Complete baso-cervical fracture, left femur... Gulp!

There are at least five or six more posts in store about my last diving adventure, but that all kind of went on hold when my mother-in-law broke her leg a few days ago. I was informed about this with the typical, “Oh no, she fell and broke her hip!”

After making the obligatory response, I think I said something like, “Oh, the poor thing! Where is she now? What did the doctor say?”

But my next response was not nearly so sympathetic, which if you know me is typical of me. I became downright accusatory, perhaps over harshly so, which is even MORE typical of me. For some reason I felt like trying to assign some blame as far as to the cause of this unfortunate event. My finger pointing may have been accurate, but admittedly, it was STILL out of line.

I'm ashamed to say that I said rather caustically, “You know, your mom has smoked for a LONG time, and with her being in her late 70s now, she was practically ASKING for osteoporosis. And by the way, I can guarantee you that she did NOT fall and break her hip. It was the other way around; she broke her hip and fell. People ALWAYS say that because they can’t imagine that someone could snap a leg or fracture a hip merely from standing on it, but you know what? Once the osteoporosis sets in and the bone mass disappears it’s ONLY a matter of time—bones WILL break! Man, I wish all these dummies I see smoking while they’re still young could SEE what’s in store for them, to SEE the damage they are subjecting themselves to after years of sucking in that nasty stuff. And osteoporosis is the least of what they do to themselves usually. ….And to think usually all these horrible conditions befall these smokers when they are too old to pay for the hospital treatment and to take care of themselves, just like your mom.”

Yes, I DO go on. I say these mean things and always feel bad after I say them, but knowing this almost never stops me. I tell myself that I should either find a more sensitive way to expound, but I rarely do. I’m an evil out of control know-it-all. I MUST be stopped.

My wife brought home the x-rays and report. The findings fully explained what actually happened to her mom:

Pelvis—anteroposterior lateral
Complete baso-cervical fracture, left femur, with marked disalignment of fragments
Soft tissue swelling is discernible
Visualized pelvic bones and right proximal femur appear intact
Lumbosacral spine-lateral
No demonstrable compression fracture, visualized lumbar vertebral bodies
Incidental finding of senile osteoporosis

(The xray photo above depicts a similar broken femur)

Another reason I shouldn’t be so hard on my wife’s mom is that she went through life not really understanding how much damage her smoking was doing to her body over the decades. To be even fairer, not even Americans, who should have no excuse for NOT knowing about the dangers of puffing away on cigs, would have known how smoking can lead to weak bones, since science didn’t make the connection until only about 20 years ago.

I tried to guess as to how smoking would lead to low density bone mass. Knowing that smoking causes restricted blood vessels, I conjectured that bad circulation would lead to malnourished bones. After all, bones grow from the inside out by way of the marrow which IS fed through the blood supply. It turns out I was close but no cigar.

From what I read on the internet, there are actually two reasons why an older woman would be more likely to develop osteoporosis from smoking:

The first reason applies to all genders—smoking leads to joint and connective tissue pain from degenerative joint disease so that mobility is lessened. It follows that a person then becomes less active which leads to low bone density. So, when it comes to bones, it’s true what they say, “use ‘em or lose ‘em.”

The second reason applies ONLY to older women—smoking not only causes a woman to go into menopause on average five years earlier than she otherwise would, but being post-menopausal itself tends to lead to osteoporosis due to low estrogen levels. Combined with smoking, the effects of menopause are a double whammy, because smoking reduces estrogen even more—low estrogen means low bone density. So there you go.

Anyway, she finally had the operation this morning—poor thing. It took some doing to talk her into it though, primarily because she felt guilty about the costs of it. There is nothing like Medicare here; few people have any kind of real coverage, and unless someone in the family comes through to cover it there would have been no operation. My wife came home “empty-handed” twice after being told both times by her mom that she didn’t want it done. Her mother said the operation was too expensive, and that she had lived long enough and it was better to just let it be. Finally, I explained that there was NO CHOICE; with her femur broken and splintered she would likely die of a long drawn out painful infection. I sent my wife back and told her to TELL her mom that she WOULD have the operation and it didn’t matter WHAT she said. At this, realizing that she could just relax and be the cared for dependent again, she bowed to our more aggressive insistence and relented.

