The Rest of the Story

This is the rest of Myrna's story.  This is not a tragedy, at least not as far as I'm concerned.  This is a story of how dogs adapt, how they roll with the punches life throws at them with an acceptance that we could all emulate and be better for it.  But, it is also another of my cautionary tales.  Dogs can't tell us what's wrong, so it's up to us as owners to pay attention to the ways they do communicate and then not wait to act on them.  During the last decade, that has not been something I was very good at, unfortunately.

I no longer remember what it was that caused me to take Myrna in to the vet about four years ago now.  Something concerned me about how she was acting, but I can't really recall the specific sympton.  I was in the throes of trying to care for both my kids at that point, so it's all a blur.  I do remember I took the soonest appointment I could get, so I saw a vet I had never seen before, and he declared he thought she had Cushings disease, which impacts the adrenal glands of older dogs.  He was pretty sure about it.  And I can see why.  In reviewing the symptoms of Cushings in canines, Myrna exhibited each and every one.  So, he tested for it.  The test came back negative.  He sent me home with something to treat whatever symptom I was concerned with at the time, and all I can really remember is that I was relieved that it wasn't the scary, expensive sounding disease he had thought it was.  But she didn't get better, I took her back again, he was still convinced that's what was wrong with her, so we repeated ourselves, with the same results.  One of the symptoms of Cushings is diabetes, but I did not know that at the time.  Back home we went, my patient, quiet dog and I.  Then, one weekend she became very ill, wouldn't eat, was urinating liberally, had visually dropped weight in absolutely no time at all and, most frightening of all, crawled under the back porch and would not come out.   So I called the vet's office on a Sunday, scared and crying, not sure what was happening. and a woman doctor called me back.  I didn't know her, but she was very sweet and sounded concerned.  When she saw Myrna the next day, she was the one who immediately pegged it for diabetes.

By then, Myrna was seriously ill, so this new vet sent me to a clinic down in far south Austin and Myrna went there essentially to be placed in doggie intensive care.  The goal was to try and regulate her blood sugar.  But it took a while, and that means it cost a lot of money.  Most of our money at that time was funneling to try and help the kids, so Greg was concerned that I was trying too hard and spending too much on a dog who was too far gone.  But, I wasn't ready to give up on her.  We kept going, treating her with IV's at first, then they kept her for a few days to work on finding the right dose for her so I could take her home.  I made the commute back and forth every day she was there to see her as she patiently submitted to being poked and prodded.  Finally, she was ready to come home to begin her new life as a diabetic.  She would receive injections twice a day, have a special dog food, but essentially be like any other diabetic patient.  It's a serious condition, but it can be controlled and it can be lived with.

However, probably because it had taken so long to identify the diabetes, and her blood sugar had become so out of whack, she almost immediately began to lose her sight.  Within a couple of months she was totally blind.  Once again, I wondered if we would lose her.  But, she adjusted fairly quickly.  A few times bumping into things and she was able to make the adjustments and could find her way around the house.  The back yard was a little more problematic, and she fell into the pool a few times.  Worried that she would fall in when I wasn't there to help her out, she became an indoor dog, coming out front with me in the morning to feed the deer.  The deer, for their part, became so used to her that she literally bumped into them from time to time, they had stopped moving out of her way.  The main thing is that she became a creature of severe habit.  She did not like deviating from it.  If Greg tried to take her out front on a weekend morning so I could sleep, she would docilely go, but then come nudge me to take her out again because that's how it was done.

Christmas threw her off a little.  We have to move things around to accomodate the tree and that first holiday in particular caused her to have one pretty bad day learning how to navigate around once more, but then she got it down and things would be fine.  She did better on the following holidays, seeming to remember what to do.

We had one other bad scare with her back in October 2007, where she and a couple of the other dogs contracted a virus, and I had to learn how to give her an IV to keep her hyrdated and try and get her past it.  But, she, as always, submitted to the treatment without complaint.  And the sweet, concerned vet who finally identified her condition?  She remained Myrna's vet to the end.  She is a highly compassionate, wonderful woman with the ironic name of Dr. Grimm.

Dogs don't have particularly keen eyesight as it, so maybe that's why she adapted so well, but she was just that kind of personality. She knew she was loved, she loved us in return, and the rest was all just the way it was. There were sacrifices everyone made to make sure she was cared for. For one thing, not just anyone could watch her if we wanted to go out of town, so it was highly unusual for Greg and I to be gone at the same time. And, to afford her supplies, the other dogs get their shots at low cost clinics. Was all of it worth it? Yes, I will tell you that it absolutely was.


