While I'm anxiously awaiting the arrival of my hookworms, I'm more focused than ever on the things I've lost over the last eight years. In general, I'm a positive person, in love with the world around me. But this disease has given me innumerable frustrations, and it's sometimes hard to see that my life could be another way. Even now, as I wait for that package in my mailbox, I can't even imagine what it will feel like to have some or most of my symptoms go away. I simply can't fully remember my previous life.
So, for the next few days, I'm going keep track of everything I do to show how limited this disease has made. These are just three average days. There are certainly not the worst of my experience. Nor are they the best. Just so-so. What we'd call "not too bad." It will also serve as a reminder in six months or a year, of just how I've come. I'll hopefully be able to look back at this brief diary and shake my head, celebrating how good I feel.
So, for the next few days, I'm going keep track of everything I do to show how limited this disease has made. These are just three average days. There are certainly not the worst of my experience. Nor are they the best. Just so-so. What we'd call "not too bad." It will also serve as a reminder in six months or a year, of just how I've come. I'll hopefully be able to look back at this brief diary and shake my head, celebrating how good I feel.
Three days in the life of Mixed Connective Tissue Disease
MondayNo work today, just staying with my daughter and working on homeschooling, running errands, housewife-type stuff.
6:45 am - My alarm goes off. It's 15 minutes earlier than usual because my youngest son has an assignment to finish before school. Still, even though I know I have to get up NOW, I lay in bed. I'm exhausted and my feet hurt. I'm dreading stepping down on to the floor and feeling the pain. Also, I'm very warm in my bed, and that means that the cooler air in the room (69 degrees) is going to make me itch. 6:55 am - I'm in the bathroom taking my morning pills (two Claritin, one Plaquenil, one omeprazole). As usual, I silently wish that the Claritin would work instantly. 6:57 am - "Hey buddy, time to get up. You've got that assignment to finish." "You woke me up early, though, right? It's not 7:00 yet?" I take a deep breath and tell a little lie. "No, buddy, it's still a few minutes before 7:00. You've got time." 7:00 am - I'm standing outside with the three dogs while they do their business. The skin on my calves and the back of my hands is burning as the my first round of hives for the day pop up. "Hurry up," I say to my dogs, all old now, and in no hurry whatsoever. I'm wearing sweatpants, long sleeve t-shirt, a hoodie, a winter coat, warm socks and real sheerling lined slippers. It's 39 degrees outside, and my skin feels like someone has me in the deep freeze. 7:10 am - I feed the dogs and the tortoise, and start a load of laundry. I make a quick bowl of cereal for my son and look longingly at the empty coffee pot. I have once again quit coffee, my gut not able to take it. The cold urticaria causes stomach upset, too, and in combination with anti-inflammatory I take every night, it's just too much. But if I close my eyes, I can actually taste the coffee in my mouth. I mindless scratch my calves with the rough soles of my slippers before stopping myself. 7:30 am - Crawling into my partner's bed next to her, she is warm and push all the itchy parts of me into her. "It's 7:30 already," I say and she responds with a quiet swear word. She worked late last night, but has to get up for work again now. "And I have to apologize for something." "No you don't," she says, still mostly asleep. "I promised I'd get a bunch of laundry done this weekend since you had to work, but I didn't do it. I'm not sure what's clean for you to wear today." "You didn't really feel up to doing laundry this weekend," she answers. "It's fine." We cuddle like this until I have a sudden hot flash and we're both cooking under the blanket. I get up reluctantly, and the hives on my calves scream at me. 7:45 am - My son leaves for school, and I silently go back to bed. I'm too tired to face the day, and my homeschooled daughter sleeps later anyway. I'm asleep within five minutes. 10:20 am - I can hear my daughter walking around upstairs and it wakes me up with a jolt. I immediately notices that my calves aren't itchy anymore, and run my hands over them to find that the hives are all gone. 10:45 am - Me and my girl are waking up slowly. She's a teenager, so it's to be expected. I've just had an two and a half hour nap, so I have no idea why I can't wake up. I'm on the couch, tucked under two blankets, as I am every time I sit down for any length of time. 11:30 am - My daughter and I are finally ready to start our school work, after I change the laundry one more time. The walk down the basement steps is difficult. I've taken to leaving the clean load down there and having one of the kids bring it up later.
