monday!

I have been awake for three and half hours today, and so far this is what has happened: 

1. I started the process of sorting out my unemployment issues which is a huge relief because the super a-hole I talked to last week a) told me that I would not be getting paid, b) failed to give me the forms I needed, and am entitled to, in order to appeal my non-payment, and c) was very rude, particularly when I asked if that office was where I would apply for disability after my surgery since I might not be allowed to work for 4-8weeks. When I asked he responded in a really nasty tone, "Why? Is there something wrong with you?" Jerk. Also, I was crying, which is embarrassing to admit, but really points out how flat out mean this guy was.

2. I have a job interview this Wednesday afternoon with Communities in Schools! I am interviewing for one of two part-time positions, and both sound pretty great. 

3. Ok, I guess that's all really. But really, this is a good start to my week. 
4. I am a nerd and I think stock photos are kind of hilarious, hence their occasional inclusion in my posts. I am not convinced that the hilarity I am aiming for has ever come across. Maybe the formatting is my problem? 

breaking up with my right breast

In probably a month, I will have a mastectomy. I may or may not wake up with two breasts. It's possible I'll wake up and have only surgical drainage bulbs where my breast once was. I've done a lot of convincing myself that this is fine, but the nearer the mastectomy, the more the drama of it sets in. Looking at the powerpoint from the plastic surgeon is oddly unhelpful.


Cancer is lonely. In a way it feels like being cheated on. You know that wrenching feeling of betrayal and loss? That angry heartbreak? It's a little like that, except that I get to be the first (I sincerely hope only!) of the people I am close to to experience it -the first one whose cells cheated on her, the first one whose ducts gave way to the sneaky, destructive cancer- so no one knows quite what it's like. And to think it all started so long ago! Here I've spent the last few years blithely taking mediocre care of my body, enjoying it, criticizing it, learning to be comfortable in it, and all the while it's been bested, duped in to my undoing by a couple of half-baked mutations.* A tiny parasite nibbling at my trust - can it happen again?
*In cases of actual cheating, I generally disagree with blaming the third party, but here I think it is reasonable.
Some of the loneliness is self-selected. It's hard to reach out to people with this weird need I can't even place when I've gotten into a mood about this whole ordeal that makes me think I am not the sort of company to which I ought to subject anyone. Sometimes I find myself having an internal dialogue that goes something like this: I don't want to have cancer! I want my fucking life back! Well, obviously you don't want cancer - no one wants it. Shit happens. Big breath. Go. Not reaching out in these moments is also a way of sparing myself. No one wants me to be stressed out or to feel sad or to lose it. You're going to be ok. You're going to kick this thing. Don't worry. - the collective kind mantra of the people who care about me. Oh, ok. Cool. I didn't realize it was so simple. See? I'm being a jerk just thinking about that advice.
Here's the thing - in any bad break-up, your friends are right when they say the philandering, untrustworthy party is an asshole. They're right to discourage you from getting too wrapped up in the heart hurt. I completely agree... cut loose the offending appendage! We don't need its kind around here. But we've gotten awfully used to it, so there is bound to be a painful adjustment period.

the doctors

So far in our misadventures with cancer, the doctors we have seen seem to have a pretty lax attitude about it. The surgeon here in town has pushed hard for the least invasive surgery to remove the least amount of tissue, chemo and radiation have been discussed, but my questions about recurrence have not been answered - the concerns underlying said questions all but ignored. "Your life expectancy doesn't change" has been their mantra. Since this is the crux of their beliefs about my treatment, they have also said that the treatment does not change much based on how aggressive a cancer I have, which seems all sorts of backwards to me. The surgeon has been the worst; it's like talking to a tornado. She has assumed that because I am young, my biggest concern is breast preservation. Sometimes I think that after she made that decision for me, she thoroughly shut her ears to me telling her that, actually, that's barely important at all. What is important to me is not having cancer again. My options, according to her, seemed limited to either prophylactic double mastectomy, which would only take place if I were genetically predisposed, or lumpectomy. The idea of a single mastectomy was never on the table.

