After standing outside for what seemed like a half an hour and holding off our position in the front of the line, we eagerly handed our tickets to the usher and scurried towards the theater for Batman showing in one of Denver’s Downtown movie theaters. First through the doors, we quickly staked our claim, parking Craig in one of the theater’s few wheelchair viewing spaces. This was the first movie-going experience where Craig needed reinforcements and it came in the form of Mom’s wheelchair. But, the viewing angle from such a short distance to the larger than life screen was too extreme for Craig; he needed to move back (as would anybody!). We helped Craig to a seat a few rows from the main aisle, where the majority of people who had a TRUE opportunity to CHOOSE a seat would sit. (Folks in wheelchairs might well come away with hearing and vision problems after sitting so close to the screen. Sheesh.)

As I watched Batman, I couldn’t help but think of Mom and how much she likely anticipated seeing this blockbuster of a movie, and would have been there in the row with us had she the opportunity. I could see her staring at the screen, completely locked into the movie–the images bouncing off of her glasses. A few more weeks and that would have been so.

Rome

Jill inserted disc one of the Rome series into Craig’s DVD player as others gathered their respective laptops and caffeinated beverages before finding their seats. Craig waited patiently in his hospital bed; his RT-D2 supplemental oxygen tank hovered just over his right shoulder, giving him extra oxygen to aid his increasingly labored breathing. I remember being skeptical of the series as characters were introduced and sex scenes streamed along as common as floats in a Macy’s day parade.

As the days passed and Disc 1 was replaced by Disc 3 and Disc 4, we were hooked not for the glorious content of Rome, though it was rather entertaining, but because it made Craig happy. It had become something he looked forward to with each new day. Tired as he was, he would always find the strength to stay awake through an episode, sometimes two.

One night, I vividly recall it taking him every ounce of energy and determination to utter the whispered words, “Are we going to watch Rome?”  His eyes were wide, excited, focused; his eyebrows curved upward with a hint of concern over the effort it took just to speak. Every word took concerted effort. I remember just how he looked, just how he sounded—the last word said in crescendo in as much a question as it was a plea. This was the last night we watched Rome together.

A few weeks later, after we brought back Craig’s belongings, Dad, Diane, Jill and I watched the final episode of Rome, and I couldn’t help but think of Craig and how much he would have enjoyed seeing the grand finale. A few more weeks and that would have been so.

Obamarama

Jill and I stood on a grassy Virginia hill among thousands of energized Obama rally-goers. We danced to cheesy music, and rolled our eyes to sleepy Casio music from what could only be Kenny G/Earth, Wind, Fire karaoke winners as we awaited Obama’s arrival and subsequent speech. The air was crisp and thick with the feeling of witnessing history. “Heyyyyy!”  Somehow, through the sea of faces, Steve managed to not only find us but sneak up on us. We stood together with Craig’s best friend, listening to Obama’s speech, each of us wishing Craig could be there with us.

Craig was active in the Obama campaign before he fell ill and would have been a delegate for the DNC. He would have loved hearing about the rally—Mom, too. We would have surely captured the moment through speaker phone. And, as history was made the next day, we would have surely conference called each other in elation of witnessing history. A few more weeks, a few more months, this would have been so.

From the everyday occurrence to celebrated marks in American history, not a day passes where I don’t think of them and wish so desperately that I had them here to share in the moment.

It’s during these “cool” or “neat” moments, when I miss them the most … — E

On the bad days, I’m not sure what living my own life consists of; it’s been a while.  I feel a bit wayward with no fixed roots.  Though it’d be nice to settle here, I can’t help but feel that settling would be…settling. At the same time, I feel isolated and lost.  My sense of being, time, and permanence has been upended.  What was once a firm understanding of “what is” has morphed into a jumbled mess of “not sures” or metaphysical chaos.  My knowledge of life now includes a family of four.  Happiness requires a new level of abstraction.  The future consists of confusing cross-roads of options and alternatives – a smorgasbord of indecision. 

On the bad days, I feel like I’m on shaky terrain, as if my continental shelf is narrow, with family and friends forming a thin rocky bottom on which to stand.  But then the ground drops.

