What’s infertility got to do with a terrorist attack?

I have been surprised at how many people have commented on my apparent levelheadedness during the terrorist attack in Brussels airport.  Although the absolute fear and terror was running through my mind, my actions seemed logical.  I’m surprised, because I just did what I did – and even I am somewhat surprised at my own response.  However, I think that it is all mostly about an element of luck.  Some people have told me, they believe in some kind of divine intervention (I personally do not believe that, whether god exists or not).  The luck was the third suitcase bomb didn’t explode.  The luck was that I wasn’t closer.  The luck was that the terrorists were ill prepared to carry out a more sophisticated attack.  (Apparently, they had been planning more, but for some reason failed to implement it).  The luck was that I was in the right place and it simply wasn’t my time to die.

A friend of mine made a really interesting comment about the difference between a man and woman’s propensity to take risk.  A woman’s appetite to take risk varies with her menstrual period, where as a man’s appetite for risk remains relatively stable.  When a woman is in her ovulatory stage, she is less likely to take risks.  Therefore, hormones surely have a role to play in risk taking.  So what does that mean for a woman who is going through infertility treatment and jacked up with lots of hormones?  Does this mean that a woman’s propensity for risk is heightened or lowered depending on the stage of their treatment, how different would it be compared to if they were in their normal menstrual cycle?

During the attack, I was on Day 12 of the down regulation part of my IVF cycle, preparing for my upcoming stimulation phase.  I had already been experiencing some of the side effects from these drugs (I wrote about them in my previous diary entry here).  The question I have is – had I not been on these drugs would I have reacted differently to the situation?  We will never know the answer, because we will never know what could have been.  But it is an interesting question never-the-less!

I can tell you that the feelings and emotions I have been experiencing after getting caught up in the attack are not dissimilar to how I felt after being told our pregnancy was not viable.  I’ve experienced random crying over what could have been.  Sadness, frustration, anger and numbness – all feelings that have washed over me in the immediate days past these traumatic events.  I never thought I could ever liken an impending pregnancy loss to surviving a terrorist attack.  But I am, and that is simply how I have been feeling over the past couple of days.  I’ve also experienced the overwhelming feeling of love and kindness from friends and family after these events.  And I mean overwhelming to the point where I have been dumbstruck.

I anticipate that I might attend some kind of therapy after experiencing what I did this week.  The question I have is, why haven’t I been so accepting of undertaking therapy for infertility after our loss and constant failure? If these feelings I am experiencing are so similar, perhaps I should have gone to therapy over our infertility sooner? I don’t know, but perhaps I just didn’t realise the intense emotions and trauma infertility slowly piles up upon us.  Or maybe, the reason is because I feel like I have absolutely no control over a terrorist attack, and maybe I *believe* I have some control over my infertility.  I think my perspective might have changed over the past week; I know some of you wonderful ladies have tried therapy for infertility and swear by it.  Going to therapy doesn’t mean I am weak, it means that I am strong, strong enough to recognise that help is there for the taking.


For those inclined…a couple of journal articles on risk taking and a woman’s hormonal cycle:

Variations in risk taking behaviour over the menstrual cycle:  http://people.uncw.edu/bruce/hon%20210/pdfs/risk%20taking.pdf

The influence of menstrual cycle and impulsivity and risk taking behaviour:  http://www.ledonline.it/NeuropsychologicalTrends/allegati/NeuropsychologicalTrends_17_Iannello.pdf


Starbucks truly is a bad habit

This blog is primarily my writing therapy for going through infertility, but it has also been my therapy for other things in my life and so I ummmed and ahhhhed about writing this post.  But here we go…

I made a decision to buy a Starbucks coffee.  I decided when I arrived at Brussels Airport early this morning to get myself a pick me up coffee to help me stay awake and deal with the jet lag.  I left the arrivals lounge and headed upstairs to the departures.  I decided as I was in a different country to try a different coffee.  I ordered a skinny vanilla bean macchiato.  I juggled the coffee with my two roller suitcases and managed to bag myself the last seat left in the corner.  I got comfy and plugged in my phone to charge – I had killed it on the flight over playing games.  I had just three sips of my coffee when there was a loud boom to the right of me, glass and debris flew everywhere, my coffee ended up on the floor.  I ended up diving down on the floor because my battlefield instinct told me get low and cover my head. People got up and ran – I shouted at them to get down.  About 40 seconds later there was an even bigger explosion.  I could feel the heat from the fireball that ran across the ceiling above me.  I could feel the shock wave pass over me.  There was debris and bits of ceiling fluttering down around me, the old lady behind me was cowering behind her suitcase. I asked if she was OK. She was petrified, but she had someone with her. It’s challenging to consul someone when there is a language barrier.

