1940's Plumbing

Our house was built in 1940. Before I bought it, 12 years ago, some contractors flipped it, making cosmetic improvements. But, they also cut corners, as I have discovered. When I first moved in there was a leak under the kitchen sink that took a long time for my dad to fix. He finally ended up buying new parts. It seemed like some of the plumbing was new, but not all of it. Ditto to the electrical wires. I am not handy. This fact is something I struggle to accept because I really want to be handy. I want to be self-sufficient. The combination of these things – old house parts and my stubbornness to do it myself – make for a perfect storm in failed projects.

 

We have one bathroom in our house with one large, old clawfoot tub. It has a shower, connected to the faucet, but the small rubber stopped inside the faucet broke in February. We have been bathing ever since. It’s fine, we still get clean, but I’ve really been longing for a shower, especially in the heat of summer. So, I finally bought a replacement faucet/shower combo. I was trying to find a nicer one, with a hand shower component, but either I pay $90 for the same one we have, or I pay $300 for one with a hand shower. So, as you can guess, I bought the cheaper one. It seemed straight-forward enough to install. Just take out the old one, put in the new one. Only, that isn’t how it happened.

 

First, Primero promised to help me do it on Saturday but he then got a better offer from his friend and left. He had started the project and then put the tub back together in haste in order to leave. I was irate. He couldn’t let the project go because the only way to prevent flooding was to turn the water off to the whole house. We have only one shut-off valve. Apparently, turning water off to singular appliances was not common in 1940. So, on Sunday, when Primero and I resumed the work, the water was turned off. The new faucet was installed, the shower hooked up, the curtain restored, only when we turned the water back on the pipe behind the tub leaked. So, Primero tightened it. But, it would not stop leaking. And, I’m not talking a little drip, drip, I’m talking spraying water, causing a leak in his bedroom below. We tried plumbers tape, we tried a special pipe glue. Nada. The leaking persisted. So, what did we do? We installed the chandelier my mom bought for my room four years ago. This we managed to do successfully. And I *love* the light! I can’t wait to paint my bedroom (the only room in the house that has never been painted – in 12 years!) and replace the flooring.

 

Monday I left work early and called a plumber recommended to me by a friend on Facebook. They came right over, a father and son team. The piece that was leaking had been stripped. The only solution was to replace it. Except, this is a piece from 1940. So, like you need a DeLorean to go back in time and find a new one. Ok, not quite, but the plumber told me it would take two days. He did cap the leaky pipe so we could turn the water back on, but we cannot use the tub. We can’t even use the cold water because it could make the other pipe leak. So, we are forced to carry water from the kitchen sink to the bathroom to bathe. I’m glad I know how to take a bucket bath from my time in the Peace Corps, it makes the situation slightly less awkward. Oh, just in case you don’t live on the East Coast, it has been in the 90’s the past few days, we’ve been under and excessive heat warning, so bathing is a necessity.

 

And, just in case that wasn’t enough, school started for Chica Marie on Monday and I had two days of training for work, which always puts me out-of-sort. And, I’ve been trying to handle things with my mom (I will explain more about this later), concerned about how things are going with her. It has been a very long week!

What is Fair?

Last week I interrupted a conversation between my supervisor and my co-worker friend. Our supervisor had come over stating one of us (there are three of us in the department) would need to go to a training to become a tester for the new IEP (Individual Employment Plan) form being added to our computer system. The supervisor was basically going to voluntell my co-worker friend she needed to do it and it might involve traveling and staying overnight. The reasoning was, our male co-worker did not want to make the drive (how nice that he gets that option? He is the newest, but also her current favorite because he’s kind of a yes-man) and I had kids. So, here is where I butt into the conversation. Yes, I have kids and yes, it would be a logistical nightmare for me to work it all out, but the bottom line is I *could* work it out and my status as a parent should not eliminate me from any job-related tasks. I have done trainings an hour away and managed to make it work. Luckily, our daycare is accommodating that way, plus Primero can drive so that helps as well. I was pretty angry that our supervisor would just turn to the only single, childless member of our group and make her take on this task due to her personal life. She was also flabbergasted. I insisted all of our names could be tossed into a hat and have one picked out to make it fair. Of course my name was chosen, but we don’t have to do the traveling, as previously thought, so no logistics to work out.