As they say, the bad days too shall pass — and they do.  It stinks to be in the gutter, but, thankfully, it’s not a permanent state of being.  There’s always tomorrow… –J    

Yes, I’m typing from Erin’s apartment while she works across the street. Her commute is horrendous, by all standards. Sometimes, the two walk signs she has to navigate en route to her office (located across the street) can last a few minutes each, dragging her walking time to over five minutes. Thankfully, there’s a coffee shop on the corner, just in the event she gets thirsty between cross-walks. Why she doesn’t move across the street and shave a few minutes off her commute is beyond me. It’s a tossup on the longest commute: Erin with her two crosswalks, or Craig with his one-block walk. I feel like an old grandmother with my sad tales of having to wait hours for a crowded bus to take me to work, or walking 45 minutes in the Bangkok heat and pollution to my apartment because it was a faster mode of transportation. Ah, kids these days; they’re so spoiled.

Needless to say, we’re in DC. Erin and I arrived a little over two weeks ago after spending a night in Indianapolis with Greg and Jodi (thanks for putting us up!). The drive from Stillwater was mostly uneventful, except for one episode of kitty cat “emotional toileting”, which required us to stop off in Terra Haute to clean Sammie’s cage. (Think exorcist projectile vomiting, but of another variety.) We arrived in D.C. around 9 p.m. Sunday evening, which was also Craig’s one month anniversary. After taking a few moments to unpack the cats and our things, Erin and I paused to toast a glass to Craig, and to ourselves. We’ve had a rough road of it, and though it may be a tad presumptuous to say that the worst is behind us, we felt content saying just that (apart from the grieving that lies ahead). It’s times like these that I look back to New Years and think to myself, maybe I should have included a year of no illness in my New Year’s resolution. But, though there are no guarantees in life, I feel confidant and saying that the next year will different – and deservingly so.

After honoring Craig’s anniversary, Erin and I began considering where we are and what we need to do as individuals, colleagues, sisters, friends and daughters to begin the path of healing. We decided that keeping busy helps. So far, we’ve toured DC, visited a patch of natural falls just outside Silver Spring, gone to football watch parties, rock climbed, and joined “meet up” groups. We’ve seen Obama speak, and Sarah Jessica Parker ‘direct’ (she’s filming a pilot for a spin-off to Sex and the City in Adams Morgan). We’ve seen a shoplifter sprint for his life with a security officer close on his heels. I’ve witnessed a bus driver get into two long-winded altercations, complete with name calling and “nooo, you are!” comebacks, with his passengers. (The police had to escort one passenger from the bus, though, honestly, they should have escorted the bus driver. Perhaps bus driving isn’t the best line of work for a hot head prone to schoolyard fights.)

More importantly, I’ve been interviewing. Though I’m still keeping my options open for working abroad, I’m also considering working in the DC area for a change. Interviewing at this point in my life is a little unnerving; I don’t feel at my best. Whereas others have continued on in their field, I’ve been out of the loop, so to speak, for the past year or so. Though I’m confident in my knowledge and understanding, I still feel uncomfortable in my own skin, which is something I’ll have to get used to. Moving back to the States will also be difficult. I haven’t lived State-side since 2002. My friends, job, and life are in Bangkok. To have to say goodbye to familiarity amidst so much loss, and start anew is frightening. It’s also oddly liberating. I have an opportunity to set my own path, to change the aspects in my life that needed changing. There are so few opportunities for such transformative change.

Plunging back into the work is not the only thing that will take getting used to. Being with people is also difficult. My first instinct is to tell the world what just happened, but not everyone is interested, which is hard. To be forgotten is one thing, but to be ignored is another. People listen with only half an ear, and are eager to move onto a more uplifting topic than cancer. I don’t blame them. No one likes a Debbie Downer, or so we’re told. Our culture applauds the eternally optimistic and super fun loving, yet, with a whisper and a sigh, turns its back on sadness and grief. It’s an interesting phenomenon, and one that I can understand. I like to think it’s because people feel uncomfortable and don’t know if by talking about it, they would be intruding on another’s grief, or perhaps feed the sadness by bringing up “bad memories.” Grief is a minefield and it’s hard to know what to do. But, it’s my experience that something is better than nothing.