1:00 pm - I've done some school work with my daughter and we've picked out our last educational units for the school year. I know I should do more with her today, but I just can't. I've got brain fog and my words are coming out jumbled. I've repeated myself I don't know how many times, and my daughter is now patiently guiding me through the lesson and filling in the blanks when I stutter. I am grateful to her, but am frustrated with myself. I excuse myself to shower, knowing that will bring its own round of frustrations. 1:15 pm - I am standing in the shower, rubbing the medicated shampoo into my scalp for my psoriasis. It smells terrible, but works wonders. Showering is probably the single most challenging thing I do. It is exhausted. My arms feel like they weigh 100 pounds a piece, and the longer I'm in the water, the harder it gets. I've got the space heater running in the bathroom, and my towel and bathrobe are heating up. 1:30 pm - Back in my bed, under the covers to stay warm, I'm listening to my daughter singing upstairs as she gets ready to go run errands with me. She is happy today, and I know I need to get myself pumped up to be decent company. 2:00 pm - I'm getting dressed, all of which I can handle today except my socks. (My daughter helps me with that.) I put on a tank top, a heavy sweatshirt, long underwear, jeans, heavy socks, and a scarf. I brush my teeth and notice that there's less blood in the sink this morning. I have a cluster of mouth ulcers on the gums by my bottom molars and they've been causing some real problems. Next, I carefully apply the titanium based UV blocker (70 SPF) that I don't dare leave the house without. It is 55 degrees, but I have to bundle against both the cool air and the sunlight. My brain fog is not much better, and it takes twice as long to get it together and head out the door, but we manage it. 2:20 pm - Driving to the grocery store. I've added giant sunglasses and cotton driving gloves to "my look" (using that term very loosely) to protect me from the sun. 2:35 pm - I decide to make a surprise stop at the community theater where my best friend works. Like me, she has autoimmune diseases. We are pals in this journey. I pull into the handicap spot right by the door, and go inside to find her. She's in the lobby and wants to introduce me to the new director, who is in her office upstairs. As the two of grab the handrails to pull ourselves up each stair, my daughter patiently follows behind. I can imagine how ridiculous we look, but then try to think about something else. After I meet the new director (Her: You used to work here? Why did you leave? Me: I got too sick to work three jobs. Her: *crickets*), my friend and I visit for a while back downstairs in the lobby. We decide that we'd like to spend Mother's Day together, playing Scrabble with our partners cooking for us. 3:10 pm - We walk into the first grocery store we'll visit today. Since I really am too sick to work full time, or to work three jobs, buying groceries is tricky. Our budget is always tight, and my food stamp benefits get cut a little every month. We always have to visit two or three stores to get everything we need within our means. 4:45 pm - I am leaving the last store, exhausted. We've made record time, and I'm sure I'll pay for it later. My feet, knees and hips are all screaming at me for the abuse. I could fall asleep when I sit down in the car to drive home, but I steadfastly decide not to do that. "Talk to me," I say to my daughter and she obliges. She knows I'm tired, and does her best all the way home. 5:00 pm - We've unloaded the groceries and I'm putting them away with my son, home from school. He's surly and I don't have the patience for it. I'm tired and I'm sore, and his anxiety about the end of the school year seems trivial to me. I know that's not fair, though, so I try to at least seem empathetic. 5:30 pm - I'm on the couch. The kids are doing chores. This is my reprieve before it's time to make dinner. Homemade chicken and dumpling soup, nourishing for all of us. It'll take me about an hour, but it's worth it. 6:10 pm - I can't put it off any longer. I've got to start dinner. As it simmers on the stove, my daughter and I fold all of the laundry I washed throughout the day. My hands don't want to work though, and I keep dropping things. 7:30 pm - I'm finally calling my family to the table. I sit down gratefully, and stir my too-hot soup. My feet feel like balls of fire at the ends of my legs, and I've had to limp to the table because of hip pain. 8:15 pm - I give out the assignments for after dinner clean-up and return to my spot on the couch. I'm excited to catch up on two PBS shows. My partner and daughter tolerate this, my son ditches us for more exciting stuff upstairs: Skype and video games. 10:00 pm - I can't stay awake anymore. I'm nodding off sitting completely upright. I want to get up right now and head to bed, but going to bed is so much work. I doze through the last half of my second show. hoping no one notices. 10:20 pm - I kiss my daughter good-night and start my before bed routine. First, I feed the cat and lock the door, making sure all the lights are off. Then I head back to my room where I fish out my night-time pills (one Plaquenil, two meloxicam, two fexofenadine) and put two blobs of the medicated gel on my cheeks. It's too thick to spread around right away. I have to let it warm a little. I decide not to change into a night gown because the inside of my lounge pants are nice and warm. Getting into bed with bare legs can cause another round of cold urticaria, and I'm just not up for it. 10: 40 pm - Covered up and cuddling with my cat, I'm ready to doze off. My partner comes in to say good-night, and I can barely focus on what she's saying. I want to seem alert and interested, though, so I try really hard. After a few minutes, she gives up and kisses me good-night, getting a healthy smear of my goopy medicine across her nose. I wipe it off and apologize, right before I fall asleep. |
TuesdayA regular work day, just an eight-hour shift like most people work.
