Letters To My Papa: A Personal Story of Hope, Grief, And Love

By Ashley Hertzog Embry

A personal story of hope, grief, and love – comprising daily letters written from a daughter to her father ensuring that, despite sustaining a major brain injury, he would never miss a day. She would account for it all, and tell him his own unbelievable tale.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Feb 8, 2016
• ISBN: 9781682229637

Book preview

life.

Author’s Introduction

Welcome to my heart: It is ever-breaking and ever-loving. This book invites you to explore my innermost thoughts, feelings, and experiences as told to my precious Papa Bear. What you’ll find in the pages that follow are my letters to him.

On the evening of Sunday, November 25, 2012, everything changed in the instant my father collapsed with a brain aneurysm. That day and the next melted into one long day – almost as though Monday had never happened, because sleep never happened. On Tuesday, I wrote a letter to Papa in my journal for a variety of reasons: 1) I wanted to talk to him, but he was in a coma, so I wrote to him instead. 2) I knew that when he woke, he would never believe what had happened to him, so I volunteered to tell him his own remarkable tale. 3) It was a way for me to process what was going on. 4) It was a visualization practice born of fierce hope and tenacious optimism. I told myself, if I write this letter to him, surely one day he will wake and be able to read it.

That is the first letter you will find in this book. It is a glimpse inside my heart while in the midst of chaos.

The next day, his numbers improved ever so slightly. Though he was still in a coma, even the smallest shift in momentum offered us hope. As I picked up my pen to write him again, the purpose for my words came into focus: I would write a letter every day until Christmas. A month of handwritten messages to my Papa would make the perfect gift – something meaningful that could fill in the gaps of what his memory couldn’t recall. From that point on, I made it my sole purpose to show up and pay attention, and make sure that no matter what, I felt connected to my Papa.

When Christmas arrived, we were still spending our days in the ICU of the Thomas Jefferson Hospital for Neuroscience, so I was still writing. As a family that had carried on the same holiday traditions every year since I was born, we decided to postpone our Christmas celebration. We would do whatever we could to make the most of Christmas Day in the hospital; all of our usual festivities would wait until Papa was home, rested, healthy, and ready to celebrate the holiday season. The calendar didn’t matter; it was togetherness we were after.

I extended my writing deadline several times – first until he gets to rehab, then until I return to Nashville. Eventually, I decided to write until he was well enough that I no longer needed to keep track of his story, and he could carry the rest in his own memory. I stopped writing in mid-January to compile my letters into a gift book for the Valentine’s Christmas that our family was anticipating. Then life took an unexpected sharp turn, landing him back in the hospital. Oblivious to what lay ahead for us, but presuming there must be another chapter to our story, I resumed writing.

Ultimately, I wrote through what proved to be a less-than-happy ending. But I had gotten into such a habit of writing those letters that I craved the catharsis. And now I faced something I never had to confront in my whole life – grieving the loss of a parent. So I continued to write to him through my grief every day for another month or so, and more sporadically after that. The bulk of this book takes place between November 2012 and June 2013, with occasional letters thereafter.

My first letter was written from pure adrenaline. It was lengthy, dramatic, and occasionally eloquent. As I continued writing about daily life between the hotel and the hospital, it is clear that we settled into routines. As a result, so did my writing. I recorded vital stats and facts, and wrote to Papa much the way I would have spoken to him on those days – to a man recovering from a brain injury. I kept things simple and relatively free of poetic flare.

During his early recovery, I started to look ahead to the day we would take life off of pause. At that time, reality hit me, and I became consumed by my own worries and personal responsibilities again. I talked them out to Papa in the letters.

When Papa’s health took a scary turn again, I initially reverted to my simplistic, optimistic writing, with a fierce determination (in hindsight, some might say delusion) to witness a full recovery. Upon Papa’s passing, my writing grew introspective. My emotions ran deep and my thoughts ran deeper as I contemplated and reevaluated EVERYTHING IN MY LIFE.

This is the story of a father/daughter relationship. The story of a man fighting for his life. The story of a family determined to be there for the man who shaped their lives. The story of hope, grief, and love all tangled together. It is also a story that Papa blessed in his final days. He knew I’d been writing these letters, and looked forward to reading them. And though the story doesn’t have the same ending I originally anticipated, that somehow makes it even more important to tell. It is the story of a man who deserves such a beautifully lasting legacy that I had no choice but to write this book to honor him.