I'll take some responsibility, I should have asked more and pushed harder; conversely, she should have let me get a word in edgewise. It feels embarrassing to admit, but something about interacting with her made me feel like a little kid. You know when you encounter someone who talks so fast and so much and isn't hearing you that you give up on trying to squeeze your voice into the conversation? That is how I felt when talking to her. When I told her that we were going for a second opinion and that part of that appointment would be meeting with a surgeon, she was obviously irritated. Now that we have had that second opinion, I am obviously irritated with her. I am also curious to find out her reaction to me cancelling my appointment for surgery with her to go elsewhere.

 A few weeks ago I got a call asking me to go in for more biopsies and Jason and I both wrote about that: What could be worse than cancer? More cancer. On June 19th that seemed like the worst possible news other than metastasis. As it turns out, it isn't always the worst thing you can hear. It is far worse to hear doctors making assumptions about the care you would like to receive and unable or unwilling to answer your questions.

Yesterday we went to the University of Michigan cancer center for a second opinion and learned that it is worse than we thought, but all I could think as they told us the frightening reality of my situation was, "thank god. thank fucking god that we are here. that these capable, experienced doctors are looking at my case and telling us what is really going on." I am certainly scared. Hearing what we heard yesterday was a big blow - this is more serious that I had first imagined and until yesterday we were about to proceed with a grossly deficient plan. In a way I think I needed this to make the sorts of lifestyle changes I've been dragging my feet to implement - mainly exercising. I talked to a friend of mine pretty early on in this whole process and tried to explain that until we knew more, it was entirely possible that the cancer hadn't spread anywhere, would be removed by a lumpectomy and might not be followed by chemo or radiation - a total dream scenario - as she said, "a root canal." This is no root canal.

What we knew on our way to U of M:

1. The tumor is 1.7cm in diameter which means it can be removed with a lumpectomy.

2. No one can say much about how aggressive the cancer is until the whole thing has been removed and analyzed.

3. I had serious questions about the reliability of a lumpectomy in terms of recurrence rates which no one could tell me anything about.


What we knew when we left:

also the size of this little cutie

1. Most of the stuff we thought we knew when we got there was wrong, or at least incomplete.

2. The tumor is 3.5cm in diameter including the areas around the primary tumor where the cancer has spread. That means that instead of being the size of a grape, it is closer to a fig or an apricot, which is an easy way to imagine its parts. The most solid part of the tumor that I can feel is like the pit (but bigger), but it doesn't have clean edges; the edges bleed out into the surrounding tissue which is like the fruit.

3. The "mystery spot" that showed up on my first MRI and could not be located using the ultrasound machine or reached during the attempt at the MRI-guided biopsy was found easily by the U of M radiologist. It is a large pre-cancerous lesion. i.e., if we did a lumpectomy and removed the known tumor, this area could soon be a new cancer and we'd be back to the beginning of this ordeal.

4. The two spots that were discovered in MRI and successfully biopsied in June are not (as those biopsy results indicated) cancerous. They are, however, likely pre-cancers because of their structure and the amount of calcification. These spots, too, must go to prevent recurrence.

5. The cancer is grade 2, which means it is totally mediocre cancer because the scale goes from 1-3. Stupid mediocre cancer. Really what this means is that it is neither the least nor the most aggressive, but it is pretty aggressive. The doctors we spoke to yesterday said that for seeing a case like this, they try to get patients through surgery within 30days.

6. Because there are four areas, including the tumor, that must be removed, I am not a candidate for lumpectomy; there is very little tissue that can be safely spared. Not a single person at U of M's review board thought it would be safe or acceptable for me to have a lumpectomy. I will have a mastectomy and reconstruction at some point.


7. My options for reconstruction are largely dependent upon whether or not there is cancer in the lymph nodes, so I will have a biopsy of what is called the sentinel lymph node. Lymph nodes are in a strand and they collect cellular waste and filter it. Because they are in a strand, there is one node that is the first to receive all cellular waste that flows through any particular region of the lymphatic system. If there is cancer in any nodes, it will necessarily be in this one first. The surgeon will identify this node by sending dye through my system (which will make it look like I have a giant blue bruise for up to two months!) and also a mildly radioactive substance. The radioactive substance will be tracked with what is basically a tiny Geiger counter and that is where they will operate. The bluest node they see when they open me up is the one they will take for testing.

This new diagnosis looks like bad news, and I guess it is. The cancer is more aggressive, has spread more, and threatens more tissue than we realized. But the enormous relief that comes with having that identified, with having a set of doctors who listen to us, who knew how to answer our questions, and who are treating this with seriousness, capability, and a need for immediate action completely outdoes whatever fear I might otherwise be feeling. Well, completely is an overstatement, but it comes close.

