What should be the response?

Yesterday, Congressman Newt Gingrich came into to North Carolina to raise money and fired a few shots at Senator Edwards. In the course of the evening, Gingrich challenged Edwards to a debate about poverty. The full newspaper article and details of the debate can be found here.

Personally, I can not believe Gingrich would want to get into another debate. Perhaps, he forgot the way President Clinton embarrassed him during their debate on Medicare. But from his comments, it looks like his whole attack will be an assault on teachers and poor management of schools.

Now, we can all agree some schools that are poorly managed. But many just do not have the funds to educate the students. That is beside the point of why I think Senator Edwards should accept this challenge.

The main reason is that Gingrich will expect Edwards to have the same old liberal tax and spend answers. Edwards’s ideas on minimum wage, matched savings accounts, and college credit are real programs not tired campaign themes.

I would want the debate on CNN or MSNBC. Instead of just a few reporters witness the event, let the nation decide the winner. It would give Senator Edwards the opportunity to show off the leader that he is, and prove he has real solutions to the problems we are facing.

Of course, I am no political strategist. But it is just my personal opinion. What do you think?

The Official Congenital Heart Ho-Down…


Take two baby steps forward, now one back, three tiny skips up, now one back, stand in place and wait, wait, wait, and jump all the way back to square one. You are now in the middle of the congenital heart ho-down.

I’m back to square one. Maybe, it is not the drugs the docs now say. Maybe, it is the ventricle getting weaker and weaker. Maybe, it is time for major corrective surgery. The type where getting back off the lung/heart machine will have the same odds as winning the hand after pocket aces. Good, but not great.

I continue to play the game. It is my life. I wonder what normal people do with all their time. I wonder if they watch TV, go on vacation, see movies, read books or what instead of time at doctors’ offices.

I wonder what it is like to feel invincible.

I wonder what it is like never to hear the tune that plays in my head.

I Used To Have Dreams, Used To….

I believe every boy in his childhood imagined: hitting a home run in the World Series, throwing a Super Bowl touchdown, or making the last second shot in the NBA finals. I was just like them. Whole days could be spent counting down from ten to zero as I tossed a basketball toward the rim. Of course, if I missed, I was fouled and got to do it all over again.

By fifth grade, I knew I sucked at all competitive sports, and my dreams changed to bass fishing championships or owning a baseball card shop.

My dreams matured with me. By twenty-seven, I had given up most of my truly outlandish dreams but still held a few close like closing a million dollar gift, writing one publishable book, or being a State Representative.

I think dreams are good. They help take us away from the routine of life, and if they are achievable, a goal line.

I don’t have dreams anymore. I have fears. Fears are what keep running in my head.

I fear my left ventricle is failing.

I fear I will pass out every time I drive.

I fear being alone and an “episode” happening.

I fear walking down the hall.

I fear the doctors are missing whatever is wrong with me.

I fear slow, painful death.

I used to dream. I used to dream about success at work. I used to dream about being normal. Now, the only time I don’t fear is when I am in dreamland.

Without Anxiety, A Pretty Good Weekend…


On paper, my weekend looks decent. I am not bragging. Believe me, I know this past Friday, Saturday and Sunday were not the greatest of all time. Nor do I even think it was a great one for me. But on paper, it was just a shade below par. Which considering how much my past few weekends have sucked, that makes it pretty damn good.

On Friday night, S, F, and I went over to A’s, the math genius, loft. Soon the loft would be sold to yuppies kicking A and his roommates to the street. The inflated price the owner would be getting was sick. The fact that someone would pay double the value to live three blocks over from the edge of the chic neighborhood sad. But it gave a good excuse to throw a party and to see friends of friends.

Saturday night, C drank margaritas while I ate flan. C inspected the establishment to see if his parents might enjoy the place during their upcoming visit. The fact that they lived in Texas, home of the best Mexican food North of the border, did not sway C away from taking them to a place where he and I spoke more Spanish than any of the employees.

Sunday, I watched the Portugal game with S and F. After the game, we hung out and then ate at a Persian restaurant. A low-key day mostly spent talking about work, friends and failed relationships.

Like I said, not the greatest weekend ever. But it beat watching reruns of CSIs. It would have been my best weekend in two months, if not for the anxiety.

Not once during the weekend, did I have five minutes where I did not think to myself. “How am I feeling?”