 

A few things to note, my supervisor is a woman. She has an adult daughter my sister’s age. Our male co-worker was allowed to “not want to” based on his dislike of driving. He is married but has no children. His wife (they were both married previously to other people) has grown children. My co-worker friend has a dog, so if she needed to go away she would need to find someone to watch her dog. Sure, it’s not as much as children, but still the male co-worker has no pets and lives with his wife. The entire exchange made me very angry and extremely frustrated. Here we are in 2018 and still dealing with the same feminist issues. I’m glad I stepped in. I could have sat back and stayed out of it, but that would not have been fair for me to do. I needed to speak up, to call attention to the false and unfair assumptions being put upon my friend and women in general. She is single and has no kids, therefore her time is expendable, she should be inconvenienced more than a parent or someone with a partner? We do the same job, all three of us, how is singling her out based on her personal life even remotely fair? When it comes to work, I won’t let my children be used as an excuse, whether it be to my advantage or disadvantage. And I have little respect for anyone who does use their parental status in that way.

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Safe Landing Spot

I can’t remember if I ever posted about this before, but I was just thinking about a conversation I had with Primero probably sometime last summer. I had been reading information from former foster youth and adult adoptees and I shared some of the information with him because one adult said they didn’t like how their adoptive parents never talked about adoption. I asked him if he felt that way and he said he doesn’t feel the need to talk about adoption all the time. We read a snippet about a former foster youth who wasn’t adopted but still returned to his foster family as a young adult for help and guidance. It prompted me to ask Primero how he thought things would have gone if he had returned to his mom. I guessed we would still talk and I would see his life through social media. “Nah,” he said, “I’d still be over here all the time because my mom wouldn’t keep it together and I like it here.” It warmed my heart because that was really the focus for me as a foster parent – to give kids a safe landing spot when they needed it.

Tune It Out

Last Friday I my co-worker friend and I left work early for pedicures. It wasn’t planned for Primero to go along, but he happened to be in the office and so he decided to go with us. He wanted a manicure because he never had one before. The nail salon was pretty busy and we had to wait. Primero was across the room in a chair waiting for his manicure. Another patron came inside for a scheduled manicure and while her nails were cleaned she struck up a conversation with Primero. At one point I heard her loudly exclaim, “She’s your mother?!” Later, when she walked past my chair, she reiterated her disbelief that Primero was my son, accusing me of having a child at 2 years of age. I have written about this topic a lot and I always feel like I don’t handle it well. This time, I mostly followed Primero’s lead. If didn’t out myself, like I usually do, instead I just smiled and agreed I looked too young to have a son Primero’s age. I thanked her for the compliment, backhanded or not. I chuckled at her thinking we were siblings and pointed out that meant we have a close relationship. I know people mean well, or I choose to believe they do, but it’s not always easy to be scrutinized that way. And, I am always reminded that Primero’s mother is my age, just a few months older than me (4 to be exact – both of our birthdays are on the first of the month). I need to learn to take Primero’s approach – acknowledge what has been commented and then tune it out.

Opening a Line of Communication

 After seeing the little one’s mom at the pool, I promised to send her some pictures of the kids. She asked me to give them to her mom, to send along to her and I complied. I also enclosed a note for her. It read:

 

“I hope you enjoy the pictures I’ve enclosed. I’m not sure if you like getting them or if perhaps you would rather not. Chica Maire really likes having a picture book with photos of you and all her family. She sits and looks at the pictures and rearranges them in her picture book. Both of the kids really enjoyed bumping into you at the Cinco de Mayo festival and the pool. We would really like to be able to see you more often, if you would like. I have been considering setting up a private Facebook account, if you would like, and I could post various pictures and videos there for you to see. It would be a nice way to keep in touch. If not, I will put my personal information below. I just know it would help the kids to know they could see you from time-to-time. I don’t know how you feel about that, but if you are up to it, don’t hesitate to get in touch. Hope you are well!”

 

I didn’t really know what to expect, but I wanted to try to open a line of communication. I was surprised when I got a text message stating:

 

“Hello. This is [kids mom]. I just wanted to let you know how much I appreciate you writing me that touching letter. I was so happy to run into you those few times. It took me so much courage to walk up to you but I knew if I didn’t that my heart would regret it. I would love to be involved in anything that you see fit. Whatever it is that you would like I am more than willing to participate. Thank you so much for loving the kids the way you do. This is my phone number please connect with me anytime.”