Here is the thing that is sticking in my brain: I didn't think a lumpectomy was good enough, but was close to letting myself be talked into it when my instincts said no no no. My instincts were right. That feels both reassuring and shocking. Shocking because cancer feels like a bodily betrayal, like this physical form I inhabit is a foreign place that cannot be trusted. But I still know my way around it.

something light

My favorite short story in the world is written by Amy Bender and it is called, "The Girl in the Flammable Skirt." There is this one scene in it that kills me every time, and it goes essentially like this: The narrator is a young girl whose father is wheelchair-bound. Part of his predicament is that he must wear a backpack made of stone, a thing so heavy that even the zipper tab "weighs a ton." The young girl offers one day to take it from him - to bear his burden through her day. At school she squeezes into her desk wearing the stone backpack which must be worn by someone at all times, and her teacher comes to her desk, crouches down next to the girl and gives her a tissue. "But I'm not crying," the girl says. "I know," says her teacher, "I just wanted to show you something light." That's how I feel right now - like everyone I know is that teacher. 

Asking for help is a funny thing. I have no reservations when someone else does it, none about encouraging them to do so if they haven't yet, but me? Well, that's a different story. I was raised by the sort of people who offer a lot of help to others, but who frown upon asking for themselves, like it is weak or burdensome. Maybe it's the Catholicism that does this to us; that faith's guilt is a cliched and powerful thing. Naturally, when I got the diagnosis, financial fears began to run rampant, but were allayed by the fact that we have insurance, so we're in the clear, right? Wrong. Insurance will help immensely, but it will not cover everything, probably not all of the chemo treatments, probably not all of the testing, and then there are the deductibles and the out of pocket thresholds, the travel and the missed work. Having cancer, it turns out, is crazy expensive, but for the most part it felt feasible. My biggest concern was how to sort out our limited finances; obviously most of it would be needed to pay for care, but then we have these other looming concerns, like how our house is an unfinished project and what if... what if it got so bad that we had to sell it to pay medical bills? We wouldn't be able to as is, so should we spend some of the money readying the house just in case? Is that a damning way to think?
The thing that hit me hardest about this ordeal was the threat to my fertility. I can manage the slight dietary shift. I can get better at exercising. I can go for regular mammograms and MRIs to monitor for recurrence. I can take hormone suppressants for the next five years, manage a few months of chemo, and come out the other end of a surgical twilight just fine because after all of that, life can, for all intents and purposes, go back to mostly normal. We can move past this ordeal and live the life we wanted where Jason becomes a lawyer and I am a teacher and we have a child that I grow with my own incredible (if a little untrustworthy) body. Or not. That felt like the world crashing down around me, my first indicator that cancer and its impact may change not only my present but also the entire future I had envisioned. Now, I am not opposed entirely to changes in the plan. Life happens. I get it. But this? Not this. Take my breasts and my physical comfort and a bit of my sense of security, but don't take this. I plead to the destructively productive cells in my body.
But at least the insurance will help. We can freeze embryos and try later, when the treatments are done. And then I got a call from an insurance agent who wanted me to hear over the phone, rather than via letter, that they do not cover the expensive fertility-preservation process. Not a penny of it. And I began to feel a little desperate and get a little closer to thinking maybe it was ok to ask for help because that expense is one we cannot manage alone, but I still had my reservations. Still do, I suppose.
And now to yesterday, which started as a really crumby day. I occasionally get moody and yesterday I slumped into a dark and fearful and frustrated mood which was capped by my getting rear-ended (thankfully no injuries and only minor scratches) on my way to class. F yesterday. I hated yesterday and I wanted to cry about it. A lot.
And then I looked at facebook, that weird presence/irritation/connective force and the outpouring of sweet words and well wishing and love and people actually thanking us for giving them a means to help us and the insane, overwhelming generosity and my heart swelled up a la The Grinch (not that it was so small to begin with, but damn! y'all made it grow for sure) and I couldn't stop looking at the fundraiser in sheer astonishment. I felt rescued.
I have a tendency to be self-deprecating, to underplay my value or worth, to convince myself that my trouble is my own, and I will talk about it (obviously) but I don't really want to burden you with it, and here people I have never even met have offered to help us shore up the weight of this backpack, to show us something beautiful and light.