I will let the letters speak for themselves, narrating our journey one day at a time. While I have made edits to improve readability, I was careful not to compromise the facts or embellish the truth that I originally recalled each day. I made a few connecting notes to give the letters and related events necessary context. Additionally, in the back of this book, you will find a Cast of Characters. This quick reference tool ties supporting information to names that were regularly mentioned throughout the book.

Unfortunately, Papa never got to read my letters. But you will. I hope and pray that as you get to know him through the pages that follow, you will understand the goodness that was so prevalent in his life, the goodness that he stood for, the goodness that he instilled in others. I hope my words do justice to his legacy, and that somewhere today he is proud of his Blondie for sharing our journey with you.

Thank you for reading. Thank you for getting to know me and my family, most of all, my precious Papa Bear.

~Ashley

The Initial Letters

Tuesday, November 27, 2012

Dear Papa,

I am sitting here in the waiting room at Thomas Jefferson Hospital for Neuroscience. It’s Tuesday afternoon, and it has been a long couple of days. I can’t help but feel optimistic about your recovery, but it was scary for a while. Who am I kidding? Even with optimism in tow, it’s still scary.

Sunday evening, following my Poetic Soul Gifts party, Kent brought Sherman to the house and helped you order Christmas cards online. Mama and I drove down the street to visit Jane and Tony and show them the video I made for them. Luckily for us, they had already gone to bed so Mama and I came home. Kent was getting ready to leave, but since we returned, he stayed a few more minutes.

I stood in the dining room tearing down from my open house when Cory called the home phone. You answered and briefly joked around with him. Then I heard you say, My daughter? Yeah, I think she has a few minutes to talk. You handed me the phone and walked back the hall. Cory and I only chatted for about a minute before I heard a heart-stopping sound. There was no stumble and crash, no drop and bounce. There was just one frightening thud that shook the floor beneath me and rattled the wall behind me. I thought to myself, What in this house could even make that sound? I panicked and ran back the hall. There you were, lying facedown on the bathroom floor. I threw the phone and screamed while Kent and Mama ran to help.

What the hell happened? asked Kent.

I have no idea! I cried.

They turned you over onto your back while I scrambled for the phone to dial 9-1-1. I was too flustered to speak, so Kent took the phone while I tried to open your airway because you weren’t breathing. Your whole body was rigid. Every muscle was tense, your hands were clenched, and you were biting down hard on your tongue. I failed to pry open your airway, so your quick-thinking son grabbed his wallet and wedged its leather corner into your mouth, separating your teeth. Your immediate exhale sounded like air racing out of a balloon. Your whole body relaxed, and then you started snoring as if you were in a deep sleep. Kent held the wallet in your mouth while I held up your head so you wouldn’t swallow your tongue. We looked at each other in utter disbelief, fear and confusion coursing through our veins.

I kept talking to you. Papa, it’s Blondie. Please keep breathing. Papa, can you hear me? It’s Blondie. Squeeze my hand if you can hear me. No response. But you were still breathing so, in that moment, that was enough for me.

Before long, the ambulance crew arrived. So I kissed your face and let someone else hold your hand. Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Janelle Weidman wrote down what medications you take as Mama listed them off to her. It was eerie: Janelle was wearing the same sweatshirt she had on that morning at The Heidelberg when we all went to breakfast after church. We all sat there dining together, cracking jokes, laughing, blissfully unaware of what was lurking around the corner. Who could have known that mere hours later she would be summoned to our house on an ambulance call?

I ran over to Grandma’s side of the house where Sherman was sequestered away from the chaos, and I called my friend Katie to ask her to pray. I didn’t know what to tell her, but I knew I needed a friend to be praying for you.

When I walked back into our living room, I heard you sneeze twice. I had never been so happy to hear your deafening sneezes in my whole life! I thought, Hey! That’s a normal bodily function. Good! You were still unconscious though, so of course it was purely reflexive.

Before long, your fellow township supervisor and another guy on the crew carried you out the door to the ambulance. Outside, Kelsey and Arlene Moll were standing in our driveway. Word sure does travel fast in a small town. Apparently, one of Kelsey’s friends with a police scanner called her and said, You better go check on Mr. Hertzog!