 

I know it took a lot of courage for her to come up to us. I know it wasn’t easy and she didn’t know how I would react. I’m glad everything went as well as it did and I truly hope we are able to arrange some time for her to spend with the kids on a regular basis. And I am so happy to see her in a much healthier place in her life. I know what she has been through hasn’t been easy. We shall see how things are going forward, but at the very least, as the kids get older, they can see how hard we both tried to keep them at the center of it all.

Adoption Collateral

In March, Esperanza moved out of state with her boyfriend and his family. It wasn’t long before she expressed being unhappy and during a visit for Easter, she told me she had been staying in touch with a previous love interest who was incarcerated. She felt more like herself with the guy who was in jail and stated her boyfriend was controlling and allowed his family to talk bad about her without sticking up for her at all. Ultimately, she decided to move back to town, with the help of me and Primero. Once back, she seemed to be doing well. She got a job and while she didn’t love it, she managed to do good at it and things seemed to be moving in the right direction for her. Time to self-sabotage! She had been talking to the out-of-state boyfriend and he talked her into moving back with him, which she did this past weekend. She didn’t tell anyone she was leaving until the last minute. When she finally text me about it and I expressed concern, she insisted the boyfriend had done a lot of growing since she left. Hmm… ok. But, when he came to fetch her (I was not home) Primero said he was the same and just as controlling. He snidely promised Primero to bring her back if “she started her shit” and wanted to come back home. I worry this second time around won’t be any different but Esperanza will feel even more determined to stay in a bad place than she did the first time around because she wants to save face. I think that is part of the reason she left quickly without notification. Both Primero and I are bracing ourselves for another long trek to upstate New York.

 

I don’t usually claim Esperanza as my kid, but, especially lately, I feel like I should. I care for her just like a daughter, I worry about her as if she were my child (even though she is an adult), and I only want to see her successful and happy. More than once Esperanza has declared she feels like I’m a mom to her, so what holds me back? I don’t give her the same advice I dole out to Primero, I hold back. I feel like I’m always trying to not scare her away. I’ve been wanting to reach out to her since she’s been gone, but I haven’t because I don’t feel like it’s my place. I don’t like how she left, I don’t like that she seems to want to keep her absence a secret. I don’t think that bodes well for this move and it hurts her relationships here at home. And, of course, I miss her. I miss her popping up at the house, chatting with me about various things, hearing about the crazy customers who came to her job. I wish her well, I hope she will finally get what she wants, but I sense that she will have many more self-sabotaging episodes in her life. I wish I could go back in time and find younger Esperanza and hug her, tell her she is worth more than she thinks and to never devalue herself. I see some of her brokenness but I don’t know how to heal it, I don’t know how to reach her to help her. I just keep trying to be there, if and when she needs a helping hand. These are the things that foster care trainings do not address. These connections are the unexpected collateral to open adoption.

Kissing Frogs

From time-to-time I look back over my life and think about how things have turned out based on the choices I have made. Life is funny in that sometimes you only see the fork in the road looking back. Occasionally, you can see if moving forward with big life decisions to make and whatnot, but other times the choice doesn’t feel like one until you’re further down the road. Looking back recently, I’ve seen how what I didn’t think was a conscious choice was certainly a decision I had made. I guess at some point, perhaps subconsciously, I decided being childless was a greater loss than being single. And so I pushed all of my energy into not being childless, focusing on staying open and available to accepting a placement and becoming a mother. Could I have channeled that energy into finding a mate? I suppose, in some warped way, my mind decided adopting a child(ren) was easier than riding the tides of dating, surfing for that one fish in the vast ocean who would be my match.

 

But, lately I’ve been feeling lonely. For a while, I longed for someone to be a helper-partner; someone to conqueror and divide all the things that needed to be done with the kids and around the house. Now I seek companionship; someone to talk to before I fall asleep at night. Someone to text or call just to see how their day is going or to tell them something that is on my mind. I miss intimacy, just sharing and knowing so much about someone else. The boyfriend I broke up with in January has been talking to me lately. He wants us to be friends, but I think it’s more than that. I think he thinks he can convince me to fall in love with him and I just wasn’t before, thus why we broke up. If I’m honest with myself, which sometimes I am not, I like Toxic Friend’s brother more than I let on and his abrupt departure still has me longing for more, which is stupid because I want nothing to do with him. I deserve better than being treated the way he treated me. Still, having someone around was nice.