The cost of putting her leg back together would be out of the question for the average Filipino—150,000 pesos, about $3500. Not so much by US medical cost standards, but it might as well be a million bucks for most folks here. Luckily I am not the only person in the family with at least some form of means, or at least access to getting a loan for it. One of my wife’s older sisters married an American more than 30 years ago and has a life in the states. They make fair money but they just put big bucks on a house in New Jersey and are as strapped as me. But, between the two of us we came up with it. It’s all part of marrying into the average family here—as a foreigner, you basically become the go-to-guy when these sorts of emergencies inevitably pop up. If you aren’t willing to step up and help out you shouldn’t even consider marrying one of these girls. Or maybe you can marry one that comes from a well-to-do family. Good luck with that.

A fellow expat recently required almost the exact same operation as my mother-in-law. Out of curiosity we found out what the same hospital was charging him for the same operation. Unbelievably, they charged him 400,000 pesos! That’s $9300, more than two and half times MORE than what they charged to do the same thing for my wife’s mom. It’s an unfair practice that bugs us expats to no end—to get charged so much more than the local rate. It SHOULD be illegal, but I guess it’s not. Pretty much anything goes when it comes to commerce it seems. There’s the Filipino price and then there is the foreigner price. It applies to almost everything. It’s why I NEVER go with my wife to the market. But there’s not much I can do about it if I’M the one requiring medical care—I can’t very well wear a disguise trying to fool ‘em into a local price, or COULD I?

My Grandma, My Time Machine

There was a time when one of my best buddies was a 70 year old woman—my grandmother. Born Winifred Kehoe in 1902, such a long time ago now, but in the early 70s, when she and I used to talk everyday before I delivered my newspapers, back then, her birth year of 1902 didn’t seem so impossibly distant.

When my dad retired from the Air Force late in 1970 we lived with my grandmother and Uncle Bill until late the following summer waiting for our new house to be complete enough for us to move in and finish it up ourselves. I started my paper route a few months before we moved to that half finished structure out on 12600 South Beyer Road, just over a mile as the crow flies from my grandma’s house in the town of Birch Run, Michigan.

It was while we still lived at grandma’s house on Oak Street that I started what became my Friday evening ritual of hand scrubbing her dining room and kitchen linoleum floors for her. I continued this practice even after we moved into our own place, because more often than not I simply stayed over at grandmas on Friday nights since my papers had to be delivered so early on Saturday mornings.

Every afternoon after school I’d be at her place waiting for my papers to get plopped off the Saginaw News delivery van; and then on many a Friday and Saturday night I’d be there as well for the same reason for the early morning weekend deliveries. That was my routine for the next four years until my senior year in 1975. With all that quality time spent together it’s no surprise that we became great friends.

It wasn’t until many years later that I realized how truly unique it was, this bond between grandmother and grandson. I was closer to her than to my mom even, and my mom is a real sweet heart. My brother and sister mentioned this when I asked if they had any memories to include, both claiming no particular connection with her, perhaps partly because I was older, but it probably had a lot more to do with me being around her so much because of my paper route. Until now, it never occurred to me; I just assumed that all of us felt a special affinity for her.

However, my brother did email a short remark of what he did recall:

xxx

“What I remember most was her perfect handwriting. And, she could really bake. Butter tarts. I was younger, of course (by 4 years), but I don't remember her talking much. I know you do, from all those paper route weekends.”

One of the reasons I bought a mini-tape recorder in 2000 and taped over 6 hours of me interviewing my dad is directly because of my grandma. Forty years ago, with all those hundreds of hours of conversation, it drives me batty that I remember almost nothing of the stories she told me about what it was like growing up just after the turn of the last century, and all the other myriad stories of her life. I wasn’t about to let that happen again. (And I believe my sister is still working on compiling our mom’s story—I sure hope so).

I think due to my military brat upbringing and exposure to so much geographical diversity I had already developed an abiding curiosity in all things historical. I would learn about something in class about WWI, or maybe about the sinking of the Titanic from my personal reading, and I would ask grandma what she recalled of those events. She was 10 when the Titanic went down and she remembered the news and her impressions of it; she was 15 when in 1917 we became embroiled in Europe’s “Great War” and she certainly had some recollections about that, and about most everything else that had happened during the course of her life.

There was more to it than that though; she talked about what life was like as the automobile took over from the horse and buggy; we discussed how long distance travel, long dominated by trains for most of her life was usurped almost overnight by planes and long distance highway driving.