It started with a full-blown panic attack while driving home on Friday: lightheaded, tight chest, the works all while at a stoplight sitting next to a cop car.

I left the party after an hour and a half. I could feel myself get hot and another attack on the way. F graciously drove me home and then went back to free booze. My only contribution to the event had been mixing vodka and cool-aid for a newlywed couple.

With C, it was easier. The flan relaxed me. But I still continently fretted (yes, I a male, fretted) when the next bad attack would happen.

Sunday was the worst. I went through all of the motions. Except, now thoughts of it may be my heart came back. Every time I turned in a chair or walked to the bathroom, I asked not, “will I feel bad?”, but, “how bad am I going to feel?”

Anxiety won this weekend and Monday as well. It’s Tuesday now, and I am feeling better. Hope I get a W today.

But First Lady Reagan Told Me Not To….

Being from the “Just Say No” generation, society has bombarded me, through commercials, TV specials, songs, and classroom lecture, with the knowledge of certain fatality if I did not avoid drug use. By fourth grade, we knew even one joint could destroy us. By twelfth grade, most of us discovered that was not true. It took a lot more. And some set out to find exactly how much.

There was always the exception to the campaign. Medical drugs were right, good and should be taken to help you feel better. Or in my case, they kept my quality life near normal.

In college, a friend who would have eaten lead paint if he heard it gave him a good buzz inspected my pills. “What would these do?”

He was holding a bottle of Monopril up to the light. “You know the feeling you have after running? Being out of breath, heart pounding, can just sit?”

“Yeah.”

“Those would make you feel that all of the time.”

“Oh.” He placed the bottle down and started playing with my roommates pipe cleaners.

None of the prescribed medications I took would be envied by anyone, until now. Ignoring the fact, I have three oxycodone saved up for a rainy day. The anxiety drugs could be hawked to anyone who wanted to take that little bit of fear out of public speaking or job interview. For me, all they do is keep my panic attacks from feeling like I am will completely stop breathing to a milder, but still very uncomfortable, chest heaviness.

As I pop a pill, in the back of my head, I hear, “Right. Just Say NO!” Nancy Reagan, I’ve seen the light and am going to say, “Yes.” And hope they gave me drugs that are more powerful in the future.

Take the Fight of Fear to its Home….

Anxiety is a bitch. Mean, cruel, sneaking up on me at awkward times, drowning out all other emotions to kill all the joy and progress I have made. By definition a modern bitch. The small Earl Grey tea earlier in the morning gave it needed caffeine ammunition. I have to stay away from that stuff for a while.

My medicine has made me stronger. I have not had one uncontrollable panic attack since Wednesday. The adrenaline still rushes through my veins when I drive. But I haven’t had to pull over. I still feel like my lungs are not getting completely full. But a few deep breaths and the sensation goes away quickly. So, far anyway its getting better.

And that is all I can hope for. All I expect is small steps. Normality isn’t there yet. But I see a dot of light deep down the tunnel. This will stay with me for a while. But it ain’t my heart and I am not going to need massive surgery. (No, get out of my head that thought that all doctors are wrong.) I just need to keep: taking the drugs, deep breaths and keep repeating, “I’m all right. I’m all right.” Forget those who give me weird looks. If it helps, I’ll scream it.

Well, FDR, I’ve Got a Lot of Fear to Fear….

They put me on anxiety drugs yesterday. The logic is simple. I am completely recovered physically from the pacemaker replacement. The programming changes made two weeks ago should have corrected the sudden rise in blood pressure. The short of breath, weakness I feel now is probably due to anxiety. Not my fault, the docs say: the fact that in the last two months my case has been analyzed as often as the Cardinals bullpen would be a huge contributor to an incremental rise in my stress levels. They laugh when I suggest counseling

“What are they going to say? You’ve been under a lot of stress. We know that.”.

“Take deep breaths and this pill twice a day, and let’s hope it works.”

So, do I.

Though I have been assured by almost every doc, that this is not a sign of sudden heart weakness, and major surgery will not be required. The idea is stuck on the back wall of my brain. Oozing down towards the skull leaving doubt, worry and fret.

Doctors smile and explain with the last round of changes, I should never feel lightheaded or passing out again. All the time the world begins to spin as I concentrate on it not spinning.

