is the cliche "listen to your body" phrase that so many runners roll their eyes at with the addition of "listen to your doctor." Listening to my body meant running five miles at 8.5-minute-per-mile pace on Saturday, enjoying the views of the Charles River and letting the fresh air fill my lungs. Today it meant three miles at 10-minute pace, feeling a little nauseated at 5:30 but not pained or tight. As for listening to my doctor, so far so good. If she tells me to stop in a few weeks, I will. It might take me a little longer to return to fitness postpartum, but I will be back.