Kelsey offered to ride along with me to the hospital so I wouldn’t be alone, since Mama was riding in the ambulance. I accepted her offer, and when we got in the car, I looked at her and confided, Okay, I need to be a baby for just a minute. She hugged me, and I fell apart. I sobbed in her arms, crying out, I need my daddy. She assured me that you would be fine, and we headed to the Reading Hospital ER. On the way, Mama called to tell me you were awake. She was seated up front in the ambulance so she couldn’t hear what you were saying, but she knew they were asking you questions, and you were responding in some way.

When we arrived at the hospital, we told the attendant at the nurses station we were there to see Noel Hertzog, but they didn’t know what room, if any, you were in yet. So we waited. In the meantime, I called Barry and Deb, who had just arrived home in South Carolina after leaving from our house that morning. Then Kent arrived (after dropping off Sherman at home), and soon Leon Moll came, too. He had been holding down the fort at the Stouch Tavern, and Arlene had relieved him so he could come see you.

The next thing we knew, the hospital chaplain came to get us. I nearly passed out. I thought the worst. And who wouldn’t? Why else would the chaplain send for us? Then he took us – not into a hospital room but to a family room – where Mama was already waiting and crying. I thought that was it. That was the room where they would tell me my father had passed away. I shook from head to toe. I looked at Mama with fear and panic in my eyes, and she flashed me an expression that without words somehow told me, I’m scared too and, It’s not what you think all at the same time. I breathed a slight sigh of relief and sat down next to her. A doctor entered the room to tell us they conducted a CAT scan and found bleeding on your brain. Next, they would perform an MRI to determine if the bleeding was what caused the fall or if it was secondary from the fall.

In the meantime, I called Al, my boss, to let him know I would be staying in PA indefinitely. He compassionately told me to take all the time I needed. I also called Cory to bring him up to speed. He told me that after he got to his parents’ house that night, he stood outside wondering what in the world happened since the abrupt end to our phone call. He asked God for a sign that everything would work out and that you would be okay. Just then, a single shooting star streaked across the sky above him. Hearing that made me happy and hopeful! I let Cory know that if he needed to go back to Nashville in the morning (as was our original plan) that he should go and I would fly back at a later date. All I knew in that moment was that nothing was going to pull me away from you until I knew you would be all right.

After getting off the phone and pacing around the hallway for a period of time, I saw Maureen and her family in the waiting area. Mama, Kent, and I updated them on your condition. Before long, we were told you were back in your room from the MRI and we could see you, so the three of us rushed to your side. You were awake – groggy, but awake. We talked to you. You knew who we were without ever a moment’s hesitation. Thank goodness, because it would have devastated me if you failed to recognize your own loved ones. I was overcome with gratitude that merely an hour earlier I thought you were dying, and now here you were talking to us. And you knew us! And you knew who you were. And you could answer questions when the nurses asked you. Though you didn’t answer all of them correctly, your memory just needed a little jogging. One of the nurses – who graduated from ELCO High School in my class – asked you what year it was.

Twenty-twelve, you replied. Then she asked what month it was, and you answered, September. My heart sank.

She told you, No, not quite. It’s November. That seemed to puzzle you for a moment until she reminded you, We just had Thanksgiving.

You quickly remembered. Oh, that’s right! We had 19 people at the house. And that was right. That was our exact headcount for Thanksgiving dinner. We all breathed a sigh of relief. Then you told us, I feel like I’m getting a dull headache.

So Mama said, Well, you’ve got a pretty big goose egg on your forehead.

I do? What happened?

You fell, she continued.

I fell? When?

Around 8:00 tonight.

Where did I fall?

At home, in the bathroom.

Well, what caused that?

I don’t know, that’s what they’re gonna find out for you here.

That seemed to give you some minor satisfaction, but ultimately you still looked a bit perplexed. About a minute later… I feel like I’m getting a dull headache. My heart plummeted. We went through the same questions and answers. You seemed to understand what we told you. I watched the clock. Approximately thirty seconds to three minutes would pass before your memory reset again: I feel like I’m getting a dull headache.

Meanwhile, though you failed to remember the fall or anything after it, your personality and sense of humor were fully present. When you told us that you were feeling sleepy, Leon said it was probably because of the medicine they gave you. You asked what medicine it was, and he told you it was some kind of truth serum.