 

If I had changed gears after Flaco left and focused on seriously dating, might I have kissed enough frogs to find my prince instead of all these toads? I don’t know. For whatever reason, it seems like the two things – becoming a mother and finding a romantic partner – were mutually exclusive; a one or the other situation. Before Toxic Friend’s brother popped up I as fairly content on my own. It seems he kicked up this old longing that I keep stuffing away, unrequited. Stupidly, I put a new profile on a new dating app and I’m being bombarded with messages that I just can’t keep up with. I have more date offers than I do the time to go out and date. And, I hate the whole thing. I find it exhausting and most of the time I end up being uninterested – just another toad. Soon I’ll get tired of it, delete the app, and go back to being alone.

A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes

Chica Marie was sitting next to me on the couch. She reached over to side-hug me and ended with her hand on my lower abdomen. “Mommy, I wish you had a baby in your tummy,” she said gently rubbing my pudge. Startled, I glanced down at her and she grinned back up at me. “If you did have a baby in your stomach, would you let me and Love Bug rub your tummy and talk to the baby?” She was warming up to the idea, gently tapping my stomach and pretending to feel the non-existent baby inside. I wanted to run, to disappear, to be anywhere in the world but sitting next to this darling little girl and have to tell her she was dreaming an impossible dream. Instead, I took a deep breath and put my hand on top of hers. “If I were to have a baby I would let you and Love Bug rub my tummy and talk to the baby because he or she would be your little brother or sister.” Chica Marie snuggled her head onto my belly and sighed, “I wish you could have a baby Mommy.” I wiped a tear from my eye and patted her head gently, remembering how many times I had wished the same thing in the past.

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I'm Worth It

In talking with my therapist about my recent break-through realizing I allowed other’s to devalue me because I hate my own body, she asked pointed questions about my mom and how she handled things about weight and body image when I was a child. Somehow, as a child, I internalized my imperfect body as an indictment on me and thus the twisted body issues and self-hatred took root and now today I have to try to unravel a life-time of poor self-esteem and despising my body. I remember distinctly, the first time I cursed my body for not being like “other” girls. I was in third grade. My mom had recently bought me a bra, not an undershirt like I had been wearing, but an actual cup-size bra. I was sitting on the floor in our neighbor classroom for a joint class session and a group of boys were sitting behind me. They noticed the bra strap, so they reached forward and snapped it on my back. I yelped in surprise and discomfort and was chastised by the teacher for being disruptive. My cheeks burned red in shame. I was the only girl wearing a stupid bra, thus the only girl who could have said bra snapped across her back. How I wished I didn’t need to wear a bra to hide my obscene, growing breasts! From that point on, the added proof that my body was less-than rained down on me.

 

• As a teenager, my mom and I were out shopping with our best friends, another mother and daughter. They jokingly called my bras “over the shoulder boulder holders” after I complained I couldn’t find any pretty bras in my size
• I was in 6^th grade and carrying what I thought was a cool purple lunch cooler. That is until an older boy assigned to sit in front of me on the bus made fun of how large my lunch cooler was and how it must be for the extra food I needed to be so fat.
• My mom told me I would never be thin like my sister, I would always be bigger because I had a bigger frame. I was big boned.
• My mom complained about how often she had to take me bra shopping because I so quickly out-grew my bras.
• I was called “The Tank” when we played Red Rover in gym class.
• I was showing sheep at a local fair. I was wearing a tank-top, just like the other girls. I guess when I bent over to sheer my lamb, you could see down my tank-top. My mom told me I embarrassed her because I didn’t dress appropriately and girls “my size” shouldn’t wear things like that. I cried the whole drive home.
• I cannot recall how many times I have been told I have such a pretty face, it’s a shame I’m so heavy.
• I’ve been called a whale, a beached whale, Shamu, Flubber, a fat bitch, double-wide, Porky, and so many more I try to forget

 

By the time infertility entered the picture, I was already on bad terms with my body and my weight. I had many years of practice hating my body. It actually didn’t surprise me that my body would let me down again. Why wouldn’t it? And, of course, losing weight was touted as the means to the elusive pregnancy I so desired. But, you might as well have told me to fly to the moon at that point. My self-worth was tied to how hideous my body was and my mind worked that out to mean I was not worth it. I know my parents tried to tell me I was beautiful on the inside and that’s what counts, but that never seemed to penetrate the negative. My body, and therefore, my very self, were unworthy, undesirable, ugly. And, for the most part, that is how I saw myself. I tried to be a good person, but it always seemed to come back to how I looked.