Thank you for that. 

the scary biopsy that wasn't

I spent a lot of time explaining this procedure, fearing it and trying to work up the requisite nerve to undergo it. I woke up this morning per usual a few minutes before the alarm, then laid in bed waiting for it to buzz feeling butterflies flitting their wings in my stomach. I still couldn't get used to the idea that over the course of an hour and half, I would be repeatedly moved in and out of an MRI machine while the radiologist intermittently placed plastic grids on my breast, inserted a needle, checked its placement, pulled a sample, then send me for mammograms. So I got a prescription for xanax from our family doctor yesterday. The bottle said to take 1-2 as needed half an hour prior to procedure. Not having taken it before and fearing that if I took one and it didn't relax me, I'd be stuck in an MRI tube with a big titanium needle in my boob held up by what is essentially a plastic quilting square with needle-sized holes in it and there would be nothing I could do about it. That's scary shit right there, so naturally I took two.

Two Xanax actually made it possible for me to briefly pass out on the MRI platform (not while in the machine), and then come home and sleep for three hours more. Noted: 1 Xanax is sufficient.

They put me into the mri machine, pulled me out, propped up my left side with foam wedges to encourage my right breast to hang lower through the cut-out in the platform where they tugged it, pinched it, pulled it, secured it between two plastic plates, and continued doing so over the course of two hours, which would have been awful if I hadn't taken a bit too much Xanax. As it were, I didn't mind terribly, until they pulled me out of the machine for the final time and sent the radiologist to explain that the suspicious spot is too close to the chest wall for her to be able to reach it through this biopsy process, or apparently any biopsy process because the ultrasound guide failed and the mammogram couldn't pick it up either.

All of this means that the only remaining solution is to wait until the say of surgery, have yet another MRI wherein a fine wire will be inserted into the breast and left sticking out like an antenna, and the surgeon will then follow that wire down to said suspected cancer, remove some tissue, and send it for testing. Of course, that will only happen if I have a lumpectomy. If I have a mastectomy, they will remove 98% of the breast tissue so this pain in ass spot will be taken care of.

So now we wait again and hope that Monday when we go to U of M we will get some of our questions answered.

good news, tempered

Today I finally got an appointment scheduled with the University of Michigan, which was made that much sweeter by our rather useless visit to the oncologist yesterday, which went something like this:

Hi, Dr. French. I have some questions -

1. If mammograms are not great imaging tools for dense, fibrous breast tissue, am I being reasonable or unreasonable to think them a little untrustworthy in terms of monitoring myself for recurrence as follow-up care for a lumpectomy?

2. If MRIs are the other monitoring tool I'd use after having a lumpectomy and they also miss things, why should that make me feel any better about monitoring after surgery? Read: Given the apparently poor tools for post-op monitoring, is it safer to have a mastectomy?

3. What does the data say about rates of recurrence for cancers with micropapillary features? Should I be concerned about regional recurrence (in the armpits or other breast), or local recurrence?

4. I understand that whether I have a lumpectomy or a mastectomy, my life expectancy does not change. What I am worried about is what happens between now and me getting old and dying. I don't want to go through this again. Am I more likely to go through this again if I have a lumpectomy?

To which the kind doctor said my concerns were valid, these were smart questions, that regardless of the type of cancer (read: micropapillary/aggressive or non-invasive) the treatment methods don't really vary, and that she would have to do research to find the data I hoped she could give me. Friendly, not great at listening, unable to answer my questions. My confidence in the cancer center staff is really shooting through the roof right now. Maybe I'm being too harsh. It is entirely possible that I've worked my hopes up too high for the doctors at U of M and maybe they can't tell me anything more than what Dr. French has said. At least after I hear it from them, I will feel more confident that what little information we have is all we have, rather than deluding myself into thinking someone out there can tell me more. July 23rd I will find out.

After getting home from visiting Jason at work to send the last of my medical records, lab reports, and images to U of M, I came home and got a call that is working hard on whittling away at my hopeful mood.