He asked you, Tell me something about Wendy.

Which Wendy? you quipped. Ha! Here you were lying in a hospital bed with bleeding on the brain, and still cracking jokes about Mama! You even slipped an old Bob Dylan quote into conversation. I paced around the room, wondering Is this what life is gonna look like now? Is he brain damaged? Is his long term memory intact, but his short term memory gone?

The nurses took great care of you while we awaited your test results, and you managed to sneak in a few winks of sleep. The doctor was communicating with the nurses from his home. They sent him the MRI results and he responded with his instructions. Soon the nurses informed us that the MRI confirmed you suffered a ruptured brain aneurysm. Boom. Life just got scary. I had heard of those things before, but I had no idea how serious they were. So we asked what the next step would be. They said, We’re communicating with a doctor at Thomas Jefferson Hospital in Philadelphia right now to discuss getting him in for surgery. Pow. Another scary thought. You are experiencing a significant enough problem to warrant sending you to a specialized hospital in a major city.

We inquired, When would that take place? We anticipated tomorrow or Tuesday or later this week.

They answered, As soon as the helicopter arrives.

BAM! Life just got even scarier! I felt weak. I had to sit down by the window. How did this happen? Six hours ago, I’m having a Poetic Soul open house at your place and you’re the host with the most – socializing, bouncing around, cracking jokes, so lively. Suddenly, they’re sending a helicopter to fly you to Philly for brain surgery. And it all began with that thud in the bathroom. One instant changed it all. I couldn’t wrap my head around that. In fact, sitting here in the waiting room more than 24 hours later, it doesn’t make any more sense to me than it did then.

The room was full of whispers, everyone sort of talking around you as you drifted in and out of sleep. I was grateful for that because I didn’t want you to know what was going on. I was afraid it would work you up and cause you anxiety. I should have known better. When the nurses shot you straight and told you that you suffered a ruptured brain aneurysm, my calm, cool, collected Papa simply replied, Wonderful. There was sarcasm, of course, but there was no alarm. There was simply a bit of disappointment. Disappointment! In the fact that your brain was bleeding! Gosh, I sure wish I had gotten that calm gene from you. Meanwhile, my brain – though completely healthy and normal – was encumbered with worry, fear, and a heaping dose of panic.

We stayed until the helicopter crew arrived. They came in and introduced themselves to all of us. There were three of them: the gentleman speaking, the woman who would be caring for you during the flight, and the pilot, who we were told is out in the hall finishing reading the instruction manual. You got a chuckle out of that. We all did. And we all needed it.

They wheeled you out into the hallway where Mama, Kent, and I each got to say bye to you. I laced my fingers between yours, and squeezed your hand. You squeezed mine back. I love you, Papa, I said.

I love you too, Blondie. Those words never sounded so important to me.

Kent headed out to the parking garage while Mama and I waited for the ER valet to bring our car around. As he pulled up, we heard the flutter of helicopter blades taking to the sky. He said, Oh no, there goes someone in the helicopter.

Mama told him, That’s my husband.

He replied, I’m so sorry, ma’am. Good luck to you.

We got in the car, kept it in park, opened the windows, and stared up at the lights carrying you away. We watched until you were out of sight. It was 2:40 a.m.; time to hustle home to regroup so we could turn around and get to Philly as soon as possible to see you again.

While Mama packed her bags, I hopped into the shower and prayed the whole time. I’m not even sure what I got clean. My mind was 110% occupied by a bizarre combination of fear, denial, hope, and gratitude. I was fearful of what was to come, in denial about what just happened, hopeful for the best possible care you could receive, and grateful that you were at least awake, talking, and recognizing us. For a moment, I let my mind wander to the worst-case scenario. I literally smacked my face to knock that train of thought off its track. That is NOT an option, I scolded myself. I spent the rest of my shower just crying out loud. "C’mon, Papa. Hang on. Fight, fight, fight. You’re gonna be all right. You have to be."

Meanwhile, Mama received a call from the doctor in Philly needing permission to sedate you and insert a catheter into your head to start draining the excess blood and fluid off of your brain.