Everyone knows that Cheyenne and I have a special bond, but I think, if Cheyenne could talk, even she would tell you that Myrna was the calmest of them all.  Cheyenne would tell you she was glad Myrna was her sister, and she was lucky to have known her.  Then she would want to know if you brought any Goldfish for her.

Myrna's Story

I have known for a while that it was inevitable that Death would find our home again.  We have a house full of large breed dogs in the double digits in terms of age, one of which suffered from a chronic illness.  I have been steeled for it, taking every day it didn't happen as a bit of borrowed time.  Yesterday for one of my family, time ran out.  However, rather than recount that long, awful night which was preceded by the long, awful week, I have decided to spend this post telling Myrna's story as a celebration of a good dog who gave us much joy.

First, however, I should say this:  losing a pet is a special kind of hard.  It's not comparable to losing a daughter, of course, but there's something uniquely painful about it, and I think it's because dogs are so completely yours.  They love you totally and expect modest things in return - food, water, some kind of shelter and a bit of love in return.  The rest is gravy on top.  And they are also completely your responsibility.  They never have the free will and choices a human does.  You even often choose their ending.  While that is dictated by their suffering, and it's a humane thing to do (for most of us not named Michael Vick), it is still your decision when the final moment will be, and that carries with it a burden.  Therefore, I will never question the depth of someone's sorrow at losing a pet.  No one I know will need to be embarassed around me because they think I'll scoff at their mourning in light of my heavier loss.  Because I will understand it.  I have been there before and will be there again, probably fairly soon.  I feel it now.  How I counter it, however, is to remind myself over and over until I actually believe it that my pet lived a good life, and hopefully I helped give it to them.

This is my baby's story.

Myrna is named after Myrna Loy, whom I have blogged about here before.  I got her on Myrna Loy's birthday in 1996, which just so happened to be my birthday as well, so it seemed fitting, even though I spent her lifetime spelling her name to everyone too young to know the reference, which meant almost everyone I came into contact with.  The story of how she came to me is Veldman family lore.  Greg is rightfully proud of pulling it off.

His sister Cathy, who lived in Ft. Worth at the time, worked with a woman whose Dalmatian had a litter of puppies from a Lab daddy and needed to find homes for them.  Cathy, knowing us to be suckers for anything on four legs, made that fact known to us and Greg decided a puppy would be a good birthday present.  He was still working at night back then, so after I left for work that day, rather than going to bed, he made the approximately 400 mile round trip to pick up one of the litter.  The drive back, with a six week old puppy in the car, was an adventure.  He had prepared a box lined with towels for the return trip.  She very immediately had destroyed that theory with a bout of nervous puppy diarrhea.  So, he had to sacrifice one of his Statesman t-shirts (the one with the bats on it, I'll never forget, because it was a cool shirt, and I had one too that I had to gladly surrender over to him to compensate) to re-line the box.

In the meantime, I had no clue what he had up his sleeve, but I was having quite the work day.  It was a Friday, I remember, and my boss had to be out of town, but another manager had to deliver a budget to a client that day, and he was worried about it.  So, he asked me to make sure she did it and give her whatever help she needed.  Well, that meant, essentially, I did it for her.  The woman in question could absorb her own blog post, as could the psychology of why I allowed her to manipulate me into doing her job, but suffice it to say that I had a client expecting something, and so I had to get it to him.  She, on the other hand, ended up leaving!  Actually leaving work with the deadline not met, knowing it was my birthday.  I was astounded, but what does one expect from someone who has a full length fur coat!  So, as I was scrambling trying to finish this thing up and fax it over, Greg was calling and calling, wondering when I'm coming home.  I became irritated.  I knew he wanted to give me my present, but for crying out loud, it could wait!  I don't actually remember when I finally left, but it was after dark in the middle of summer, so late...  I trudged home, madder than a wet hen, and walked in to find out why he was anxious.  There was this adorable little puppy he had worked so hard to get to me!  I was instantly in love (and madder than ever at the horrible woman who had kept me from this little delight for so long).