7:00 am - I hear my partner's alarm go off in the other room and feel like I'm going to cry. How could it possibly be time to get up again? I've slept like the dead, but I feel like I could sleep another two or three hours. I pick up my phone and scroll through FB for a couple of minute to try to wake up my brain. In the bathroom, I take my morning pills. I wish they were energy pills. 7:10 am - "Hey buddy, time to get up." He answers me as only a teenager can - with grunts and groans, as he waves me away. "I'll be right down." 7:15 am - Outside with the dogs, shivering. "Come on Babies," I yell to them, trying to sound as friendly as possible. "Let's go." I'm shivering, despite being bundled up again, but I'm not getting itchy. This disease is such a mystery to me, but I'll take a morning without a rash. 7:45 am - "You're running late," I say to my son as he shoves his toast in his mouth. I'm walking past him with a load of laundry in my arms. "I'll be right back." I am passionate about my morning routine of waking up my family, making sure they have breakfast, taking care of the pets, doing laundry and washing up any stray dishes in the sink. There are some days when these are the only tasks I accomplish all day. And it's important to me feel like there are still things I'm responsible for, no matter what. It gives me a sense of accomplishment, and keeps away the feelings of worthlessness that so often accompany illnesses like mine. 7:55 am - My son is running around, searching for his back pack and tennis shoes. My partner is standing in her room, trying to decide on her clothes for the day. I want to crawl back into bed; watching all of this activity is exhausting. 8:20 am - The house is quiet again. My son and partner are off for the day and my daughter hasn't gotten up yet. I desperately want to go back to bed, but I can't. Sallie Mae has inexplicably increased my student loan payment and I have to call them about it. I've been putting it off, but the payment due date is coming up and I just have to take care of it. On the phone with the customer service person, I ask about income based repayment. He asks for some information about my employment status, and I reveal that because of my illness I can only work 20 hours a week. My voice cracks as I'm talking to him, because I really do want to work full time, and pay all of my bills and save for our future. But I just can't, and it breaks my heart. Then, I remember that my hookworms are on the way, and I have a moment of brightness. "But I'm starting a new course of treatment," I say hopefully. "Maybe I'll be able to make regular payments soon." 8:40 am - I am on the couch under my blankets, watching my cat chase some dust in the sunshine. My dogs are asleep, and snoring, and I'd like to doze off as well. But I know my daughter will be up soon. She has a job interview today, so she'll be nervous when she gets up. I want to be available to keep her calm while she gets ready. I try to turn on the TV, but the remote won't work. It's really, finally time to change the batteries. I get out two new AAA batteries and set them right by my knee. Then I open the back of the remote and take out the two old AAA batteries. I put them far from me, all the way over on the coffee table. I do this because changing batteries can be a very tricky endeavor for me. I frequently put old batteries in and recycle new ones. But this morning, I'm being careful. Then, I get a text message on my phone. I glance at the screen, determine it's not important, and then back to the remote in my lap. I'm confused for a minute about why it's laying there with its guts out before I remember that I'm changing the batteries. I see two batteries by my knee, and two on the coffee table. Which are which? It would make sense that the ones I just took out of the remote would be right by me, and the new ones on the table, since I haven't used them yet. Or was it the other way around? I stare, confounded, for several long moments. I decide to try one set, and know that if I've chosen poorly, the remote still won't work. I pick up the ones by my knees and as I'm installing them, I remember that they're the right ones. Things like this happen all the time. 9:15 am - She comes downstairs and I ask if she wants a smoothie for breakfast. While I'm making it, I notice that my arms feel heavy. It's hard to lift the big bag of frozen fruit up to pour some into the blender. It's really hard to peel the foil lid liner off the new container of yogurt. As I watch it blend, I hope it gives me some much needed energy. 