I grabbed my lowly charged phone and my coat, trying to keep low.  I dialed Chris – it was taking a long time for him to answer I thought I was about to get his answerphone….I am so glad I didn’t get his answerphone…but Chris answered, a little sleepy and dazed- it was 3 AM in the US.  I told him “I don’t want to panic you- I’m OK, but there has been an explosion at the airport, I am OK.”  I am not really sure exactly what happened after this.  I don’t know what I said to Chris. I don’t know how long I was on the phone for, but I remember I kept saying how much I loved him.  I can only imagine how terrified Chris was to receive a phone call like this in the middle of the night.  You could almost think it was a nightmare.  But it was real.

I remember lying low watching everyone around me run away.  I wasn’t running, I was looking out for suspicious people, listening out for any gunshots.  I was looking for injured people I could help.  I guess all that pre-deployment training kicked in.  I don’t think there is any right or wrong in this kind of situation, it’s what your gut instinct tells you to do.

There was a man who was walking calmly across the debris, through the thick smoke, I hid behind my suitcase.  At the time he was suspicious to me, he was the only person not running.  But in hindsight he was probably walking shell shocked.  I was probably one of the last to leave the Starbucks – but I wanted to be sure which direction to get out without endangering myself any more.  The first bomb was to my right, the second huge one was to my left.  I was remarkably calm.  I evaluated the situation, my first thought was to take just my passport…then I decided to take everything (except the coffee which I took a second look at…lying on the floor split everywhere, I don’t know how I  managed to not get any on me.)  I checked my surroundings again and decided to go right where the smaller explosion was.  I hurried outside to the parking garage over the road. Picking up my suitcase as I ran.  I’ve never left the confounds of Brussels airport because I’ve always transited onward by train to a different destination.  I didn’t know where I was.  I thought if I stay close I could help, but there was just chaos.  It took a very long time for help to arrive – the first responders were the airport fire brigade.  There were already some military at the airport patrolling because of already heightened security.  They were walking around pretty dazed themselves.  The ambulances arrived, the police arrived, they started to carry out the wounded – and dead – on stretchers.  I think they all must have been under the rubble because I couldn’t immediately see anyone before I left.  Then a soldier came running out shouting something I couldn’t understand, but I got the picture.  There must have been another device, or an attacker laying in wait.

So we ran.  We ran down a road which filters onto a main highway.  But there was no designated rendez vous point…there was just the feeling of “everybody get the hell out of there”.  So I did.  I barely had any juice on my phone, I followed a trickle of people who looked like they knew where they were going.  People were gathering at the petrol (gas) station, there was a little rest stop with toilets and vending machines.  I went to the toilet and relieved myself…talk about a serious case of stress induced IBS!! I needed to get my phone working, I needed to find a plug.  So I headed to the train station and figured if the trains were still running I’d get out of the city and head to my onward location outside of Brussels.  There was confusion and chaos at the train station too.  But I bought my ticket and got on a train that was heading into central Brussels.  Once I made it onto the train, everything started to feel real.  Little did I know that there had been another attack on the metro.  We made it one station short of where my next train left from.  That didn’t matter in the end because the authorities shut down the whole public transport system.  My French skills were under some serious testing as various people made announcements that I tried to follow.  It was very confusing.

One man noticed some debris in my hair and pulled it out for me.  I suddenly realised I was a dusty mess!  My jeans weren’t torn up, but they were beat up.  My hair was grey, my glasses covered in a thin layer of dust, I had bits of ceiling tucked in all sorts of crevices of my clothing, I had black snot, I had a teary face, I had black soot all around my mouth.  I looked a state!  I got off the train and headed to the concourse, but the army and police were shutting it down and running at us with a long line of tape to get people out of the station as fast as possible.  So I was on the rush again! I was exhausted and crying.  I found my way out of the train station and had just enough juice on my phone to find the closest hotel.  I dashed into the hotel and explained I needed a room because I had just been in an explosion and I was exhausted!!!  The hotel staff were absolutely amazing.