Despite all the uncertainty, it feels good to be doing something, to feel like I’m moving forward. I’m still learning about myself, and about what I need as I continue to come to terms with losing Mom and Craig. The next few months and years will no doubt be our hardest. There will be days where life seems to click, and others where it seems to be falling apart. Finding a balance will be the hard part. Yet, by joining groups and engaging in activities, I feel like I’m laying the groundwork for better days to come. I know I won’t be walking this path alone. –J

That Wednesday, we drove towards his apartment as we did time and again. As we drove to his building, I was struck by memories of how he used to meet us “on the corner” as we parked across the streeet.  I can vividly remember him standing on the corner of his apartment complex ready to receive us. In his winter coat or casual button down, he’d flip his hand in a wave before walking across the intersection in our direction using Denver’s trademark diagonal crosswalk. Always receptive, always a graceful host, he was eager to bring his sisters to his apartment and begin the adventures.

Walking into his apartment after his Oklahoma funeral was surreal. We turned the key and opened the door to find the same smell–ever potent, ever vanilla, ever Craig. His apartment was a distinct fragrance and one I’m sure Emily and the sisters would gladly bottle up if we could. It was as if we had walked into his apartment before darting off for snow-shoeing or a dinner on the mall. It was as if he would come from his bedroom to ask if he looked okay or to talk of work. It was as if he was still there, with us, a part of us. To reconcile all the familiar sights, sounds and smells against the deep crevasse of his loss was all but impossible. His belongings remained just as he left them. You could sense his interests from his keepsakes: a refrigerator with a picture of Diane acting ridiculous and the four of us decked out in faux gang clothing acting even more ridiculous. His bookshelves were lined with obscure novels, and items from his obscure travels. Highlighted with the most prominence were photos of his family—you couldn’t separate Craig from his family much like you can’t pull the earth from gravity. It showed. It was with us as we entered his apartment– his door still peppered with images of familyfor him to gaze upon as he entered his dying days.

We stayed in his room after his passing. It somehow brought us closer to him, as did going through his belongings. To make sense of them was much too difficult a process so close to his death; we simply boxed up what we could. To pack up your brother…It’s as an impossible a task as any. It felt wrong to invade his private life, a man of 32, yet there we were trying to make sense of it. I remember gazing upon his hand-writing and falling apart. A man of 32. He was much too young, much too vibrant, much too provocative to have his sisters organize him into tidy little boxes. It just doesn’t make sense.

Yet, we packed him up and donated his medical supplies to Project Cure. Before long we were gazing from his empty apartment, staring at the intersections we came to memorize after years of visiting, saying goodbye to the University of Colorado that we had identified and separated from the Denver skyline. His apartment still pleasantly smelled of Craig despite appearing as an empty box. Maybe that was symbolic. His memory resides inside. ~E

September

A faint smell of pinon floats on the brisk night air as I walk the few steps from my car to Emily’s basement. It’s September and the air smells of “football” (Oklahoma State football). Mom would know what that means. It’s a feeling that lingers in my throat somewhere between my heart and head as I avoid the dew-kissed grass and aim for the stone steps marking the path to Emily’s gate. It’s late; Craig needs me, I need Craig, but I still have cat duty.

A lot has changed since mid-April when I began my semi-permanent residency in Denver. Seasons have changed. In April, I packed my suitcase with spring-time clothes with a few sweaters to cut the chill.  Now, i find myself deep into September. Halloween decorations fill the racks at stores and baseball decals have been replaced with football banners and Denver Broncos merchandise. Mom has been gone for 3 months and Craig seems to be nearing his end…

October

It’s October. For months, we could have worn a rut between three directions: first, from the hospital to Craig’s and, then, from Craig’s to Emily’s. These routes became as common as the lines on my hand and now there’s little point for the desperate go-between save that from the need to “do the cats” and “clean Craig’s apartment”. The hospital was cut from the sequence long ago and now the other half of the journey has ended. Our Mom’s and Craig’s journeys have ended and the role of caretaker is no longer there. That frenetic 14-month pace is over and it’s awkward making the drive between Craig and Emily’s without “panic and anxiety” as carpoolers. They are still there in a sense, just dressed in evening wear with the expectation of recognition.

But the days pass, and when the reminders pull on the hem, I tend to look down and shake them off more than pay them any recognition. Diane said it best when she noted that to directly look at what we’ve been through-the loss of our mom and Craig-is like looking at the sun. You can’t look at it directly lest you burn your eyes and reap painful damage (adding an artful spin). It seems that way. To take on this loss is too much at once, like eating an elephant in one sitting.