The insurance company does not cover pre-treatment cancer fertility services. She said it three times as I tried to ask questions, assuming there must be some way to reroute her into reneging on her statement. Coverage for all fertility services denied for pre-treatment cancer patients - retrieval, storage, and in vitro are not covered. not covered not covered not covered $15,000 $15,000 $15,000 It was on the tip of my tongue, but I still somehow neglected to ask if I would be eligible if I weren't a cancer patient. From the way she kept saying, "no coverage for pre-treatment cancer patients, in vitro services are not covered " it felt like that would be the case. I guess the real question that stuck to my tongue is this: From the way she phrased the insurance company's denial, it would seem that I would be eligible for fertility services after treatment, but what would be the point then? Because here's the real trouble - it is the treatment that threatens my fertility. And here is the insurance company saying they will not cover fertility services until treatment is complete which is five years and potentially post-fertility loss from now.

*Update: I misunderstood what the insurance agent was telling me. They do not cover fertility services at all, for anyone, cancerous or not. 

forgetting and good news

The past week has been doctor-free, which has been both nerve-wracking and also a relief. It's strange how quickly the switch from constantly seeing doctors to not seeing doctors made me feel like everything was fine - like the cancer episode had been little more than a bad dream, an extended mix-up of medical records, someone else's life into which I'd trespassed. I don't feel sick, therefore I must not be sick. I have been reading and going to class, made a quick trip to a little lake with a couple of my favorite people and while our brief trip was riddled with disaster, the charming toddler in tow made it worthwhile as she bravely wandered into the water, sat down and beckoned minnows to her pink pail with outstretched hands, and kindly set to work filling a hole in the sand as its architect patiently continued digging. I find myself forgetting on occasion that anything is wrong.  

As it turns out, I need those appointments with doctors to keep me grounded in reality. This is indeed my life. It's funny the things that make me feel celebrating these days. Tiny shreds of what would otherwise not be great news send me in search of champagne. What's that you say Dr. Christianson? I'm a little less likely to have to go through this again? Hallefuckingluiah! When is the party?

I heard from the genetic counselor today, which whipped me back into this cancerous reality with good news; I do not have a genetic predisposition (at least not one of the three identified mutations that testing can identify) for breast cancer which means a few things:
1. I can pretty much stop worrying about having ovarian cancer later in life and having my ovaries removed (cancers of the breast and ovary are genetically linked).
2. I am leaning more toward lumpectomy than prophylactic double mastectomy.
3. My risk of recurrence is lower than it would be if I had an inherited genetic mutation. This is a confusing explanation because I have a cellular mutation - that's how the cancer happened in the first place - but it is not inherited, so it isn't built into my genetic make up. I keep meaning to make a "logistics of cancer" post but I haven't gotten around to it yet. Maybe this weekend.
4. I don't know how this works out mathematically for me since I do not have the mutations the geneticists were looking for, but I do know that unfortunate women who do have them are three times more likely to have recurrence. This is a sad yardstick by which to measure my good news. I'm not doing it to be cruel, it's just that this number is available and I cannot find a comparable probability for my own rate of recurrence. 

What next? The mysterious third anomaly from the mri scans... When I had the mri, the images showed three spots the radiologist wanted to biopsy, which they most often do using an ultrasound machine to guide the needle to the area in question. For whatever reason at my last biopsies, they were unable to find said mysterious third location with the ultrasound machine. The doctor took samples of the two spots she could find and offered me two options regarding the third: 1. Before surgery, have an mri, the images from which will be used to guide a wire that gets inserted into the breast and ends at the location of the mystery tissue. The surgeon will follow the wire, remove some tissue, then have it tested to see if it was cancerous. The surgeon would, as I understand it, make her best judgement about how much tissue to remove. 2. Have an mri-guided needle biopsy wherein I lay in the mri machine, have images made, and a doctor in the room uses the images to map out where the biopsy needle should go. This is not guaranteed to actually get a sample of the tissue in question.
I picked option 2. I'd rather not have more tissue removed than is necessary (if I'm considering breast conservation, I don't have much to sacrifice), and either way I'm going to have an mri and have something stuck into my breast, and I'd rather that process serve a very focused surgery than one that involved guesswork or exploration.
Now, I go back to waiting. Waiting to hear from U of M about going in for a second opinion and more guidance on our fertility options. Waiting to hear from the surgeon about writing me a referral for the biopsy of the mysterious third anomaly that showed up in the MRI. Waiting to meet again with the oncologist to discuss treatment options. A week ago I felt overwhelmed thinking about surgery, treatment, etc. and now I am tiring of the waiting. I am ready to hit the operating table. 