“I’m alright. It’s only anxiety.” I whisper to myself repeatedly. My parents are either deaf or ignore it, because the people in the store heard it.

It may be anxiety. But the feeling of tightness of chest, short of breath and general crap is awful. It may all be in the head, but I can’t get away from it.

Yes, I do have a lot easier than the men and women in Iraq, those in poverty, those in prison. They have a difficulty that can kill and destroy them. It can trap and convince them there is no way out.

But let me tell you: fear is scaring the crap out of me.

On the Other Hand, the Spaghetti Westerns Never Named the Lead…

Doctors consult doctors who consult more doctors who consult pacemaker engineers. I roll with this crew. Except my name is not followed by PhD, and I am not employed in the medical industry. I am: patient.

Patient has no name or real identity. To be honest, patient could be reduced to a number of facts and figures. Males, twenty-seven, average weight, average height, congenital heart, bypass 1981, open heart 1985, pacemaker implantation 1985, pacemaker replacement 1994, 1999, 2006, possibly anxiety disorder and possibly difficulties with left ventricle do to pulmonary stenosis. And there you go my life in short and sweet summery. It would make a medical student drool.

It is odd, but I am forgotten many times. Not my case, my case is discussed more often than a Clinton run for the Presidency. But me, the person, the Luka, I am forgotten. For to too many doctors and health care workers, I become the case not the person. How I feel is only an indicator of their success.

Can’t say I blame them. They have their own lives. They don’t want to become too attached and be unable to see the big picture and miss something.

Still it is always nice when a doctor sees you as a human. I once saw my cardiologist tear up at my college graduation picture. That’s why I stay with him. So as other docs ask me to move out of pediatric and into adult cardiologist, I don’t want to. I see those doctors looking past the person and into the file. To them I am not someone who can contribute to society, I am a case, a manila folder in the upper drawer that is pulled whenever I come in for a visit and forgotten as soon as I am gone.

Hooking Up, As Seen By Those on the Bench…

It’s Saturday night.

Down in San Antonio, T and M are celebrating their wedding. Eight hundred friends, family members and parents’ friends gather at M’s parents’ home to congratulate them on their nuptials. There is the usual Texas fair of beer, Bar-B-Que, the grand march, and more beer.

Late that night, T and M will retire to the Havana Hotel on the Riverwalk. They will drink a bottle of Champaign and toast to a life filled with endless promises. Afterwards, they will lay in the dark under blankets whispering plans of children, careers, and old age.

As T and M consummate their marriage, other attendees of the wedding will be engaged in the same act. Some of the participants will be married couples caught up in memories of their own wedding day, while others will have only met that night and be friends of the bride or groom.

In Austin, C and V experience sticky pre-teen petting. In bedrooms and backyards ducking parent’s watchful eyes, C and V will engage hormones that had lay dormant for twelve years.

In Los Angeles, N and B put their best foot forward and parent’s credit card on the line as they enter another swanky bar filled with actor and actresses. Like the others, N and B talk about scripts yet to be written, movies yet to be directed and the break that could change their whole lives. They do this with hands intertwined and smiles of satisfaction.

The majority of these couplings would never meet one another. In fact, they could go their entire lives and never once see each other. Except for me, I keep bringing them together. I am the one degree of separation that binds these groups to one another. T is a life long friend. C is a cousin. N is a college roommate.

What am I doing this Saturday night? I am not at the wedding, with family, on vacation in LA or even being the third wheel back home. Instead, I am staying at Barnes-Jewish Hospital.

Oddly enough, I am not too disappointed that I am not at the wedding of the year or anything else. I am somewhat content: content in the fact that whatever is causing my most recent heart problems are not serious. At least that is what this round of doctors is telling me; there is always a new group of specialist their fellows and the lower bootlicking residents tomorrow.

Being a congenital heart patient, I’ve grown to expect to miss some things in life, and by twenty-seven, it should be that way. So from athletics in grade school to now, I have grown to know how to sit on the bench of life.

As multiple friends enjoy relationships, F hears a friend’s band, D checks out the newest bar in the Lou, K travels through Europe and S visits her father, and I eat my hospital Jell-O. This is my life.

About Time, We Don’t Take This Laying Down…

In the past few years, what has always angered me about Democrats in general is their lack of fight. They have lost the intensity and fire in the belly that hurls the Republican attacks back at them and exposes the insults for the lies they are.