We finished packing our things and hurried out the door. I called Ernie as soon as we left because it was just about time for you to meet him in the woods to go hunting for the day. He was shocked to hear the news. Quite frankly, I was shocked to have to deliver it. I told him we would keep him posted as we learned more. We picked up Kent and Nat from their house. They brought a copy of The Secret on CD for us to listen to on the way. For the previous six months, Kent, Nat, you, and I had been learning about the ideas behind the Law of Attraction, and Mama was about to get her crash course when we needed positivity the most!

We arrived in Philly just before 7:30 a.m. As we made the bumpy drive down Locust Street, Mama’s phone rang. It was Dr. Demetrious asking if we were close. We notified her that we were pulling into the parking garage, so she instructed us to come to the sixth floor and proceed to the family meeting room. Yikes! Enough with these nerve-wracking family rooms already!

As Kent and I walked toward the elevator, we both noticed that the arrow was pointing more diagonally than straight up and down – as though we were about to embark on some wacky Willy Wonka-style elevator ride.

We chuckled to each other. Who gives a crap if their elevator buttons are wonky? Let’s hope they put all their focus here on the brain surgeries!

We arrived at the conference room where Dr. Demetrious greeted us. She asked what had happened, so we recapped the last 12 hours for her.

She pointed to each of us and said, First of all, you saved his life. Then she offered some rough statistics, stating, About half of all people who suffer ruptured brain aneurysms don’t survive long enough make it to a hospital. They are nearly instantly fatal. So by being there with him and tending to him immediately, you saved his life.

All I could think to myself was, Well, now it’s your turn to save him.

She went on to explain that, of the patients who do make it to the hospital, they are split into three groups: one group does not survive the procedures performed on them; another group survives, but with some degree of impairment; and the final group makes a full recovery.

We kept thinking, Hey! We’ve already beaten the first set of odds. Let’s keep going! Full recovery, it is.

She then told Kent and me we need to schedule MRAs on our brains because there is a genetic link with aneurysms, and we could conceivably have been born with one (or more), and never experience any trouble until a rupture occurs. Yours could have been there since birth, or it may have developed and grown over time. There is really no way of knowing. But if Kent or I find any on our test results, we can proactively treat them with the same procedure she was about to perform on you. However, when it is performed as a preventative measure, it’s an overnight, in-and-out, simple procedure with minimal recovery time. Unfortunately, you were not in that situation.

On a whiteboard, Dr. Demetrious illustrated the details of the coiling procedure she would perform on you. Essentially, they feed a platinum wire from your groin all the way up to your brain, locate the aneurysm, place this wire inside the aneurysm, and coil it around like a ball of yarn until it becomes quite dense. Then they sever the wire feed from the ball, leaving the coil inside the aneurysm, and blood clots around the bottom of that ball to seal it off, so your blood is free to flow through your vessels as though the aneurysm never happened. It is remarkable. You’re blingin’ from the inside out now, Papa!

While explaining the surgery, the doctor disclosed all of the possible risks, and in doing so, she used the term life-ending event several times. Talk about a heart-stopper! She would say, Well, if this were to happen, that would be a life-ending event, or, we will do our best to make sure it happens like this, but there is always a risk of _______ happening, which would be a life-ending event.

I understand she needs to prepare us for the worst, but hearing her speak about YOU – my dad – and using the term life-ending event in the same sentence felt surreal. She explained that your condition was very critical, and that if we think there is anyone who would like to see you, we should invite them to do so. Holy crap! That’s scary stuff.

As utterly frightening as the information was that she delivered to us, she had this incredible demeanor about her. She is intellectually brilliant, and yet emotionally warm and comforting. Typically you find one or the other in a doctor, but she masterfully exhibited both qualities. She clearly communicated the nature of your condition and the risks of the procedure. Then she reached out and put her hand on Mama’s arm to offer consolation. She is well balanced, well spoken, calm, and collected. I wouldn’t trust anyone else with my precious Papa’s brain. She asked if we had any questions, then patiently answered all of our (surely naïve) inquiries without a hint of condescension. Then she let us know we could go see you.

As we walked toward Room 616, Mama slowed her pace, thinking they told us the wrong room number. She didn’t recognize you. I don’t blame her. It didn’t look like you at all. You were extraordinarily swollen. They had shaved the top of your head to insert the External Ventricular Drain (EVD). Iodine was streaked across your face. The bruise over your right eye had gotten bigger and turned brighter in color. You were sedated and on a ventilator. It was only five hours since we had seen you last, but it took my breath to see how different you looked in such a short time. I expected you to look mostly the way you did when the helicopter crew wheeled you through the hallway at Reading. You hadn’t even had the surgery yet, and you already looked like a stranger. It was wildly unsettling. We didn’t stay long because we knew they needed to get you into the operating room and we didn’t want to delay that any longer. We told you we loved you, and that we would see you after surgery.