In between all of this, I was messaging Chris and my work to tell them what was happening.  And I was shaking.  Shaking a lot.  Chris reminded me to check myself for injuries. I realised once I got into the hotel that half my face was a bit sore, the back of my head had been banged, I had scraped up my knee and my back just below my ribs was starting to really hurt.  I immediately stripped down as soon as I got into my room and got into the shower.  I cried as I watched the dust run off me down the drain as the sirens continued to wail in the background.

The gravity of what just happened to me was beginning to sink in.  My work have been amazing, they sent a crisis response team came out to the hotel to see me.  I was also checked over by a doctor.  The British Embassy called me to check for injuries and if I needed any consulate assistance.  The general manager of the hotel came by to check on me.  He called the police for me to check if I should leave any details as a witness.  Apparently that wasn’t needed unless there was something in particular that would be critical.  I couldn’t think of anything except the strangely calm wandering man, but I can’t describe him in detail so that wouldn’t be any help.  My work are Currently working on how to get me home to the US sooner than Friday (my planned return – which by the way fills me with horror returning to Brussels airport – oh and the check in desk for American isn’t there anymore, it got blown up).  Clearly I am not going to any meeting today or tomorrow.  They are being awesome.

The lady from the crisis response team said one of the first steps to getting over a traumatic event is to tell my story as it happened.  So I told my story to her and the rest of the team and we even had a little laugh about some things…and now I’m telling it all to you.  So I don’t have to tell it a hundred times over.  If someone asks me, I’ll point them to this blog.

In my honest opinion – the way I saw the events happen – I didn’t hear any gunshots, I didn’t hear anyone shout out in Arabic, I think the first device was diversionary (potentially a suitcase bomb) to divert a stream of panicking people towards the suicide bomber.  I guess we will find out soon enough the chain of events.  But all I know, is that I am glad I sat in the corner of Starbucks, I’m glad I wasn’t still queuing for my coffee 5 minutes before, I would have been so much more vulnerable.  But yes, if I just got on that train out of the airport rather than get a coffee from Starbucks, I would probably be thinking how lucky I am.  Now I am still thinking how lucky I am, but I feel the pain of seeing all those dead and severely injured people, I smell the smoke, I taste the debris, I feel the shock, I hear the explosions (which you know I already have experience of, but this time I didn’t have body amour or a weapon).

This was truly a horrific act of terrorism I have experienced.  I have been through airports in other countries where the security happens before you get anywhere near the building.  I do not want to see this happen to our freedom because then the terrorists win (oh I wrote about that already too – how depressing is that?).

By the way – I’m OK, I’m safe and I love you all (just in case I haven’t told you)!!! X

Reflections upon being pregnant in a war zone – what scares me

The big question: why did I write about something that happened way back in 2007?  Why did I open up some old wounds by writing and thinking about when I was pregnant in Iraq? For the most part, it’s because I drove for four hours on my own, so I had plenty of time to think.  Very dangerous, I know!  Thinking AND driving!  But actually, it is because I have a fear, a fear of being pregnant again.  It sounds rather silly writing it down on an infertility blog. But of course I want to be pregnant more than anything in the world, but this fear is about suffering the ‘side effects’ of severe morning sickness like I did before in 2007.

Hypermesis Education & Research Foundation

Hyperemesis Education & Research Foundation

Last time I was pregnant I suffered severe morning sickness (also known as Hyperemesis gravidarum) and horrific abdominal pains (compared to my normal Irritable Bowel Syndrome (IBS) pains, these were what I considered to be horrific anyway!)  The worst of the symptoms lasted for over three weeks and the nausea continued until the end of my pregnancy of 10 weeks.  There was no way I could have worked during this period.  But to what extent were those symptoms as a result of the environment and conditions I was experiencing at the time – heat, exhaustion, stress, poor food quality and choice?

When Chris and I first met with our Reproductive Endocrinologist (RE), Chris asked her if my previous pregnancy could be a clue as to why we were not pregnant yet.  I didn’t think it would be so I hadn’t mentioned the severe morning sickness in my questionnaire.  The RE did confirm that it was not likely to be associated.  But, now that I think about it, perhaps it wasn’t such a silly question after all.  Because quite frankly, any explanation to our fertility troubles would be nice right now.  I’m quite bored of asking ‘Why me??’