Grandma was my time machine. Even back then I saw everything through an historical lens; through her I found out what it was like to be a kid during the time of Teddy Roosevelt and Woodrow Wilson. She remembered those guys and a host of other famed figures, which to me was fascinating stuff. She couldn't tell me too much about them specifically, but she talked about her life in the context of those times. Knowing that she was around when they were made the host of hazy characters from my reading and in the classroom seem real.

My questions were nonstop, about everything under the sun, including some really silly ones like, “Grandma, you didn’t have TV when you were a kid. Did you guys watch your radio back then or something?” I asked it as a joke, but the funny thing is the answer was yes. It didn’t matter what I asked, she answered everything the best she could; and her answers would generate even more questions, exactly like an interview. I know it wasn't always easy for her, because I made her think of some things that she hadn't considered for decades.

xxx

My sister came through just before I was going to post this with some pretty cool reminiscences written in a “stream of consciousness” style. I think this is the perfect place to insert them:

* She always fell asleep in her chair. (Just like our Uncle Bill…grin!)

* Gail & I shared a room with her for a year and when she was sleeping in bed, she had the most incredibly loud snore. (Again, just like our Uncle Bill…grin!)

* She had an awesome treadle sewing machine. I always wanted to learn how to use that. I'm not sure if she even did.

* I loved looking at her tea cup collection in that glass breakfront/curio cabinet against the kitchen wall. Mom used to tell me that some of the pieces were her grandmothers & great grandmothers. I used to imagine these old time ladies having "tea."

* She made the best chocolate cake in the world, put coffee in the frosting. Amazing. She was an incredibly devoted mother.

* When the dementia/Alzheimer’s set in (not sure if anything was really diagnosed) she hid half eaten bologna sandwiches in her dresser drawers. She also took to cutting people out of her old snapshots. Can't remember who she cut out or if it had any significance.

* She loved me to bring Jamie to see her at the nursing home when Jamie was a baby. Jamie sat so still on her lap and Grandma seemed so calm as Jamie's little fingers every so softly ran up and down the veins that stuck out on Grandma's arms.

* When she was dying and couldn't speak at all she had the most peculiar look about her eyes when she just stared at you. I think she was trying to figure out who I was. This may sound weird, but when Stacy's cat meows for attention, I swear those are Grandma's eyes looking back at me.

We watched lots of TV together. I still chuckle remembering a Merv Griffin talk show we watched together one afternoon on her little black and white while we sat at her kitchen table. One of Merv’s guests was Charo, at the time a very flamboyantly sexy Spanish guitarist. She actually played pretty well, but that’s not what she was known for. She did this over-the-top cuchi cuchi thing, where she shook her ample round boobs while saying “Cuchi Cuchi Cuchi.” Now, being a typical hormonally-charged young teen I thought Charo was wonderful, but Grandma was not similarly enamored. She wouldn’t turn the channel out of respect for my choice of programming, but with pursed lips she sure made me understand that Charo’s behavior was unacceptable. It was classic — a case of Victorian Age sensibilities clashing with the Age of Sex, Drugs and Rock and Roll, and as far as my grandma was concerned ne’er the twain shall coexist.

Back then, from 71 to 75, while we spent so much time in each other’s company, I could not imagine her as anything other than what she was then—a stooped wispy haired old woman in her late 60s and early 70s. I had not yet seen the photos of her progression through life, first as a young girl, as a young woman, and then as a married lady passing into middle age.

I asked my mom, now a youthful 75, to share a few memories of her mom and she had this to say:

xxx

“Right now I picture her as a young graduate from High School. She found school a little hard, could have been ADD, they knew so little about that then. Anyway, her parents sent her to boarding School, St. Mary's of Monroe, so she could get more one-on-one attention. She did well there and graduated and had many wonderful memories of her years there. That picture of her as a young woman was her graduation pic. She was 20 yrs old. Also, (she made) many lifelong friends from those years. She saw those women often. When my Dad died (in 1962 at age 58) they all came over and hosted a lovely lunch for the family after the funeral.”

I’m struck with how pretty my grandmother is in that photo from 1922. Photos like that make me sad. Looking at that beautiful "young woman grandma," she has her whole life in front of her; growing old, going through the pain of life’s hardships and tragedies is the last thing on her mind.