Myrna was like a little Dalmatian that had black paint poured over top her.  It didn't quite coat her belly and the tips of her paws, where the white spotted fur still poked out, and she would grow to have the sleeker build of a Dalmatian, as opposed to a Lab, but not the nit-witty temperament they can be known for.  But, at first, she was just a puppy like any other, playful, whiny, needy and requiring some potty training.  I can remember sitting out on the back porch with her in the middle of the night reading The Green Mile, which was just coming out as a serial novel at the time, waiting for her to do her business, hoping it wouldn't take too long so I could go back to bed.  Occasionally I would get caught up in the novel and we'd stay out there for a while, causing me to have to go to work a few times on precious little sleep.

And, despite my having had multiple dogs for multiple years, she was the first dog I had obtained young enough to have puppy breath.  And she did, believe me.  That awful smell that is at the same time so wonderful.  She would wriggle in my arms and try to reach up to my face to lather it with kisses that would nearly gag me, but you know it means you have a real-life puppy who loves you, so it becomes appealing in its own awful way.

I have a photo somewhere of her in those early days, maybe even from that night, curled up in her dog pen next to my cat Merlin, also black with just a touch of white.  She is smaller than he is in the picture, two black dots on a white blanket.  She didn't stay that way long.  But, as she grew, she mellowed.  Summer turned into fall, and I remember one day deciding to splurge and order the Penn State-Michigan game on Pay Per View, and she cuddled with me on the floor in front of the television most of the game, simply content to lay there and have her belly scratched.  And that is how she was most of her life.  She was gentle and sweet, wanting to love and be loved, not really worrying how to get in the closet to chew the shoes, or breaking out of the fence to explore the neighborhood.

I think I have mentioned before that having this many dogs causes them to behave more or less as a pack.  As such, there is a heirarchy, and there is always an Alpha.  Myrna spent some time as the Alpha, but I always got the impression she just stepped into the role because somebody had to do it.  She didn't object, there were no fights, or even growling, when Cheyenne became old enough to assume the position.  During her tenure, however, she was a gentle Matriarch who cleaned her charge's ears and eyes, nudged them along if they mis-behaved and watched demurely over her flock.  She continued in the role of nurse all her life - even after she was blind, she would seek them out and clean them off.  Then, at night, after a long day of caring for the group, she would climb into bed with me, lay her head on my pillow and stretch out like a little human.  I would drape my arm over her, nuzzle my nose against her fur and drift off feeling secure, loved and comfortable.

Then she became the one who required nursing.  That tale tomorrow.

   

Little Family Dramas

OMG, shoot me now!  Really, guys, how much more do you think I can shoulder before they just absolutely collapse under the weight?  And by "guys" I mean the people under the roof with me right now.  I'm walking a fine line between Greg and his sister who is staying with us right now.  He doesn't want his family to know he's leaving his job, but she's down here trying to figure out what is next for her family, who are needing/wanting financial assistance and thinking we should be in a good position to give it to her.  Of course, that would be awkward under any circumstances, but it's made worse because how do I explain to her that I'm not so sure we're not going to be living under a bridge without telling her why?  Okay, that's not true, I admit it.  But, if it comes to it, I'll go back to Pittsburgh and live under one of those bridges at least - they have a lot of them, and some are conveniently located near Heinz Field, so maybe that's not such a bad Life Plan.  But, the bottom line that is true:  no, I am not in a position to invest in real estate that her family can live in.  While I know that it may seem totally reasonable for someone to think I might be thinking of investing along that vein, yeah, well, not right now.  Right now, I am seriously worried about hanging onto this piece of real estate.

And, right now, this piece of real estate is in utter chaos.  I've got boxes of Mother's things all over the place, Greg's bringing home his office things (try explaining that to his sister!), Marissa has to be out of her dorm by the end of the week and has been gradually bringing her things home.  Really, I guess none of that matters all that much - it's temporary, it'll eventually get sorted and absorbed, but the physical chaos adds to the mental turmoil, and I feel fidgety and unsettled.

It's so weird that after whining all my life about not having a larger family, I would now like to be as far away from this little drama as possible.   I find myself building a high degree of resentment toward the man who fathered my children.  Yet, I continue to be reticent to speak to him openly and honestly.  For one thing, he's easily irritated lately, which irritates me in turn.  But, I also know - and share - the reason he's seeking a drastic change.  What if he's right?  What if this is the only way he can see his way up this deep, deep well we're in?  Doesn't he have the right to hoist himself up?  Yes, he does.  So do I.  At what point do we need to be physically apart to do that successfully?  I think time would answer all of these questions, but the reality of modern life is that bills don't wait.  Such weighty questions, and I feel so flighty.  What's a girl aging woman to do?