the women

I have five aunts - five intense, messy, feuding, passionate aunts - who helped raise me. Two came to visit this weekend. Let me first say, there is something soothing, rewarding, and equalizing about hosting them in my house, the one Jason and I own and have tried to fix up and make into a home. As an adult, I have still been so used to going to them, being in their houses, and something about that dynamic makes me still feel like a kid. But, as we sat in my living room and talked shit about mammograms and mammogram techs and big boobs and small boobs, a sincere equity pervaded the conversation. Sure, they feel protective and want to do some care-taking, but this visit was important for pointing out to them that they don't necessarily need to, not yet at least. Conversations on the couch and lunch all together is the best care-taking right now.

Then, of course, we started talking about my dad. My father is a sad case. He is anxiety-ridden to the point of near total social withdrawal, a recovered alcoholic with a solid history of abuse (some he received, and some he perpetrated), a tenuous grasp on reality, a girlfriend who thinks she was both Marilyn Monroe and Mary Magdalene (or was it that she changed her mind and was only one of them? I forget), a connection to a doctor who has not evaluated him, but who nonetheless gives him prescriptions for mood stabilizers and anti-anxiety medication. My father, who spent a number of our rare visits during my childhood reminding me that I intimidated him. Who sneaks over unannounced to leave trellises and broken rocking chairs in the garage while I am home rather than coming to the door. Who can barely look my husband in the eye. And I have to tell him that I have cancer.

His sister made the astute observation that he will likely have one of two reactions, and that either is a little painful for me: 1) He fails to react at all because he is improperly equipped do deal with his emotions in general, and is especially lacking with regard to me. 2) He reacts too much, tries too desperately to insert himself into the role of dad he has never fulfilled and that is possibly more than I can bear. I have not arrived at my adulthood feeling a fatherly void that he can yet fill. He has not arrived at middle-age with any idea for how to be a part of my life without forcing the dad card, and it is one neither of us know how to play.

I am not angry with him. I just cannot for the life of me figure out what a relationship with a "dad" looks like at 28 and 53, and I am exhausted from having spent a good deal of time and energy being the one to prop him up in his sporadic efforts to play father. He is sick and I am well aware, but I still cannot muster a sense of personal responsibility to him that makes me want to throw myself into the ring and help him fight. It makes me not want to tell him, because I will have to coach him through it. And maybe that makes me selfish or weak. I guess we all have our hurtful shortcomings.

As my aunts and I continued talking, and I explained the genetic test to them, it occurred to me that I have grown up in an overwhelmingly female family (interesting given that my mom's family is made up of mostly men), which may explain why the family I picked (read: my closest friends) is also predominantly female. 

A quick history of the lack of men in my up-bringing: My father was largely absent, and I have only two uncles by marriage - one I grew up with, the other I cannot stand who luckily has not been a huge part of my life. I knew, but did not feel particularly close to my paternal grandfather who died when I was fourteen. I am close to one of my five maternal uncles, another died when I was very young, the others are either reclusive or imprisoned. My mother's father died when she was just a few months old. When all is said and done, I have been raised with three men, and by at least ten women. We are a fierce crew.

And it was here that I found some solace, which I think I will probably explain poorly. I have spent at least a little of my time since The Diagnosis feeling vulnerable because of my anatomy (yes, I know about 1% of breast cancer diagnoses are men and I don't mean to diminish that experience; I'm sure it's chock-full of difficulties because 1. it's cancer, and 2. it's a typically female cancer and that seems like a weird trespass on masculinity) and at present, I am feeling like this funny family with its deluge of every variety of womanhood is exactly why I managed to find some mental stability, to emerge free of serious addiction problems, when all the odds were stacked high against me. It is why I am a feminist and a fighter and lover and why I try to be generous and patient and why I worry too much and don't deal well with real fears and am prone to bouts of lazy depression and why I know (even if it's hard) that they'll last about as long as I let them. It is why I am strong enough for this.

It is also one source of my crazy appreciation of my husband. Not many men could (or have!) so deservingly win the hearts of such a tough crowd, but when I can sit with my aunts in our living room, laughing his supportive praises and see the gratitude in their eyes, it reaffirms that we've got a good thing.