It’s not like I won’t “look” though. I try; it’s just a blind spot–a total eclipse of the sun leaving only a sliver of what waits behind. Those slivers appear in the spontaneous moments of boredom followed by the “hey, I’ll call Mom or Craig” moments, and the jarring sadness of not being able to. Or, seeing Craig’s sweat stained Michigan hat I’d put on from time to time before handing it to him. Those are the slivers, the rim. The void in the middle is what awaits recognition.~E

– Calvin Coolidge

The notion that persistence is essential for success and happiness is deeply embedded in our culture. America’s founding philosophy is with steadfast determination and unrelenting pursuit, people can overcome all obstacles. We’re constantly reminded by Nike commercials, Wall Street, Michael Phelps and Warren Buffett that “perseverance pays off” and “quitters never win, and winners never quit.” So profound is the notion of “pressing on” that people would rather endure failing careers, loveless marriages, and hostile work environments than quit. To quit is to give up, to throw in the towel, to give in to failure. After all, no one wants to be perceived as a quitter — a loser who couldn’t hack it when the “going got tough.”

To be sure, studies show that persistence in pursuing a life goal can bring about positive long-term effects. Pressing on in times of difficulty can increase motivation, and lead to greater self-confidence, less stress, and overall well-being. On the other hand, “giving up” on attainable goals can lead to depression and low self-worth. But what about situations in which goals are clearly unattainable? Could “pressing on” actually lead to poorer health? What if, by shifting goals, quitters could actually win, and in the process, secure peace of mind?

Research suggests that when people are faced with situations in which they cannot realize a key life goal, the most adaptive response may be to disengage from that goal. In fact, a recent study by Gregory Miller shows that those who could not renounce unattainable goals showed increase levels of the inflammatory molecule C-reactive protein, which is linked to heart disease, diabetes, and early aging. Those who could disengage or shift from unattainable goals towards more manageable goals were able to create a different sense of accomplishment and well-being, and reported better health. Shifting goals to more manageable ones is easier if one already has other alternatives available.

Understanding cultural, physiological and psychological effects of quitting is useful when considering the psychological aspects that underlie the decision to pursue cancer treatment. The NYT’s article “In Cancer Therapy, There is a time to Treat and a Time to Let Go” described a study on ovarian cancer where “patients with a shorter survival time…had a trend toward increased chemotherapy during their last three months of life and had increased overall aggressiveness of care [but] did not have improvement in survival.” Their findings suggested that “in the presence of rapidly progressive disease, aggressive care measures like new chemotherapy regimens within the last month of life and the administration of chemotherapy within the last two weeks of life [were] not associated with a survival benefit.” Further, though it’s been shown that patients who choose hospice over aggressive treatment often live longer and with less discomfort, “with aggressive therapy, the majority of the women in the study who died did so without the benefit of hospice.”

The decision to terminate anti-cancer treatments is perhaps one of the hardest and most personal decisions a person with cancer has to make. There is no ‘right’ answer; each person’s situation is different, as is each person’s will to live. Ultimately, the best decision is whatever feels right at the time. But when the cancer is advancing despite all efforts, there are confounding psychological and cultural pressures that can make the decision to disengage from treatment more difficult.

Strong is the belief that we have to “do something” when faced with cancer. Internally, we believe that we must seek treatment until the end, to press on in the face of adversity. To relinquish treatment is to “give up” and for some, to hasten death. Treatment is seen as a lifeline, as something tangible to hold on to. To end treatment is to be cut off from care, from the doctors and social networks that were an integral part of fighting cancer. Craig said that discontinuing treatment was like flying solo, or jumping out of an airplane without a chute. Craig would rather continue seeking treatment even if only for the peace of mind that he wouldn’t be abandoned by his doctors, or by science. For some, staying the course is also perceived as “staying strong.” Many want to be remembered for having tried every treatment possible, and for not giving up hope for a cure. To press on is to prove their commitment to not only themselves but to those that have supported them.

It’s not always the patient who is reluctant to disengage from anti-cancer treatment. Staying the course is often reinforced by doctors, medical staff, family and friends. Subtle reminders to “keep fighting,” “stay strong” and “never give up” urge cancer patients to keep pursuing every available treatment, even when the treatment may do more harm than good. People may just as soon stop treatment in order to have peace and relief at the end of life. Indeed, there can be a great sense of relief from not having to fight. The decision to stop can be overwhelmed by a deep sense of cowardice, failure, or guilt for “giving up” when others were “believing” and “staying strong.”