10:25 am - My daughter leaves for her job interview, riding with her stepmom. I watch her go, and then head immediately for my bedroom. I can lay down for 30 minutes before I have to get ready for work, but only if I make myself do it right away. 11:00 am - Time to get up (again), and it's only a little easier than my 7:00 am wakeup had been. Getting dressed is difficult. Not because of pain, today, but because of muscle fatigue. Everything feels heavy and my hands just want to drop each thing I pick up. I had been planning to do something cute with my hair, but holding my arms up long enough to create any sort of style is just not going to happen. I guess I'll clip the front back in a barrette. Again. Today's outfit consists of a long sleeve t-shirt, short sleeve t-shirt, long sleeve cardigan, long underwear, jeans, warm socks and a scarf. It's supposed to be 57 degrees today, and I'm hopeful for a day without hives, but I'll have to say covered like this. When I brush my teeth, there's more blood from the mouth ulcers than yesterday, but less pain. I'll take that. I put my sunblock on and my skin prickles from the cold. My cheeks instantly turn bright red and I wonder for the thousandth time about a way to make the sunblock warm before I apply it. 11:25 am - My daughter is home from her job interview earlier than I expected. It turns out I could have driven her after all, and I feel a little guilty that I had someone else run that errand for me. I try to dismiss the feeling, but it lingers. She chatters to me quickly as I finish getting ready. She doesn't think she'll get the job, but she's full of energy and good cheer. I feel bad leaving her for the day. I give her a quick hug and run out the door. "Message me later," I say as I get in my car. 12:00 pm - I'm opening the doors at the store where I work three days a week. Often, we have a customer or two waiting for us, but not today. I lug the giant sign outside and place in it's spot near the front of the store. I bend over to pick up the door mat and put it in the entryway. Everything I do is very slow and methodical. I don't have much energy or strength, and I really don't want to make any mistakes. When I'm fatigued like this, I make all kinds of stupid errors. I vow that today is not going to be that day. 12:15 pm - The store is still empty, so I sweep the floor, being careful to get each dry leaf and speck of anything. Our store is about 500 square feet, and it takes me half an hour to get the sweeping done. The floor looks great when I'm done. 1:00 pm - After sweeping, helping a couple of customers and restocking our inventory from yesterday's business, I'm ready to sit down. The manager keeps a stool behind the counter for me, and I climb up to my perch. 1:15 pm - My manager comes in. I can hear him coming down the stairs from the office, and I fell guilty for sitting down. I jump and go find something to straighten. This guilt comes from inside me - he knows and respects that I need to sit at work when we're not busy. But on days when I feel especially bad, it seems to me like they'd be better off with a more productive employee. 1:50 pm - I'm ringing up a customer, and I notice that the computer doesn't list a price. I edit the entry to have a price, and finish the transaction. Then, I realize that I've actually just added the item to inventory instead of selling it to my customer. I wasn't even on the right screen. And I noticed that it looked wrong, but assumed that I was just remembering it incorrectly. I have to make my customer wait while I correctly ring up his purchase. 2:30 pm - We are working our way through five decent size boxes of inventory. He's entering the new product into the computer system and I'm putting it all way. Lots of back and forth across the store and into the back room. It's not hard work, but it's a lot of motion. My knees start to kick up a fit and my hands swell for no apparent reason. Suddenly, I'm dropping stuff again - product is just falling through my fingers and to the floor. I pick it up and resolve to move more slowly, but more carefully. Putting away the new inventory takes forever. 4:40 pm - I'm so hungry that I'm sweating. It happened quickly, but I've got to eat. I bundle up and head out to a nearby restaurant. I order my usual and eat quickly. 5:00 pm - I walk another several blocks to the bank, keeping my face down out of the wind. It feels good to stretch my legs, and I smile at the hope that I'm burning off at least half of my lunch on this short trip. (I know I'm not, but a girl can dream.) 5:10 pm - I'm on my way back to the store, but the temperature has dropped and the wind has picked up. My coat is zipped all the way up and my hands are shoved in my pockets. I've got my chin inside the fleecy lining of my coat, but still, it's damn cold. As I enter the store, and breathe warm air, I start to wheeze. I bolt to the back room and spend a few minutes getting the wheezing under control. All of the furnaces and water heaters for the building in our back room, so it's toasty back there. I lay my cold hands right on top of one furnace, knowing my manager would freak out if he saw this. The costochondritis pain rears it's ugly head, making it feel like I have two cracked ribs and an elephant sitting on my sternum. I breathe carefully and gingerly as I return to the sales floor. 