We returned to the family room and started the phone calls. I walked to the main waiting room, which was still empty because standard visiting hours don’t begin until 11:00. I called Stephanie and filled her in as I paced laps around the room.

I told her, I don’t know how this happened. How is this my life right now, Steph? Last night, he had a spring in his step, he was ordering family Christmas cards, and now we’re calling people to come see him possibly for one last time?

She shared my shock and offered to help in any way she could. I called Katie next to bring her up to speed. I asked her to reach out to Mary Lynne for me. Then I returned to the conference room to make more calls. It took four people (Kent, Nat, Mama, and me) with five cell phones (each of ours, plus yours) to reach everyone.

Before long, we got good news from Dr. D. that the coiling procedure was successful. Hallelujah!!!

She told us, We’re very pleased with the way the procedure went. But his condition is still very critical, and the next 24-48 hours will be very crucial. We just have to wait and continue monitoring his numbers.

The catheter in your head is to keep the intracranial pressure (ICP) from getting too high. They would like it to stay below 10, so your monitor is rigged to set off an alarm when it rises above 10, signaling the nurses to open the valve to drain some fluid/blood off of your brain. This allows the pressure to drop back down to a healthy level. That is the cycle we have been watching for a full day already, and I imagine it will continue for another few days. You will remain sedated until they think you have stabilized enough to handle waking up.

Your nurse, Shannon, was an absolute delight. She was the perfect person to ease us into this whole bizarre experience. She was warm and sweet, and she explained everything she was doing to help us understand your condition. She won me over when she saw the tears streaming down my face and announced that she gives free hugs. As you can imagine, I took her up on that offer. We all did. I hope she is your nurse again soon, because she was fabulous!

By that afternoon, the conference room grew full as the four of us and ten other family members and friends camped out for the day, taking turns to visit you two by two. We ordered food from a nearby deli, and Kent and Allyson walked down to pick it up. Funny, I had forgotten that food is typically an important part of the day. I obviously had no appetite, but I forced down a few bites of something substantial just to say I did. I was almost too tired to chew. At this point, we had been awake since Sunday morning before church, and here it was Monday afternoon. It still felt like one looooong Sunday to me. We called a Holiday Inn Express four blocks away and made a reservation.

We stayed at the hospital until 6:30 p.m. Then we finally decided it was time to go to the hotel for the night to try and get some rest. Parking was cheaper at the hospital, so we left our car there, bundled up, and lugged our bags down Walnut Street to the hotel. Buildings were decorated with beautiful greenery, classy white lights, and festive red bows. Christmas music poured out of the storefronts and restaurants. I almost wanted to close my eyes and plug my ears because I don’t want to associate this memory – this heavy-hearted feeling – with my favorite time of year. I just want you to get better first, and then I’d enjoy the holidays. But right now, I cannot even begin to think about celebrating anything other than your recovery. You will make a full recovery, Papa. I know it. But until then, Christmas can wait.

We checked in, carried our bags to room 804, and laid our exhausted bodies in our beds for the night. We hoped that we would wake up the next morning, in our own homes, realizing that this was just a horrible dream we all happened to share.

Though I did have a wonderful dream about you last night, I woke up to the same dreadful reality that I went to sleep in: you are in a coma in the Thomas Jefferson Hospital for Neuroscience. I can’t believe this is real. However… I am determined to believe that you will fully recover and read this letter, in awe of your own story. Keep fighting, Papa Bear! You’ve got this.

I love you so,

~Blondie

Wednesday, November 28, 2012

Dear Papa,

Today is Wednesday. We got ready at the hotel, extended our reservation through the weekend, and walked down to the lobby for breakfast. It was my favorite price: freeeeee! (Well, free with the price of a hotel room in Center City Philly at Christmastime.)

Mama broke down at breakfast. I think the last few days caught up with her all at once. I certainly understand; I had my breakdown last night. Thankfully, you have been steadily improving ever since, so I