 

Now, well into adulthood, I am starting to come to terms with all of this. For one thing, I do not want to pass along this body issue thing to my children. Primero already struggles with disliking his body because he is very thin. When we talked about it a few months ago, I cried and begged him to work on it now so he wouldn’t spend his entire life hating himself. I apologized for not having any answers for him. Chica Marie has made some comments about being fat and I made her say 10 nice things about herself instead.

 

For me, I’ve made a choice to love myself warts and all. Whenever I think poorly about myself or my body, I mentally recite the mantra I made up, “I’m fierce, I’m fabulous, and I’m fucking worth it.” Sometimes I just mutter to myself, “I love me just the way I am.” It might sound silly, but I don’t know what else to do to drown out the bigger, louder voices screaming at me that I’m fat and worthless. I don’t want to give them headspace anymore and these simple phrases help me remember I need to change my inner dialogue in order to change my mind. It isn’t an easy thing.

Green with Envy

Primero was gone all weekend. He left Friday before I got home from work and only came back Sunday night. My friend from work invited me out with a bunch of her friends to a local concert Saturday night, but I wasn’t able to attend because I had no one to watch the children. Instead, I sat home and watched them enjoy their time via Facebook posts. I’m not going to lie, I was pretty bummed and rather envious of their care-free Saturday night. But, as I posted my regrets on their status updates, I realized I wasn’t totally unhappy sitting on my couch in my pajamas, with my fluffy kitty on my lap. A quiet evening at home isn’t terrible. Besides, my friend wouldn’t be coming home to a little boy who says at least five times a day, “I love you Mommy wif all my heart” or a little girl who wants to curl up on her lap and chatter to her about everything under the sun. No, I could not just pop out for a girl’s night, but I feel more than blessed by my children and I’m content with our lives together.  

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No Need for Respite

Nearly a month ago I emailed my family case worker at CHOR stating we felt ready to host selective respite cases. I explained we would be able to handle a girl who could stay with Chica Marie, probably 10 or under and/or an infant who would stay in my bedroom. I have not received a call since her reply indicating she would notify the case workers at their next staff meeting. I know our situation does not lend itself to being the easiest and most open, but I need to know how the children would react to another child in the house before agreeing to a traditional foster care case. Maybe being a respite family is not helpful, now that the rules have changed and foster families are able to find their own means of childcare. When I was waiting for a placement, back in 2013, I was called many times for respite placements over the weekend. That is how I first met Primero. I guess, when there is a placement that fits into our tight restrictions, we will be called. Until then, we have plenty of things to keep us busy!

Ill-fitting Pants

I have been wearing the wrong pants. Figuratively, not literally. It’s no secret that I have not had much luck in the love category. My ex-husband was a narcissistic jerk who tore my heart out of my chest. I never really had a relationship before him, but since then I have encountered a guy who was sweet and we got along, but he never made time for me. I dated someone very intellectual but also very timid. We remain friends. I dated someone who could hardly hold a conversation with me. We are also still sort-of friends. More recently I dated someone who I just wasn’t falling for, so I broke it off and he acted like a jerk. There was someone I was really into until I realized we wanted different things in life. And my most recent whirlwind with Toxic Friend’s brother who was just looking for a sugar momma. Not to mention all the dates from online dating platforms – so many dates! Before my ex, I thought I was just not meeting someone who was interested in me. My mom told me I was intimidating. I have no idea how or why, but it seemed through my teenage years and young adulthood, she was right. I thought maybe I was too much of something (headstrong, independent, loud, fat) and not enough of something else (thin, pretty, coy, sexy, flirtatious, good at making a man feel good about himself). Now, I realize I was just trying on different pants and not finding the right fit. I deserve a nice pair of pants, that fit me loose in the waist, that flatter me and make me feel like a million bucks. It is hard, being pant-less, but I’m tired of pulling on crappy, ill-fitting pants hoping I can make them work. I am a good person, I make a good partner and I deserve someone who is willing to see that value. For too long I allowed infertility to make me feel less-worthy of a loving relationship. I would always timidly answer the questions about future children and hold my breath for the response. If any man is reading this, you don’t have magic sperm that will impregnate a woman who doesn’t ovulate! It seems to be a common response when I reveal I am infertile.