Remnants

I am about to head off to the three storage units to spend my second Sunday in a row in false, florescent lighting, stale air and dust going through Mother's things.  The house is in chaos, having still not folded in all the items we brought back from last Sunday.  It's almost like a reality show contest where it's things trying to make the cut, not people.  The boxes that make the first cut are brought back to the house and then have to be gone through again, and I have a giant trash bag and a Goodwill box filling up behind me.  The fifty duplicate photos of me in the seventh grade, for instance, definitely made it into the trash.  I begrudgingly kept one of the pasty faced, limp haired, polyester ridden youngster because I thought Marissa might get a kick out of seeing it.  But, in general, only a very few precious items will make it into the house already jammed with items from Greg's family home, Kelsey's fledging independence that never really took flight, and items from my home back in Montana that Mother never did have room for.  Somewhere in all of that we have accumulated our own stuff.  When I think about selling the house and fleeing from here, which I do often, I despair at what it would take to pack it all up and actually move with it.  Yet, yesterday when I met Marissa's boyfriend at the storage to have him hopefully take some of it off my hands, I felt vaguely guilty for being so anxious to part with the things that made up Mother's home.

These are the things that made up her life:  that horrid purple and green chair, that heavy blonde colored bedroom set with the Formica top that hailed from a time before I was born and was old and ugly in my estimation long before now.  The stereo cabinet that we once thought was so awesome and state of the art, but has only been used as a table top for years and years to hold Mother's boombox.  The World's Best Grandma mug that I had Kelsey give her one Mother's Day, the Steeler insulated jug that Mother kept with her constantly full of water.  The ten million straws and paper plates that made me cringe to think of the environmental nightmare I was creating by throwing them away.  These were all pieces of her and were important to her.  These are the things that defined her to an extent.  Of course, I know that the force of her personality was what really defined her and what I will remember her by, but there are tidbits of her life that she kept as reminders of the places she had been and the things that she had experienced that I feel torn about what to do with.  They mean nothing to me, really, but they did to her.  For instance, on a piece of Ohio Valley Memorial Hospital stationery I found her carefully handwritten rules of the base golf course.  She had a famous story she liked to tell about her forays into golf on that course:  she signed up to take lessons and would say that she was so awful that after two of them the golf pro committed suicide.  Then, after a carefully timed pause, she would crack her devilish smile and clarify that he did actually kill himself, but it had nothing to do with her.  Nonetheless, she never golfed again.  Yet, she kept those rules in what I'm calling the Money Box of momentoes.

She had an ornate box full of the photos and things that were most precious to her and it was in there.  Along with a parking ticket with a man's name written on the back.  What was that all about?  Was the man handsome maybe, and did they have an impromptu flirtation right there at her illegally parked car?  All these intriguing mysteries mixed in with a dozen pair of slippers by the same company in different colors, and every recipe ever published.  So, do I keep the little red parking ticket, never knowing why she did, or does it go in that big trash bag behind me?  For now, I'm keeping it. 

Some Random Thoughts

Reason 9,999 You Should Not Work with Your Spouse:
In case there are some people who do not know, my husband and I work for the same company.  How that happened is and of itself sort of an interesting story.  We have worked together several different times over our lives together actually; it's how we met about a zillion years ago.  I am not a proponent of spouses working together after our various experiences.  I think by and large we conducted ourselves fairly well, but there have definitely been times when it's been a Bad Thing for not only us, but the people we work with.  But, for the last eight years or so - maybe longer, I've lost track - he's been with the company I have been in and out of.  I've been his boss, he's been mine.  This time we're in different locations, so it's been okay.  Until today.  Today the news broke across my location that he resigned his position.  I was innudated by people asking me, "So, what's he going to do?" and congratulating me, thinking it's surely to take another, better position (because, I mean, who would be nuts enough to leave a secure, fairly well paid position in these insecure times?).  If you ask me a direct question, I will give you a direct answer, so I told people flat out that I was not happy.  Some tried to defend him, others were just uncomfortably silenced, others told me they would pray for me.  Nobody can tell me how I'm supposed to make my mortgage payment, however.  They don't know.  Neither do I.  Finally, after over-hearing this play out over and over again, my co-worker came over to catch me dabbing away tears and told me to think about going home.  I did think about it.  I didn't do it.  Finally, word spread and people left me alone.  Much later in the day, the woman who runs the local branch (my group actually works for the corporate office which is in Dallas, we just share space with the Austin staff..long story) and apologized.  She had heard I had been approached several times.  She allowed that she probably would have gone home.