Today I am 12 Days Past IUI number 2 (12DPIUI#2), and so far potential symptoms of pregnancy:

  • Short sharp cramps just around both sides of my ovaries
  • Sharp cramp like pains under the left side and right side of my ribs.
  • Sore boobs, but not tender to touch, just achey.
  • Today I have felt a little nauseous, but Chris has had a funny tummy today, so potentially we ate something funny.

And that is it, not much to go by, but the sharp pains reminded me of my previous pregnancy so I have been more positive about this cycle so far.  Just two more days to go til the big test.

I am afraid to be pregnant but want to be pregnant more than anything.

And that sums up my emotional roller coaster right now 🙂 /\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/——

On Being Pregnant in a War Zone Pt 2

Spring 2007 continued

Finally, two days after discovering I was pregnant, I received my ‘Call Forward’ to fly to a US Military Hospital in Kuwait.  By this point, I had made my excuses to colleagues (An Ovarian Cyst that probably needed surgery), eaten just two crackers, hid under my bed from another five rocket attacks, slept a lot, caught up on several episodes of 24 and thoroughly read up on pregnancy and ectopic pregnancies.  I was exhausted and feeling weak.  I could barely pick up my daypack, body armour and rifle; the bag was packed for only 2 nights – that officially made me pathetically weak.

I waited for my ride to Kuwait in the helicopter departures lounge.  I was the only one there waiting.  A crew member called my name and asked me to follow him, he took my bag from me (he probably thought I was actually a real medevac patient).  My pre-deployment training was running through my head.  How to get on and off a helicopter, depending on the type of helicopter, depends on where you can and can’t load/unload.  This helicopter, a lynx, had its engine off anyway, so it didn’t matter.  There was no chance of getting my head chopped off or sucked into the intakes.  The crew member showed me to my seat, he was overly jolly considering it was 0130 AM.    It looked like I was getting the helicopter all to myself.  The crew member turned out to be the door gunner.  The two pilots arrived shortly after and introduced themselves.  They were HILARIOUS, typical Army Air Corps pilots.  I was given a headset so I could listen in to all their intercom chatter.

As the engines started, I began to feel nervous.  Last time I flew into Iraq, we got shot at and rocketed.  A nice welcome from the Insurgents.  But suddenly my nerves were overtaken by pain.  Pain in my shoulder.  I read about this in ectopic pregnancies.  Just as I started to worry and think the worst, the gunner handed me some night vision goggles.  He pointed out the window.  I looked through the goggles and I could see the shimmering lights of Basrah City, and the oil fields.  It was magical.  It was bitter-sweet.

As soon as we crossed the border into Kuwait, the gunner closed the door and removed his body armour, indicating to me I should do the same.  The comedy pilots debated where they should land in the US base.  Is this not something you would know before taking off??!  We flew over at least 25 parked up black hawks.  Do we even have this many helicopters in the British Forces??  After a few laps of the base we found somewhere to land.  No one was there to greet us. Well it was 0230AM, I wasn’t too surprised at this!  Whilst I received a comedy show, one of the pilots managed to call through to the hospital.  We were at the wrong helipad.  No shit Sherlock!  Of course, this base was big enough to have two helipads.  We were told to wait there and a nurse would come pick me up.  I could have been sleepwalking at this point, the next hour was a blur.

Somehow, I woke up lying down on a hospital bed, trying to answer the doctor’s questions.  I was immediately put on an IV drip as I was severely dehydrated.  Wow, I felt almost instantly better, but it was temporary.  Next was the vaginal ultrasound.  The whole reason I was in Kuwait.  I had no clue what to expect, no one really explained what was going to happen and that the nurse would be male.  The nurse told me I was about 6 weeks pregnant, and he printed out a picture of the ‘blob’.  Because that is all it was, I wasn’t really experienced in ultrasound photos at this stage of pregnancy.  He reassured me that everything looked just fine.  No ectopic pregnancy.  Phew!!!  So what now?

Well I had a few more hours with the IV drip, and I was ‘quizzed’ by one of the nurses – what was I going to call my baby?  Had I thought of names?  Would I name the baby after him?  Would I email him to let me know how the baby was? He was genuinely excited for me.  Bless him, because he seemed to be the only one.  I was given a prescription for the nausea (no idea what the drug was called), some folic acid and vitamin D and told I HAD to eat, for the sake of my baby.