Given our culture’s pension for winning, saying “no” to cancer treatment can be emotionally painful. The social pressure to “never give up” can muddy personal decisions in the face of cancer. The problem lies not only in the social pressure to keep trying, but in the way alternative goals are framed. There is plenty of literature supporting people’s fight against cancer, and even information on when to terminate treatment (i.e. when the costs of treatment outweigh the benefits). But there isn’t much available with regards to helping people through the decision of letting go, of deciding to shift from one goal to another.

Decisions can be much harder when alternatives seem so bleak. But there are alternatives. Rather than couching termination of treatment as being an end to one’s cancer process, perhaps the verbiage should describe the change as shifting ones goals to more attainable outcomes, like improving quality of life. As studies show, withdrawal from an unattainable goal (e.g. curing terminal cancer) may enable people to recoup personal resources that can be used to reengage in new goals. Focusing on improving ones quality of life during the end stages of cancer is a legitimate goal. Indeed, living a quality life is an alternative. And in this sense, hospice could be couched as an attainable treatment, offering peace of mind during the end stages of lie, where the focus is not on winning, but on comfort, and honoring a patient’s wishes, respecting the process, and valuing life as it happens.

This isn’t to say that Mom and Craig were somehow forced into the decisions they made. Rather, this post seeks to address both the internal struggle, as well as the social pressures of “never giving up,” which can make deciding difficult. Ultimately, I will never know what was really in play for Mom and Craig, nor will I know their struggles. But, I hope that rephrasing alternatives could somehow help to reduce the emotional difficulties of choosing end of life options. –J

Watch for the next installment on Decisions: Treatment as a Personal Choice

]]> http://thelawlerfamily.org/archives/448/feed http://thelawlerfamily.org/archives/446 http://thelawlerfamily.org/archives/446#comments Fri, 31 Oct 2008 15:14:13 +0000 diane http://thelawlerfamily.org/?p=446 I’m sitting in my new Denver apartment listening to men jumping on the roof. Someone forgot to tell me that they were going to be replacing the roof before I moved in :/. Details, details, details. Anyway, I’ve been here since Monday night and am at a loss for what to do with myself now. I had originally thought that I’d take the next couple weeks to rest, hike, and just follow my whims for the day. Instead, I find myself creating errands and piddly work so that I feel useful in some way. Methinks I need a j-o-b. The transition from the intensity of the past year to normal daily life is tough; I often feel like a visitor in other’s more normal lives. Nights are still tough for some reason. The dark and quiet make me anxious. I refuse to just sit and ruminate, though, and have been rewatching the Rome series and rented a movie on Ghengis Khan.  There’s just something comforting about gory battle scenes :) I miss Craig and my mom everyday and worry about the future of our family; how we’ll each cope and heal and build new lives.  I have hope for us, even if the future is nebulus and cloudy and always shifting. It’s what keeps me smiling

I dreamt of Mom last night, only Mom. It’s an increasingly rare occasion to think of one and not the other. I suppose guilt and confusion aren’t such rampant ingredients in dreams. During the day, and more so as night falls, I can’t help but play a cerebral and emotional pin-pong match between thinking/grieving Craig or Mom. Which one ‘serves’? It’s too hard to process the feeling of losing two, TWO, of the people you’d call on a Thursday night, a Friday night, any night. Two people who were your confidants and soundboards. My mom. As a family friend put it, to lose your mom is to lose the person who loved you first. She was the constant, the moonbeam on a long night’s drive home and the sun as the morning broke. She was my lighthouse. My brother. To lose your brother is to lose your best friend, and all the stars that sparkle in the sky–the patterns, the luminance, the wishes. How do you grieve them both, simultaneously? I haven’t figured that out and my dreams are a perfect reflection, most nights. Most nights, they are both present–either in sickness or in health–but ultimately together. Last night, Mom rode solo.

We were waiting for her for dinner at a Stillwater Restaurant. She eventually wandered in with her striped shirt and khakis, ready for spring and the perennials she planted. Her eyes were down with an expression of fatigue, despite a crisp new haircut and appearing thinner than before. Work was on her mind–not cancer. She had a pep in her step and walked straight, not leaned over. She sat down without effort and could get up as she pleased, not with the care of others. She could order what she wanted not through her ever vigilant daughters. Diet Coke with a twist of lime. Though brief, she was “Mom” without the disease in my dreams.