The Weird Advent of Social Networking on the Web:
I noticed when I signed in last night that I had lost a follower.  I don't have many, so it's pretty noticeable.  A weird array of emotions passed through my mind:  did I write something that offended her, did she finally just get sick of my constant downer posts (I would), or did she simply finally think, "There's no way this stuff is true, no one has this much bad luck."  I don't know, but I thought hard about it, wondering if I should try and spice/lighten up my blog.  Finally, I convinced myself that it is what it is.  Grief is ugly, it's raw, it's up and a lot of down.  I want people to see it.  I want people who have daughters and sons who are struggling to know that the threat is real.  You really can lose a child if you're not vigilant, and I want them to know how awful, really awful that is.  So, I'll keep going.  Hopefully I'll touch someone and they'll do something different and better for their children as a result.  I like it when I can make someone smile too, but right now, I have to confess, there's not much to smile about in my neck of the woods.  I think this is all just part of the journey I have to make now.

However, I got to thinking about how different socializing is these days.  It's awesome to be able to communicate with friends you have across the country or find people you haven't seen in years.  I love that part of online networking, but I have also been "unfriended" on Facebook too, and had the same emotional reaction I did last night.  Why did they drop me?  What did I do?  I know some of my friends have experienced the same sense of bewilderment.  This is a new thing for us older folks: having a definitive count of how many people value you enough to befriend you online, and knowing when they no longer feel you are worthy.  But not why.  This is not how my generation grew up.  We could be a lot more passive about it if we wanted to actually.  If you didn't want to be friends with someone any more, it was a lot easier to simply fade out of their life without them even noticing for a while.  You just didn't write or call anymore.  When caller ID came along, you could avoid their calls, and things were great.  Now, you know exactly who and when you were dropped, but you can't even ask why because they've blocked you, so you're left licking your wounded ego.  This is something that my daughter may take for granted, but it still really awkward for me.

Big Ben, You Suck:
I have no idea whose less than brilliant idea it was to open the NFL Draft during a week night, but Steeler/Pen fans were faced with the hard choice of whether to watch the draft and get a peek at our future or watch the Penguins present.  I am pretty sure most of the people in the 'Burgh are doing what I'm doing:  watching hockey.  And for the same reasons; 1) it's fun and 2) they never mention Ben Roethlisberger, they don't show his face, and we can just focus on the sport at hand.  I am following the draft on a separate tab online, but I can barely even bring myself to do that because every time I look, I see the sidebars about "Will he be traded?", "Should he be traded?", and ruminations about his six game suspension, yada, yada, yada.  I generally hang on every word I can see about my beloved Steelers, but I've seen enough of the logo splashed across every media outlet in the country for weeks now in a negative light. Ben, my wounds are open and you are the salt.  Stop shaking it in there, buddy!  Get your head on straight.  The one on top of your body.  Put the other one away.  In the meantime, Go, Pens, Go!

Two Lives Unfold

I've heard so many people who have lost parents describe it as a roller coaster ride.  I've had a similar feeling often during the last few weeks.  On the one hand, this is how it's supposed to go.  A parent is older, it's inevitable that at some point you will be faced with this.  If the parent was sick or suffering, then that release from the pain is a comfort, but they're your family, so you still miss them.  And so on.  Then, of course, there's all the incumbent work that comes after the death to close down a long life.  Memories come flooding back, some good - hopefully most good - some maybe less good, but still part of the fabric that makes up one's life.  Nothing brings all of that home more than going through old photographs.  I have only just scratched the surface; Mother kept everything, but she kept it in no particular order, so every box I open is a surprise, but I have run the gamut of emotions in just the cursory examination I've been able to give them.  I've marveled, I've laughed, I've cried (often), and I've cringed (very often) when I realized that we actually not only were seen in public wearing some of those outfits, but thought we could be photographed in them!  I thought I would share some of what I have found so far as a little mini-journey through the lives of my parents.