I was taken to a temporary bunk where there was one other British female who was recovering from surgery from Appendicitis.  She was an Officer so I kept myself to myself.  The next day, I was driven to the ‘weekend spa resort’.  This is where battle weary soldiers were sent to from Iraq at least once in their 6 month tour to get a break.  It had a makeshift Jacuzzi (more like a paddling pool), sunbed loungers, massages, decent internet, volleyball, and computer games.  Lots of computer games.  Everyone was in civvies (civilian attire), I had not packed any civilian clothes, so I walked around in my pyjama shorts and a T-shirt.  I felt free!  No, body armour, rifle or rocket attacks.  I still felt nauseous so I didn’t even get to enjoy one of the ‘two cans of beer’ we were allowed.  I tried to eat, I really wanted to, so I took one of the tablets I was prescribed.  That seemed to do the job, and I managed to get half a plate of food down me.  The nurse would be proud of me.  Despite the ‘spa’ environment, it was lonely and I tried to get on the earliest flight back to Iraq, I missed my squadron, I missed my friends and I knew I was letting them down right now.  After one more night in Kuwait and I was back in Iraq, feeling a little better, but the pains were still coming.  This sucked.

Back in Basrah, I had an appointment at the medical center to discuss what next.  I had a completely different doctor, so had to start my story from the very beginning.  I think this doctor was the first to show any compassion.  He also told me that I was lucky to get the prescription for the nausea because it was not allowed in the UK, it was up to me if I wanted to keep taking it.  To date I still have no idea what this drug was because I threw it in the bin after the British Doctor told me this.  Of course the next step was to ‘medevac’ me back to the UK because I was not allowed to be in the theatre of operations anymore, it was too dangerous for my unborn baby.

A total of seven days had passed since I discovered I was pregnant.  The only person who knew I was pregnant was my boyfriend (and of course the doctors and nurses I had met).  As I sat in the hospital’s morale, welfare and recreational area waiting for my pre-flight checkup, I read many letters from random people wishing our soldiers well.  It’s amazing so many people care to take time out of their day to write to ‘unknown soldiers’.  Although the letters were clearly not aimed at pregnant female soldiers, their words were comforting.  But this comfort slowly turned back to guilt.  And the biggest guilt was yet to come.  As I boarded the C-17 aircraft to fly home with the other 20 ‘Medevacs’, I sat down amongst people who had broken arms, missing legs, wounds and scars to their face.  Then there were the two bed patients, one of whom was in a controlled coma so that he could fly back and be with his family.  He was probably not going to live for much longer.

I hadn’t told anyone I was flying back to the UK, I couldn’t; I was shamed, confused and exhausted.  I just needed some time on my own to figure out what was going on.  My life was never going to be the same again.

On Being Pregnant in a War Zone Pt 1

On being pregnant in a war zone Pt 1

Spring 2007

I winced as the doctor examined my stomach.  The pain was excruciating.  As he prodded, he said “feel here…see?”  I felt my own stomach where he indicated – it was hard, not squishy like normal.  I continued to wince as he poked around my tummy.  “This is your poo.  You are constipated.  We will get you some laxatives and you should be better in a few……”.  The piercing alarm sounded.  We both looked at each other and quickly dived on to the floor.  My body armour and helmet were in the waiting room, no chance of me grabbing hold of it in time.  I leopard crawled under the table, it probably wouldn’t offer me much protection. The doctor grabbed his own body armour and helmet just as there was a loud thud and the ground shaked.  As he put his body armour on and quickly threw on his helmet, he mumbled “Here we go again!”  I wasn’t sure if he was trying to make conversation or if he had genuine grievance by the incoming rockets.  The way I was feeling about these rockets I felt it was probably the latter.  After a few minutes of what was probably the last rocket (usually 2-3 at a time), the doctor quickly stood up and said, “I’ve got to go, I’m on call for the crash emergency team.  Wait here until the all clear, someone will be with you soon.”  And he ran out of his office.