Case in point: Senator John Kerry won the Democratic nomination by highlighting his service in Vietnam. In the primaries, ads played that showed a young Kerry marching around Vietnam gun in hand. At the Democratic convention, his medals and courage placed in the spotlight against a backdrop of enthusiasm for his service in the war and opposition to this one. Yet, when the Swift Boat Captains attacked Kerry with stories of cowardice and borderline ethics, there was nothing. It took over a week, before the Democrats found a way to defend the charges. By then defense was the wrong answer. It didn’t matter that the people who made the accusations never served with Kerry or that the men under his command were stunned by the allegations to most Americans Kerry did not defend himself because a) the Captains were right or b) Kerry embellished his military career. Thus states that were to close to call became solid Bush.

Congressman Jack Murtha has transformed himself into one of the most vocal opponents of the war in Iraq. A former marine and hawk of the Democratic Party, Congressman Murtha remained close to the military. When he first called for troop pullout of Iraq, Democrats, Republicans and the media were stunned. But now after months of his appeal to change the course in Iraq, the Republicans are attacking in droves. Karl Rove calls him out in a fundraiser. Bush hints at him during speeches. And Congressman Louie Gohmert of Texas took a swipe at him on the floor of the House of Representatives. However, Murtha just happened to be on the floor. This time the response was quick and cold.

Watch the link here: Murtha Responds.

Personally, I’m glad that Murtha is showing the way. Democrats be proud of your accomplishments. If the Republicans attack and try and twist the truth, don’t stand back and wonder how it will look if you respond: fight back, hard.

Keep your heads up…

World Cup, Bar Three-Germany vs. Poland…

It was a critical second game for both teams. If Germany won, they would advance out of pool play. If Poland lost, they would be eliminated and their third game would be only for pride.

As part of my recovery, I drove my mom to the contractor placing a bid to redo my parents’ bathroom. While she sat and looked plans for new sinks and light fixtures, I went next door to the sports bar to watch the game.

The bar is in the middle of Ladue. During the day, the customers are either men in suits escaping the office for lunch and a beer and retired men with nothing to do but talk to the barkeeps and watch a sport that does not interest them.

I sat down ordered a Fitz’s root beer and homemade potato chips. The game began with little notice from anyone in the bar beside me. If a Cardinal report had been, the channel would have certainly changed.

Two men came sat down next to me. One was in a suit; the other wore a polo shirt. They talked as old friends and drank beer. In between plans for the weekend, they made comments about the game. After one beer, they left, and a man with a bushy beard joined me.

I recapped the game for him during the halftime. Since, I am no great fan of the sport all I could report was no one had scored. Our conversation went around to the other games and both struggled to say something knowledgeable about the whole tournament.

A retired man who, in his free time, had seen more of the games joined us. He filled in the gaps of our stories.

My mom came into the bar soon after halftime started. I finished my drink and drove home.

I missed Germany’s lone goal. But the fact that I had driven without problems had made the day a better one.

We’re Never Going to Make It Out of Here Alive…

Sunday, I’m driving with my dad. It’s the first time in awhile I’m behind the wheel of a car and a major step in my recovery.

Without the usual amount of driving, I haven’t filled up in over three weeks. Though the gas tank still has over a quarter of a tank, I pull into the Shell. Better safe than sorry, I guess.

I have an oddity. (At least my friends think it is odd.) I pay with cash instead of credit card at gas stations. I always forget the charges for gas or food and then when the bill comes I freak out. I pay in green and forget about it.

The line was long to the cashier. She was quick, but had more customers than she could reasonable handle. Turning around, I nodded to the fifty-ish woman standing behind me.

“We’re never going to make it out of here alive.” Her voice is dead with no emotion, no hint of joke or even dry humor. Just a cold hard fact, we will die here.

I mouth, “what.” The last thing I need is some crazy holding up the place, and surgery does put death on one’s mind.

“My sister says that all the time. She is very dramatic.” She smiles. I turn around.
Pay and leave. Drive off Fast. What type of crazy was that?

World Cup, Bar Two-Brazil vs. Croatia…

It was the first game for both teams, but my second time in this bar for a game. The bar is part of a nicer restaurant in Clayton where my father and I had lunch the previous day and witnessed USA embarrass themselves against the Czech Republic. I returned the next day after speaking to the bartender who explained that though they closed from 2-4, he saw no reason why I wouldn’t be able to sit and watch the game with the rest of the staff.