Alas, it happens to us all; with age she lost some height from a moderate case of kyphosis in her upper spine. She had worked as a secretary for some time as a young woman, and that, according to what my mom used to claim, was the cause of the hump in grandma’s back—bad posture my mom would say. I used to think of that whenever I caught myself slouching. Whether it was true or not, it certainly worked to remind me to sit up straight over the years.

After I left for the marines in the summer of 75 she was able to only write me about a half dozen times before the letters stopped. I was saddened when our relationship pretty much ended when she became afflicted with some kind of Alzheimer-like condition. She kept a portion of her personality for a few years, but it would come and go, and basically, she was never the same. Bits and pieces of who she was gradually broke off and floated away forever. It was a slow heartbreaking process that thankfully I did not have to witness due to my service in the military.

My mom and aunts would always say things like, “She had a good day last time I visited her; it seemed like she knew who almost everyone was.” My stomach sank every time I heard something like that.

In 1979, before she was too far gone, I was able to present her with my first child, her first granddaughter. It’s always amazing to see the very young of a family meet with the very old. The one picture I have of that event will always be a treasure to me. You can tell from the photo that grandma really enjoyed her moment with her little granddaughter — it was precious. I should have taken more photos; it was a mistake to presume that there would be other times to do so.

I was most of the way through a 60 day deployment to England in 1987 when my acting first sergeant came knocking on my barracks room door. The Red Cross had called and asked that I be allowed to go back to Michigan; it was then I learned grandma was dying. I called my mom who told me that she “sensed” that grandma wanted to see me before she passed away. Whether that was true or not I wanted it to be so and I began the long journey back across the pond. But seeing her one last time in life was not to be. By the time I got back to Dover on a C5 Galaxy I learned that she could not hang on—she was gone at age 85. Still, I was gratified to be able to be there for her funeral. It’s hard to believe she’s been gone 22 years already. She was a fine woman.

It's all about Perspective

Last week my daughter suddenly became so sick that she needed to be admitted. Two days before that she had seemed mostly okay when she was over for her weekly weekend visit along with her little sister. I had noticed a light cough and that was it; but the following Monday night her mom texted the bad news that our daughter could not eat or drink without throwing it back up. Our last communication that night was hope for improvement. By Tuesday morning however, my 8 year old daughter was in a hospital bed with an IV in her slender little arm.

The worst times for any parent are when their children get hurt or sick. For me, at that moment, I would do anything to take their place, to go through the pain and sickness for them. If you’ve never had children it’s hard to explain, the super protective feelings that come along with becoming a mom or a dad.

My darling girl was so weak that she could not even manage words. Asking how she felt and about some of her symptoms, all she did was look at me with no expression. I wanted to cry, but a parent's job is also NEVER to show fear or too much emotion. Love, strength and confidence, always show those things and in that order.

The doctor came in and I helped him by getting her to open her mouth for a throat inspection. It wasn’t red or swollen. “Must be a stomach flu or gastritis,” he opined. From my ex's texts I learned that his single visit was the last time anyone checked on her at all until the next day. I was livid. No nurse to check her IV, no one to check her pulse, or blood pressure, or IV bag, nothing.

On that note, medical care can be a mixed bag over here. If you or a loved one ends up in a medical facility, do not take it for granted that someone wearing whites is doing their job with due diligence. Stay on top of everything yourself. In other words, do not be afraid to be a pain in someone’s ass. If the situation seems to call for it, be a nurse, and doctor too for that matter, especially if no one else seems interested in acting so.

By late the next day though, all that angst and anger was forgotten and my heart filled with joy when my little girl showed definite signs of recovery. Still not willing to eat or drink much, she was able to manage a little juice and water. What a relief! I’m convinced that the contents of that IV may well have saved her tender young life. Antibiotics, fluids and sustenance, that simple combination administered from a plastic bag into a tiny vein eventually did the trick.

Antibiotics seem like such an ordinary thing these days, we certainly take them for granted; but kids used to die of simple viruses like what my girl had right up until the advent of these wonder drugs in the 1940s. It’s true that one of the reasons folks had so many children back in the day was the ugly fact that half of them were likely not to survive long enough to pull their own weight out in the fields. These days, no more fields, no more pulling your own weight, and everyone gets to live. Are we spoiled or what?