As I lay there on the dusty floor waiting for the all clear siren to sound, I felt stupid.  I felt stupid and embarrassed that all I had was constipation. I wondered how it had happened.  For the last 8 days I had hardly eaten a thing, I felt nauseous and I had horrific stomach pains.  These pains were sharp and short, sort of like my IBS pains, but twice as painful as usual. But this didn’t seem like IBS.  I promised myself I would go to the doctor after 7 days of feeling like this.

The all clear siren sounded. I got up and left the office to speak to the corporal at the reception desk. I explained what had happened, she told me to take a seat in the waiting room and another Doctor would see me shortly. I waited for half an hour. All I could think about was that someone must have been injured by the rocket attack, otherwise my doctor would be back by now. This made me very sad.

I was called into the very same office I had been in just 30 minutes ago, but this doctor was different. I explained that the previous doctor was just about to prescribe me something for constipation. He asked me to tell him from the beginning what the problem was and the symptoms I was suffering. He wasn’t going to sign anything until he made his own diagnosis.

He asked me all sorts of questions about my IBS, what I had been eating, how often etc…it all made sense to me. New environment, crappy food, stress from rockets. Usually my IBS presents with horrific diarrhea, but now my IBS was giving me constipation. Not uncommon, right? But this doctor asked me (like the other doctor) “Is there a chance you could be pregnant?” I laughed and said “No, very unlikely!”, he said, “Well let’s be sure, I want you to take a pregnancy test before I prescribe you anything”. “Sure….” I said, but muttered to myself “…if you want to waste our time”. The doctor called in the nurse and explained I was to take a pregnancy test. I dutifully peed in the cup and together we sat down and waited for the results. The nurse tried to make small talk about the recent rocket attack. She proceeded to tell me that a lot of girls try to get pregnant on purpose to avoid deploying or wanting to be sent home. But then her words slowly slurred to a halt, she paused and exclaimed with a look of unexpected shock “errrr you are………pregnant! Ummm, congratulations?!?”.

I could feel the blood drain from my face in disbelief. I haven’t had a period in years after my depo provera issues, how was this possible? What is going to happen now? I’m not ready for this. I’m not one of these girls who purposefully gets pregnant just to be sent home. I volunteered to deploy to Iraq! I volunteered to be with the rest of my unit. Despite the shit getting real with the rockets, I wanted to be there, to do my job, to serve my country.

I could hear in the distant background, the nurse asking me all sorts of questions about if this is what I wanted? Was I excited? Did I need anything? But I was in too much shock to answer her questions other than mumble a no.

The doctor who made me take the test called me back into his office and said “Well, now we can explain the constipation and nausea. But this doesn’t explain your pain. We need to make sure you are not having an ectopic pregnancy. Let’s get you to the Emergency Hospital for a checkup by the specialist. I was hurried out of the doctor’s office, into the back of an ambulance to drive the half mile to the emergency hospital. This was the most embarrassing thing of it all. Being driven into the ER entrance. Pregnant. Not shot, wounded or even sick. Just pregnant.

I had no idea what an ectopic pregnancy really meant. I was prodded and poked all over again by several nurses and doctors. They even checked my constipation and try to help it along, but there was nothing in there. There was no poo. After all, I had barely eaten for the last 7 days. I hadn’t pooed in 4 days.

Finally, my boyfriend arrived at the hospital (yes we were deployed together, we got it together during pre-deployment training). He had no idea why I was in the hospital, he had left me at the doctors only 2 hours ago! He looked panicked. I looked at him and tried to get the words out, but I just started crying. It was the first time I cried since finding out my news. Eventually he got it out of me, and we both cried. We cried conspicuously together as we were not really sure how else to do it, this crying thing.

The hospital facilities on our camp did not have a vaginal ultrasound machine. The closest one was in another country – Kuwait at a US Airforce base. They wanted to check if the pregnancy was ectopic as the symptoms matched. I was put on the medevac waiting list and told to go back to my room and rest until I was called to fly.

I went back to my room, cried a lot, read up on ectopic pregnancy, and asked myself a lot of questions. How will I explain this to my unit, to my boss? Will my boss know already? What are the rules on medical confidentiality? Will they send me home? Will I be discharged from the Army? What if I have an ectopic pregnancy? Should I tell my family? When will I be able to eat again? When will this pain go away? So many questions as I lay in my room, sometimes in bed, sometimes on the floor under my bed as the rockets kept coming throughout the day and night. Get some rest? Ha. No rest for me….