Where are the pictures of me, you ask?  Oh, just wait, I'll entertain everyone with some, I am sure.  For now, let it suffice to say that I have made the realization that the primary difference between the photos you have of yourself and those your parents have of you is this:  you tend to edit the ones you keep of yourself.  They're the most flattering or they are at least funny if they are not flattering.  Your parents, who love you generally no matter what, keep all the photos, no matter what you look like.  Theirs are therefore the more realistic account of how you really looked during your youth.  And let me just say that some of the outfits I remember because I thought I looked pretty good in them...yeah, well, I didn't!

Sliding

When you experience an extreme irrevocable trauma like we did when we lost Kelsey, it's kind of like being dropped suddenly into the bottom of a deep well with no provisions.  I have this mental picture of that well in The Ring, remember that movie?  You wallow around in there for a while, maybe looking for a door or another easy way out that isn't there, some of us longer than others, then you have to make a decision:  you are either going to climb up and out or stay down there and die.  And, I'm finding, it's every man for himself on the way up.  It is very hard to reach out to help someone else when you're clinging to dear life yourself.  Did I really think it would be straight shot up to the top of the well?  Well, yes, actually, I think I did.  I think I sold myself that bill of goods so I'd have the courage to even try it.  The fact that it isn't, apparently, comes as no particular surprise however.  What did surprise me was that I got pulled back down by a member of my own party.

When we all got back from Washington, we all had to re-evaluate where we were down in the well.  And, without exception, we had slid back down the walls at least a bit.  For my husband, he really hadn't made it very far up to begin with.  I may never be able to know his thought process, but from my observation post he finally got to the point where he had to do something to get himself climbing or he was going to die down there in that well.  How he decided to help himself is the controversy.  He mentioned vaguely one time a few weeks ago as I was trying to head out the door for work that he wanted to make a dramatic change, but promised we would discuss at length before he did anything.  Last Monday, again as I'm trying to pour coffee into the travel mug to head to work, he announced a major decision.  One he has not shared with the rest of his family, and he has asked that I not divulge (and, of course, some of them check into this blog from time-to-time, hence the vagueness).  One I agree that, in the long term, he should pursue, but not the way he's doing it.   For a couple of reasons:  he'll be left with no direction, no reason to even get out of bed in the morning, no matter how much he hates what pulls him up.  And, secondly, we have bills to pay.  If you can't figure it out from there, well...

I was sent reeling by this decision.  And it's hard to know what the right thing to do is.  For me, this is catastrophic on many levels, but can I really deny him what he thinks he needs to get past this dark place in his life?  Am I obligated to stay and support him (literally and figuratively) while he works through this?  Within a few short days of my blogging about the state of our marriage in comparison with the dire predictions facing most couples coping with a loss, I am suddenly not at all sure we won't fall into that 75%-80% category.  Is grief recovery really that selfish?  Because what he is choosing to do is extremely selfish.  My reaction to it equally so.  Does it have to be in order to get past it?  Who knows, this is stuff grief counselors are paid to help with, but who can afford that now?  The isolation I feel suddenly is pretty complete.  I am left contemplating how quickly things can change for the worse, but how hard fought every little joy or measure of comfort is.

What's that?  Have I talked to him about it?  Oh, hell no.  I have not.  I know that I should, but when I contemplate how I can tell him how this is impacting me without trying to tear him down or belittle his own need for recovery, it doesn't play out well.  And, I think he's not ready to handle his part of the conversation well either.  It's pretty clear he's on a power play, and I'm just a penalty killer, trying to keep him from scoring his goal.  I'm on the other team right now.  And, frankly, I'm not up for a fight.  I have a lot of work to do trying to sort through the jumble of Mother's affairs, liquidate her stuff that's jammed in those expensive storage units.  I have a job, thank you very much.  I simply do not have the energy to handle this. How can he believe I really do want him to be happy again, or at least find some measure of peace, when I'm not sure he's pursuing the right course and he is so convinced he is?  Because, who knows, maybe for him he is.  Everything is a jumble.  Oh, and by the way, Big Ben, opening up my home page every single day to see your face attached to some new piece of information about what a scumbag you are IS NOT HELPING!!

The only conclusion I've made so far is that the worst part about the well is that it's so dark and cold in there, it's very difficult to find your way.