7:10 pm - It's a busy evening in the store, with several customers needing attention at the same time. I handle this the same way I do my kids - I prioritize. I'm moving slowly still, the back of my right ankle is swollen and rubbing fiercely against the back of my trademark red patent leather Dansko. I double count the cash customers hand me while I'm ringing them up, and triple count the change I'm giving back. I've become quite famous with my co-workers for "stealing" change from customers. They jokingly say I should be a carny; I'm just so nice and smooth talking, no one notices that I've kept $20 from them. The truth is, though, this breaks my heart. I'm a precise person, and I've been cash handling since I was a young woman. I've won competitions, even. And now, about the half the time, my drawer is wrong at the end of the night. 7:45 pm - Fifteen minutes until the store closes and I have a splitting headache. I suspect that I also have a fever. I'm radiating heat out of my face (my cheeks are so red!) but shivering every where else. 8:00 pm - I bring the sign in from outside, lock the door and turn off all the lights. I'm dreading counting the drawer because it's been off every night that I've worked for weeks. It's so frustrating to make the same mistakes over and over again. Fortunately, I've done an exceptional job today, and it balances on the first try. I'm surprised and ecstatic. I bundle up extra tight and leave the for the night, locking the door behind me. 8:40 pm - I'm home again, finally, and simply exhausted, A short date with my thermometer confirms my suspicion of a fever. 100.6. Not very high, but as my doctors tell me all the time, I take a fever reducer every day, so I shouldn't really run an elevated temp at all. I change into my PJ and sit on the couch, letting everyone's chatter roll right over me. We push play on a movie we started a few days ago and I'm grateful to see that there's only about 25 minutes left of it. 9:30 pm - I have been as involved as I can be after working all day, and it is time for me to go to bed. Once again, it's hard to make myself get up and close down my day but I do it. Lights out, door locked, cat fed, pills swallowed, medicine smeared on my face and off to bed. I'm pretty sure I'll be asleep before 10:00 pm. |
WednesdayAnother day off. At my job, I work three days a week, doing my best to schedule two days off between each work day, so I can rest enough to be able to work.
6:50 am - My partner stumbles into the bedroom and climbs into bed with me. I snuggle up tight against her, grateful for the closeness. I am acutely aware of the pain in my hips and knees as I lay there. I want to drift back off to sleep for the last precious minutes before it's time to get up, but it hurts to much. Instead I focus on the sound of my partner's breath. In just a couple of minutes, I'm having another hot flash that has us both roasting. I do my best to tolerate it, but she's miserable being that close to a furnace. As soon as the alarm goes off on her phone, I jump up. 7:00 am - My feet hit the floor and they hurt! I look down to see that the skin is stretched tight across the red, swollen stubs at the end of my legs. I stagger/limp into the bathroom to take my pills and start the day. 7:10 am - Have I mentioned that my son's room is up the stairs from mine? Yeah. The trip up there is usually difficult for me. Today, I have to lean my shoulder against the wall for extra support and go one slow step at a time. "Hey, buddy." He rolls over and waves at me through bleary eyes. "Not feeling well?" he asks me in a mumbled voice. He can tell by looking at me that it's a bad morning. I feel terrible about that. "I'm okay, buddy. See you downstairs." 7:45 am - My self-assigned morning chores are done, and my son has left for school. I'm sitting on the couch, with my blankets and my cat. I have a passing interest in playing a few rounds of a game on my phone, but I know I don't yet have the concentration it requires. Instead, I stare out the window across the room and think about nothing as my partner finishes getting ready for work. 9:10 am - I am still sitting in the same place, but I have got to get up. I have physical therapy this morning, as I do about two to three days each week. I've been in physical therapy more than I've been out for a couple of years now. The HMO I had before only allowed six visits for each ailment, but I've switched and now have unlimited. This is very good for me, because without the specialized exercises in PT, my muscles would