 

Most of the time I’m totally fine being alone. It is harder after being with someone, even briefly, to go back to being alone. I want to remain optimistic, but I don’t really go places to meet new people, so I try to keep my expectations low. I don’t even know where I would go, if I suddenly had the free time to be out on my own. I used to dream about meeting someone at the grocery store because that seemed a likely place given I go there all the time. A lot of people say you find someone when you aren’t looking or, if you believe in the law of attraction, you can will them into being. I don’t know about all of that, honestly. But, I do know you cannot offer someone something you do not have. I cannot offer a relationship with someone if I don’t have a solid relationship with myself first. For pretty much all of my life I have hated my body. It wasn’t what I wanted it to be and rather than strive to make improvements, I chose to wallow in self-loathing. I have found a zillion different techniques to help me improve my physical body and I almost always quit before I even start. I need to start with my mind. I can no longer hate my body because it is mine and hating it allows others to degrade me, to lessen my worth. And I deserve more than that. I deserve better than that. I deserve pants that fit me well.

Period Tracker

I was trying to find a menstrual tracker that didn’t also want to show me when I probably ovulated. I was seeking a way to simply keep track of when to expect my period, something I have not done since trying to get pregnant. Tracking my period was an obsession that did more harm than good because my period was irregular and never indicated ovulation. Since I gave up trying to get pregnant, I also gave up caring when or if I got my period. Oddly, it has been mostly regular since then, but regular does not mean ovulation for my body. Regardless, I need to set up my annual gynecological visit and I know they ask a million times the date of my last period and I had a best guess instead of an actual date. I wanted an out-of-my-head way of tracking my menstrual cycle but when I checked my phone for an app the only ones I seemed to find were directed at women wanting to know when they were ovulating so they could time intercourse to either create or avoid pregnancy. Sigh. I really don’t need that. I don’t want to get sucked into obsessing about ovulation, even if it would be meaningless since I’m without a partner. I just don’t need that added reminder that my body doesn’t work how it is supposed to. I just want some frill-less little app that says, “Hey Aunt Flo is due!” and allows me to look back at past period dates. I guess I should just use my calendar because the one I finally chose, which seemed less ovulation involved, asked me to add my partner so he could get reminders about my cycle. Are there actually men out there who would want to know that much information about my cycle? If I were a tech person, I would create an app for infertile people who just want to keep track of their damn period and not get concerned with the other things their bodies can’t do. I would make it light-hearted and matter-of-fact and maybe throw in some random, did-you-know tidbits about women’s health and the history and myths about menstruation. Has anyone used a period-tracking app they like that isn’t heavy on the ovulation, baby-making piece?

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Bone Bruise

Just as a brief follow up from my post on Monday – my wrist is not broken. I do not have a cyst. No, because those things would have solutions. Instead, I have a bruise on my first metatarsal bone. Yes, I bruised my bone. And, according to the chiropractor, it will take as long as a broken bone to heal. How did I manage to bruise a bone on the top of my hand? I thought I hurt myself doing a yoga pose used to stretch out wrist and hand muscles. Now, I’m not so sure something like that would bruise a bone. Oh, you’re wondering what you do for a bruised bone? Ice. Yup, that is all they have to offer. I have a brace to wear at night so I don’t over-extend my wrist and cause my hand to stiffen. But, during the day I have no restrictions on using it. Except it hurts. It hurts to hook and unhook my bra. It hurts to move my wrist up and down. It hurts to type. It hurts to pinch and grasp with my thumb and forefinger. It hurts to carry anything heavy. No, it is not my dominant hand, but I still use my left hand a lot and can you imagine how many times in a day I perform these activities? Sure, I could take an over-the-counter pain med, like Tylenol or Advil, but I’m not one to pop pills. So, I just have to sit around for weeks and weeks and wait for the bruise on my hand (that I cannot see, I might add - my hand looks totally normal, no swelling, no visible bruise) to heal. Great.