My daughter’s plight, and by extension, MY plight, got me to thinking about the availability of modern health care. Even in a country like this, where virtually no one is “covered,” at least not to the level that Mr. Obama would like us all to be, even here, most families are able to come up with the resources to save a young life from simple infections if the need arises. The reality that IS the burgeoning population of the Philippines is a testament to that. Even here, in this desperately poor third world country, almost everyone gets to live to adulthood.

On the other hand, most folks in this country cannot afford a heart by-pass, or brain surgery, or even the regimen needed to save a mangled limb (you see an inordinate number of people missing legs over here); but many families, if lucky enough, DO have “go to” family members that they can “hit up” if necessary. In other words, they have their own "mini Obama health plan" so to speak; and believe me, over the decades, I have found myself on occasion in the position of being one of those “go to” individuals. Sigh. All of us with even a little means who have married into a Fil-family have found ourselves on that proverbial hook.

A huge relief, by Saturday morning my little girl was back to normal. The afternoon before I had stopped by after my volunteer work and was gratified to be able to get her to eat a few Fruit Loops and sip some mango juice. Kids tend to bounce back from sickness quickly; by Saturday morning she was wolfing down her lunch at home as if she had never fallen ill.

Yet, chances are, 75 years ago, she might not have survived. As bad as things might seem to many of us these days, after last week, I am reminded that by and large we live in wonderful, even miraculous, times. Perspective people, it’s all about perspective.

Sarah's graduation from K

My youngest daughter graduated from kindergarten about a month ago. I attended the commencement but was too deep into my depression funk to think about posting comments or pics about it. Reading Hope’s recent post about her kid’s upcoming first communion reminded me that I ought to go back and revisit my own little girl’s big day, and over here, graduating from K is a pretty big deal.

The last time I attended one of these things, which was last year, it was for the older of the two girls. At the time, my ex was still filled with rancor over the events that had led to our break up. She could barely speak to me without spewing animosity. I went anyway, watched the proceedings, but did not participate.

This time though, the ex was like a different woman. She told me right up front that I was going to be the parent that took part in everything that required one. I was shocked at hearing this, but of course was thrilled to death. She appears to have gotten over what happened. Thank goodness.

Notice in the pictures that I’m not in a one of them. Those photos were taken by the “other parent.” Oh well, you can’t have everything. Baby steps. Baby steps. Of course, not having to see pictures of me in them is a bonus as far as I’m concerned.

My older daughter did her kinder graduation a couple years back at their previous school, Montessori, over in Villa Sol Subdivision. If you read back to that post you’ll see me carping over what I considered to be an over-elaborate, over-lengthy ceremony. Compared to that painful extravaganza, this time, my youngest daughter’s commencement at Purok’s St. Catherine’s School was an absolute joy to attend. Lasting ONLY just over an hour, the only speech by an adult was by the monsignor, the pastor of the church and the head of the school. It was short, to the point, and I LOVED it! I am now a fan. You da man Father!

The kids sang a song or two, including the school song, and the rest of it consisted of the graduates going up on the stage one by one with each giving their memorized speech where they introduced themselves, told us who their parents are, and declared what they wanted to do when they grow up. It was very cute, and I loved seeing my brave little 5 year old march up there, grab the mike and loudly and clearly deliver her spiel. Actually, it was quite cool. I didn’t know she had it in her. Wow!

On that, here’s a cultural note. Here’s the list of what the kids wanted to be: for the girls: teachers, nurses, doctors, with maybe one going for lawyer; for the boys: it was all doctors, policemen, and a couple lawyers. Compare that to what you might hear from little kids where I come from, which would ALSO probably include jobs in fire fighting, the military service, and in business. Joining the military seems to be the last thing that would occur to any kid over here, and being a fireman is even lower on their list, if at all. Interesting.

Of course they also trooped up for the obligatory "best at this and that" awards as well at the end for their diploma. Oh, and I shouldn't leave out the part where each child went up there to meet a parent. I didn't realize I was supposed to go up there until I noticed the priest and my daughter standing up there waiting for me to get my butt up there too. 'Oh crap!' I sprinted up there (sort of) apologizing as I ran up the steps. Embarassing--and wouldn't you know it, I was the only foreigner there. What a dum-dum.

For the full slideshow of Sarah’s graduation click on this link to the Flickr set.