get even weaker. We work on one body system at a time. Right now, it's my shoulders and upper arms. The weakness had gotten so pronounced that I could barely carry the laundry baskets. My last round of PT focused on my core strength and balance, because I had started falling again. Kind of a lot. 9:40 am - "Hi, I'm so sorry I'm late. I know I'm late. Can he still see me? Can you tell him I'm sorry?" The receptionist just laughs at me, and waves me through to the PT room where my therapist is waiting for me. "Lucky for you, my next appointment canceled, so we have plenty of time. Are you ready to start?" I nod with more enthusiasm than I feel. PT is one of the only things that truly helps me, so though it is often grueling for me, I do try very hard while I'm there. 10:15 am - As I pull out of the parking lot after my appointment, I am caught in a freak hail storm. Big pieces of hail pounding down on my car and everything around me. Suddenly, my swollen feet and painful joints are explained. Storms like this wreak havoc on folks like me. 10:40 am - I walk in the door to my house just as my daughter is getting up for the day. "That's a helluva storm," I say. She just nods silently. Teenager, you know? "I have to leave again in a little bit," I say to her. I have some articles on climate change that I want you to read for our meteorology unit while I'm gone." She nods again. I sit down with my lap top to email her the articles and wish I could just stay on the couch all day. 11:15 am - I have changed out of my PT clothes and into actual clothes (read: the waist band of my pants is not elastic) to run my errands. It was hard, especially after my difficult morning at physical therapy. My muscles are burning, and everything inside my left shoulder feels crunchy. I apply another coat of sunscreen to my face and kiss my daughter good-bye. 1:45 pm - I'm home again and exhausted. While I was driving, I felt the back of my hands prickle and took a quick peek at a stop light. Sure enough, a small patch of red spots were popping up on each hand. Baby hives. Hive-lets. It's inexplicably cold today, given that we're well into May. I fumbled around for a pair of gloves as I go. It takes constant vigilance to prevent the cold urticaria and it's so tiring. I run out to check my mail, and to my great surprise and delight, my hookworms have arrived. I am so thrilled that I dance around my dining room, waving the envelope and singing to myself. My daughter gets excited with me, but despite her obviously genuine enthusiasm, I'm not sure that anyone else can really understand my joy in this moment. What if this is the beginning of the end of this disease for me? What if, when I put these worms on my skin tonight, I'm actually heading down a path that leads to my wellness? I can't even imagine what that would feel like, but I'm so hopeful. 4:30 pm - My daughter and I have just finished watching "Lilo and Stitch." I requested a happy movie to match my happy mood. Alas, this one has made me a little weepy, but it was a nice way to spend the afternoon. I've got two new mouth ulcers starting up, and I have to force myself not to play with them with my tongue. It only opens them up more, making them more swollen. I wonder idly about dinner, but then decide that it doesn't really matter, because my worms are here. In just a little bit, I'll open up the package and get ready to apply them. I can't believe this is really happening. 6:15 pm - Despite my excitement over my new worms, I am stuck on the couch. How many times I can say "exhausted" in one three-day diary? It's time to make some dinner happen for my family, though, and I pry myself off the couch. Fortunately, my partner has brought home an already mostly prepared meal for us. I just have to heat it up. 7:30 pm - My family is lounging around the table after dinner, telling stories and laughing. I'm eager to get started with my worms, but this moment is too good. I'm only vaguely aware of my swollen, sore feet and hands as my son cracks us with one zinger after another, and my daughter sings "Mother Knows Best" from Tangled. 9:00 pm - All the dinner mess is cleaned up, all the homework and school work is done and it's finally time. After years of waiting, it's time to give myself hookworms. (To see how that happened, go here.) 10:00 pm - My family and I are watching a TV program and I'm starting to feel the tell-tale itching under my bandage that means it's working. I'm so very tired, and really aching to be in my bed. But, I'm still too excited to sleep. 11:30 pm - I'm finally dragging myself to bed. Like every night, I'm tired and in pain and puffy in several places. But tonight I'm going to bed with a lot of hope. It'll be a few months before I feel better, but it has started. And that's the best thing I've felt in a long time. |