I returned the next day at 1:30 for desert. At1:45, cooks and dish washers came out the kitchen. They passed that last guests for the afternoon and changed the TV to Univision despite the fact none of them spoke Spanish.

Spanish might have been one of the few languages many of them did not speak. The majority were immigrants from Italy or Easter European nations. With thick accents, they explained to me that Brazil was good, but they didn’t want to see them win. Germany was the best team, and we should all hope that Croatia played a good match and beat Brazil.

The game started with cheers from the whole bar. Conversations moved across the bar from one end to the other with the language changing depending on who was talking to whom.

My understanding of soccer is limited to, red/yellow card, corner kicks and of course gooooaaallll!. These were true fans. They saw plays develop long before me. I began to sense something might happen not from the play on the field but to tense hush that would fall over the bar.

When Brazil did get a goal late in the first half, it crushed many. Men who moments earlier had been taunting the TV and boasting how well Croatia was playing sunk into their chairs, lit cigarettes and stayed alone in their thoughts.

The owner came in during the start of the second half. Eating ice cream from a coffee cup, he gently mocked his employees for thinking Brazil would loose. “They are a good team.” He explained. “But then this is soccer, anything can happen.” He added.

I left as the game wore on. Some employees went home to rest before dinner, most stayed. I rode the elevator up to my parents’ house still understanding little of the game.

World Cup, Bar One-Ivory Coast vs. Argentina…

It was not the place to watch a critical game in the first set of games of the 2006 World Cup. The thought of watching the game at this bar would cross the minds of ardent fans of neither Argentina nor the Ivory Coast. In fact, it would be safe to say no one at the bar had ever been to either country or would have any inclination to go.

The two biggest TV’s did have the game on, but the others showed out of market baseball games. Instead of boisterous cheers and chants, few even bothered to acknowledge the struggle. This was not the place for soccer fans or even the blue-collared. This was a yuppie-bar.

F and I choose this place because it was the quickest walk from my parents’ home where I was still recovering from my surgery. When we got there, a disinterested waiter looked up from his paper and a bored waitress frowned when I ordered club soda, not expecting a big tip.

A few older couples ate late lunches at the tables. But they could care less about the game. Smiling at one another, they would enjoy their walk back to their homes and call the grandkids.

The game started. F and I offered modest cheers at close shots and good plays. The waitress looked up at us to question our enthusiasm for a sport that was taking up good Saturday afternoon time on ESPN.

Near the end of the first half, the Yuppies began to make their appearances. I hoped Saturday had driven them out of Clayton and further into the suburbs or fashionable gentrified areas of the city.

They came in a big group. The men dressed all in white shirts, ties undone, and slacks, not a suit among them. The women wore strapless dresses; their hair was done, and slowly removed their name brand sunglasses to give those in the bar one final look at the shades of movie stars.

“Wedding.” F pronounced and went back to the game. He has the ability to ignore Yuppies better than I. The hair always stands up on the back of my neck as the self-righteous bs piles up.

The men ordered Bud Lights, the women cocktails. From a table near the door, they chatted and left the rest of us in peace.

But like sharks to blood, the Yuppies had the sent of open booze bottles. In minutes the next one appeared. A man dressed like all the others. He took a seat with chair separating him and I. His black hair spiked and gelled; he lit a cigarette and requested a beer from the bartender. They chatted about acquaintances, his bartending job and made plans to go out some time.
Soon others joined the one with spiked hair. They all wore white shirts, ties, and slacks as the others. The one with glasses boasted about he and his friends were going to go to Germany for the games, but decided against it. He also proudly told the story of how he had showed his finance who was boss by telling her that she could not have everything in life she wanted when she asked for wedding ring a large band of diamonds. The others nodded in agreement. “Women always wanted to spend their money.”

They awed at missed goals, and gave a head tip to F and me when we did the same. Not accepting, but at least we didn’t ask for multiple thousand-dollar rings and might believe they really had a place to crash in Germany if they wanted.

Argentina won 2-1. Ivory Coast played hard. I rooted for Ivory Coast, because the war torn nation has come together to watch the team play. Maybe, I should take it as an example and be less judgmental towards Yuppies. Maybe, I will. Probably, I won’t.