And the pain comes in the morning when she disappears. ~E

I remember being mesmerized by Craig’s view the first time I entered his apartment. I remember his crooked, almost braggish, smile as if trying to hide his glee of the view and his sisters’ compliments. We’d joke about the various one-liners he could use, changing the term “apartment” to the more appropriate “lair”. He’d don his familiar “ladies man” persona or the uber important “lawyer look” as he’d stare out over the Denver skyline with hands perched on the windowsill as if contemplating the meaning of life. We still have pictures of that moment.

Later that night, as the Denver lights danced outside, I taught Craig how to Latin dance. He was my partner as Jill and Diane danced with each other. We danced until we were good and sweaty and our faces hurt from laughing. Oh, how I remember the devilish look in Craig’s eyes as he finally caught the sequence of moves, and learned what he should do…when. He was an eager/fast learner, albeit a bit stiff in his hips. Regardless, he tried and, more importantly, he was willing to try and I loved him for that. He’d even add on to the moves once he got the hang of it, inserting one of his “and then I’d go like this” statements widening his eyes and sucking in quick bursts of air as if it was super cool and we should take note. The four of us would quickly spiral into making fun of it all, and pretty soon we were all kicking our heads back melodramatically and punctuating each move with a “pow” or “tadow”.  

The four of us would dance time and again after that night. I taught Craig “hip hop/dance floor” moves one night in Stillwater, and, once again, the four of us danced together in my compact apartment until we eventually fell to the floor laughing and exhausted. It was impossible to take ourselves seriously despite our best efforts. Too quickly, we’d incorporate “Mom and Dad” moves and fall into hysterics. This was a typical outing for us, perhaps not dancing every night but the laughing and genuinely enjoying each other’s company. Looking back, it’s a bit surprising to think that Craig was even REMOTELY interested in hanging out with his sisters but that was the norm–our coveted norm. A pod, a four leaf clover, our good luck charm. We completed each other in a way that will never be replicated. It was uncomplicated, natural, and loving.

The four of us complimented each other; we fit together like puzzle pieces-each piece unique, irreplaceable, and leaving a gaping hole when missing. To me, my sisters and brother were the lights of Denver that night–the dancing lights of Denver.

As Craig’s process took hold and in the time after he passed, I’d look out on the dancing Denver lights and remember our night together, dancing. I could hear our laughter and our voices, see our bodies swaying while others our age would be at a club wasting time. Thank God we didn’t waste time, but spent time together. How I wish for even more time now. ~E

It happens, but to use our not but four months deceased mother’s identity is absolutely despicable — the kind of disgust where you spit through your fingers shaped like snake eyes hoping that in some culture, there’s an ancient tradition where a snake eyes curse would actually work against whoever racked up a credit card in her name. I’m not a violent person, but sure would throw a stone or two at the asshole who is so shallow to steal a recently deceased person’s identity–one who valiantly battled cancer and worked HARD her whole damn life and earned a PhD while raising four young (sometimes hyperactive) children.

Put out a beggars cup, do something more honorable than the cowardly and ultimately LAZY act of filling in lines using someone else’s name. What if that was your mother’s,friend’s identity? It’s the same as road rage and honking. Not to stray too far from the point, but what if the person you’re flipping off in a two-second lapse of self-control was really the spouse of your child’s teacher or your boss’ wife? A conscience is a powerful thing– one that guided my mom through everything, directing her towards one morally correct decision after another. But, here, four months after her death, some disgraceful yahoo grabs her name as a meal ticket for their next one stop shop to a pair of Nikes or thousands spent at Lane Bryant.

It’s a problem easily resolved by a death certificate and patience, but one that brings to surface the painfully callous reality of our mom’s passing and the sometimes pathetic nature of human kind. More importantly, it throws my dad into an anxious spiral neither he nor his children really need. …To do that to a man grieving his wife and son, or to daughters grieving their mother and brother…good lord, have some tact.

So, when these folks are caught and wherever they have their hearing in hell, I’ll be sure to bring the popcorn, Jill the lawn chairs, and Diane the tomatoes to watch justice be served.

Man up, humanity. Man up. — E