An Army family's service

My daughter recently posted on her family blog what its like to say goodbye "again" to their army trooper husband and daddy. He was able to come home for a couple weeks for the birth of their newest son, Lance, but now its time to return to his station in Iraq.

I can remember experiencing some pretty deep "goodbye feelings" as a military kid, and later on as a military member myself, and they all came rushing back while reading my girl's description of my grandson's reaction to watching his daddy have to fly away once again. It's heart rending. Damien really loves his daddy.

Barry is a Blackhawk pilot in Iraq on the good side of his current tour over there. He will be stationed stateside upon his return in five months, but probably has another tour to Afghanistan coming up after a year at home. Unfortunately, that year is going to fly by. I worry about him constantly. Every time I see a report about a helo incident I hold my breath.

You want to meet some "tough" stout hearted folk, go to an army base during this time of war and talk to the average trooper and their family members. Their attitudes are amazing. I assure you, some of our best people choose to serve; if you doubt that, go talk to people like Barry and his wife, my daughter, Marie. Oh, and Marie already did a tour of enlistment in the army, so she's a veteran too.

Can you tell I'm proud of them?

xxx

First Communion

Last month, my soon-to-be-eight-year-old daughter accomplished her First Communion, a landmark event in every young Catholic’s religious life. I still dimly remember mine, and just think, it occurred roughly around the same timeframe that JFK was assassinated, which I also mostly remember. Yes it's true, I really AM that old.

Alas, my girls no longer live with me. I met them and their mom on a Wednesday morning in front of their town’s large Catholic cathedral; every town in the Philippines worth its salt has one, or two or three. Most, if not all, still use the old-fashioned wooden pews with slightly cushioned kneelers.

xxxxxxxxxxxx One of my mom's First Communion Photos

My heart melted when I caught my first glimpse of my little girl in her simple white dress and veil. She ran to me and gave me a big hug. I’m trying to think of the words: cute, pretty, sweet, they all apply, but they aren’t enough. Seeing her in that white dress, white signifying purity of spirit and devotion to God, absolutely choked me up and rendered my heart.

I remember thinking, ‘If only she could stay this innocent and perfect.’ Thinking it over these few weeks later, I say, ‘Well, she’s such a sweet kid; there’s no reason why she won’t always be just like that.’ And it’s true; to Dads, their daughters are forever their sweet little girls. In fact, my oldest daughter, almost 30, now with three little ones of her own, and my second oldest girl at 27, also with her own little sweetie angel, are both still “my girls,” and always will be.
Just like many other similar "happenings" in this country the First Communion I witnessed that day was more “production” than simple ceremony. Teachers and assistants really turn such things into momentous shows, nothing at all like the mostly uncomplicated rituals that I went through as a kid. I remember my nuns using clickers to let us know when to sit, kneel and stand. We had to go from here to there and then back to the first place. We sang a few hymns and had to remember to point our praying hand fingers directly up, toward God in Heaven, as we made our way to communion and back. Indeed, I wasn’t able to see my girls the weekend before “the big communion event,” because she “needed to practice” for most of both Saturday and Sunday. I don’t think I would have done such a thing when I was 7; I probably would have revolted, or at the very least moaned and whined a lot.

Then again, I noticed that the little boy communicants were not nearly as “into” the “performance” as their little girl counterparts. I have to admit, in so many ways, little girls, and big girls too for that matter, are so much more superior to boys and especially us “big boys.” Sometimes men are just lazy punks. Sometimes?

I spent most of the two plus hours of the service with my 5 year old girl. I was proud of her. She probably squirmed less than I did on that uncomfortable wooden pew during the whole of the interminable length of time it took us to get through that holy Catholic sacrament.

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Truth be told though, I was happy to spend it with her since I get so little time with my girls anymore. I miss them terribly. Anymore, not seeing them for days at a time is like trying to hold my breath under water, and seeing them again is the same wonderful relief I get when I come out of the water and take that first big lungful of air.

What I considered to be an over lengthy service notwithstanding, I was both relieved and saddened to be at the end of it. I was happy to get off that unyielding wooden bench, but I was sad to have to leave my girls again. As for my daughter, she was proud of her new more grown-up status in The Church and was not the least put off by the length of all the pomp and circumstance that it took to attain it. I’m thinking now that the only one to feel even the slightest bit of impatience with the whole thing was cranky old me.