Life without Cable TV, Sucks….


My parents are not wealthy people, but they do live in the upper-middle class strata of American life. Dwelling thirteen stories above most homes in a building complete with a doorman and underground parking is different from a fixer-upper on the wrong sides of the track.

Yet, my parents do not have cable TV. They never have. When I was a child, they refused to get it on the premise that I would spend too much timing watching TV. Instead, they did what most Texan families do, gave me a gun, and asked me to kill something.

Even after we moved to The Lou, out of the ranch style home and into the high-rise no cable was gained. After, I moved out my parents saw no reason to get cable. They rarely watched TV and when they did, my father was angry with himself for doing so. As I have matured, I have formed the belief that he did not get cable to prevent me from watching TV but to check his own actions.

Now, as I recover from yet another hospital stay, I am stuck at their home. So instead of a ballgame, The Daily Show, movies on Showtime, I get network TV at its worst.

I now understand why the West Wing and Law & Order were the only two things I watched on network TV; the rest sucks. If I watch one more military/police/young people crime shows I am going to scream. When did all the sitcoms become knockoffs of Friends, which was not very good in the first place?

I do not have a creative mind, but seriously for the amount of money that people in TV make can’t they come up with something better?

Less Yakking, More Whacking…

During my brief year as an ex-pat in Taiwan, the small group of Americans I hung around embraced a saying. “Less Yakking, More Whacking.” I started it as a one-line review of the second Lord of the Rings movie.

In short, it meant the movie had more violence and fight scenes than the first one. Basically, a better picture if you were not a fantasy nerd and had no idea of the story outside of a movie you saw while stranded on an island where movies were your only English interaction.

The saying though quickly evolved into something more. It became a call to action: a rebel yell to stop sitting around and do something. The boys in Dead Poets Society had Thoreau; we had drunken bullshit.

Spotting a cute ex-pat across a bar, might not have the courage to talk to her. “Less Yakking, More Whacking.” And now you two are sharing a drink.

Can’t decide on some decision at the office, turn ideas, and possibilities over in your head for days. “Less Yakking, More Whacking.” A decision is made and you move forward, hopefully, for the betterment of your students.

A trip is possible, but it would mean spending most of the weekend on trains. “Less Yakking, More Whacking.” You see a sight you will never see again in your life and all you missed was a little TV you didn’t understand anyway.

Weren’t sure if you should order the dish at the restaurant or stick by the old standards. “Less Yakking, More Whacking.” OK, that backfired and you spend most of the next few days vomiting out every particle of food you had taken in for forty-eight hours.

I even heard a pastor put it into his sermon on how we should go out and evangelize to people, not just talking about proclaiming the Gospel but do it.

I took this statement back to the states and every now and then found myself saying it when I was uninspired to do research in graduate school, call a donor, or ask for a gift.

This weekend, I spent a long boring one in Barnes Jewish Hospital. First, let me say there were some great docs and nurses who took care of me. Some of the best fellows and residents I have seen in a long timework there. However, some of the main docs, who will remain nameless unless I somehow find myself in a slander suite, do a lot more yakking than whacking.

While I waited with held breath for over five days and four nights, all they did was really consult one another. When they released me on Monday, they were still waiting for another doc to be consulted. Being lightheaded is never fun, but even more so as the doc releases me from the hospital with occasional symptoms and say go back to a normal life.

A normal life without driving, living on my own, working or walking without nearly passing out every few minutes, this was truly the life I enjoyed prior to my surgery.

Recovering, Recovering, Recovering, and More Recovering…

All I do these days is recover. My actions seem almost normal, a half day at work, lunch with friends, even a movie on a Saturday night. Yet, nothing is normal.

I have no energy level. A dinner with a friend makes me as tired as all night drinking before the surgery. A full day at work feels like a fourteen-hour shift.

At any moment, I can become lightheaded and feel I might pass out. This includes inconvenient times like driving on the highway, at work or lunch.

I am still at my parents’ house because my Doc is worried if I get up and pass out in the middle of the night I might hurt myself.

I have two doc appointments today. Plus, no one seems sure on how to correct my situation.

It has been three weeks; since this small heart procedure and still all I do is recover. Tired of taking it slow, but exhausted and lightheaded when I do anything else.