How did this happen? I suppose age had something to do with the wear and tear on my knee. And I believe that my personal walking challenge was what probably pushed it over the edge.

There is a walking trail that goes through Minuteman National Park. It’s about 5 miles from one end to the other. On the eastern end is Fiske Hill in Lexington and at the western end is Meriam’s Corner in Concord. Both of these locations were pivotal during the revolutionary war. I had discovered this trail a few years ago and really enjoyed walking sections of it. It was peaceful and pretty and you could almost hear the sounds of farmers, muskets and regiments of med in red if you listened hard enough. In mid summer, I made the decision that I wanted to walk the entire 5 plus miles of this trail. So I trained…hard. Not only was distance on my radar but so was speed. I wanted to do this walk as fast as I could. So I trained…hard. I was walking about 2-3 miles a day and 3-4 miles a day on the weekends getting ready for this. I know it probably seems like no big deal. After all, 5 miles is not that much really. But for me, it was my own personal marathon.

I came back from my sailing trip, decided to accept the offer for a new apartment, started the process of finding a new home for Faron and focused on my “marathon” challenge. So on Saturday September 20, my bff K met me at the Fiske Hill lot and drove me the 5 miles to the Meriam’s Corner lot. He handed me a Kashi bar and a bottle of water and wished me well. And I was off. Walking from the western end of the trail to the eastern end had some significant uphill stretches. I chose to go in this direction because the hills would be an extra challenge. One hour and seventeen minutes later, I arrived at the Fiske Hill lot. I had SLAYED this challenge. I was like Rocky on the top of the steps in Philly. I had won my own personal marathon in a time that was far faster than I imagined it would be and I felt great. Victory was mine!

Five days later my knee was trashed and my walking days were over…for awhile. At the emergency room, I had a very handsome and nice Doctor who could not do too much for me because my knee was so swollen and painful, any kind of exam was excruciating. He put me in a straight leg brace that went from my ankle to mid-thigh, put me on crutches and sent me home with orders to see an orthopedic doctor and have an MRI. This was my right knee so driving was out of the question. I was devastated. I could not do anything. I could not get very far. Most importantly, I could not pack up my apartment. And I was scheduled to move in 20 days. What the hell was I going to do?

That weekend was brutal. It was a gorgeous late September weekend and all things being equal, I would have taken one last beach day. But I was trapped in my house, unable to do anything. My friends L&C said they would help pack for me. My sister said she would come down and help me pack. My brother would come and help too. It’s hard for me to a) admit I need help and b) accept it when offered. But this was no time to struggle with myself. I had to seek out and accept whatever help I could get. About a week after I hurt my knee, I had the MRI and it was determined that I had a torn meniscus, cartilage damage and a partial ACL tear. The good news…the only thing that needed to be repaired was the meniscus and the cartilage. But the best thing that happened is the Doc put me into a smaller, hinged knee brace that allowed me to move around more and most importantly, drive! He wanted to operate right away but I had to wait…I was moving, in 14 days! People face challenges every day, some bigger than others. The entire scenario (moving after 26 years, Faron, knee) was more challenging than almost anything I had ever faced before. But I would get through it…

Twenty six plus years living in one place meant that packing would not be easy. There was so much to weed through. Fortunately, I did not have much storage space so the “stuff” I accumulated could have been worse. I was determined that if I had not touched something, used or worn something or had not seen something in the last year, I did not need it. I stuck with this and yet I still had lots of “stuff”.

So I started the packing process and the impossible task of finding Faron a new home. I reached out to the Cat Connection for help. I insisted that Faron would never go into a shelter or a cage of any kind. He would only go to a home. The Cat Connection does not usually assist in re-locating but they made an exception for my exceptional cat. In the meantime, my friends (and next door neighbors) said that they would foster Faron until a perfect home could be found for him. I was grateful to the Cat Connection and to my friends.

It’s not like packing 26 years of my life while trying to find a new home for Faron wasn’t enough. And then it happened. And I have no idea how. I was standing in my guest room, just looking at the space I had to use as a staging area for the moving boxes. I had nothing in my hands…and nothing up my sleeve. I was just standing there. And then I bent over at the waist. I don’t remember why. But an awful thing happened. My right knee made a grinding, popping and crunching sound and the entire knee moved to the left. And then it moved back to the right. And it hurt. But it was nothing. It wasn’t swelling too much. It was fine. It had to be. But it wasn’t. Not even a little fine.

I continued what I was doing, moving stuff around, packing stuff up. The knee kept swelling but it was tolerable. I was ignoring it. I had to. I went to bed and when I woke up in the morning, it was still swollen and it did not feel good. But I got up and went to work. I had a busy day on tap and I did not have time for this. While walking through a room at work, my knee suddenly gave out and I almost fell. I was able to grab onto a piece of furniture to stay up. Ouch! That hurt. But I kept on, I was busy. Three more times during the day, my knee gave out. And each time I ignored it and went about my day. But as the work day was coming to an end, the knee was swelling like mad and the pain was getting unbearable. I was okay if I was walking but if I sat for any period of time and then got up….yeah, not so much! I finished the day at work and went home. I barely made it up the stairs into my apartment. I changed my clothes and then I called my neighbor and asked her to drive me to the emergency room. I could not be in denial any longer.

The landlord hung that golden ring out and told me to grab it. But there was a catch. We talked about rent and we settled on a number. And then I made a casual mention about my cat. And then the world stopped.

“Oh, yeah. I have a no pet policy so you can’t have a cat” Ummm…what? Really? Why? I was stunned. And I thought I could negotiate this. He had reasons. Pet’s make a mess and cause damage. Cats, if not cared for properly, can be nasty. I knew what he meant. And I also knew I was not that pet owner. I kept my cat and his things clean, obsessively. I had been in homes that had not been kept as clean and I always wanted to make sure that if anyone walked into my home, they could not tell a cat lived there. But there was no negotiating this matter. He was clear and firm. And I did not know what to do.

Faron was just two years old. He was my “Bubba”. I did everything for him to make sure he was the most loved and well cared for animal in the history of animals. He loved me back…when it was convenient for him. A typical cat. How could I give him up? Who would want him? More importantly, who would be worthy of being his person? What was I going to do? I told the landlord I needed to think about this. Could I have a few days? I knew it was dangerous to ask this because he had many other people who wanted his place. But he agreed and I told him I would be in touch in the next two days, one way or the other. And I went home and cried…really hard…for a really long time. Here was the chance of a lifetime but with a cost MUCH higher than I had ever imagined.

I talked to my sister and to my best friends. But I knew in my head what I had to do. I just needed to convince my heart. I knew that this opportunity would never come again. I knew that this apartment was everything and more. It was beautiful, it was safe and secure, it was clean and bright and new, it came with a price tag that would not change every year, it came with a responsible landlord with a history and reputation of always taking care of his properties. But it’s biggest gift to me was the knowledge that I would be able to be here for many years to come and that I would never have to worry again or look over my shoulder. It was long term security and I needed that. So I made the impossibly difficult decision to accept the apartment and find a new home for Faron.

It would be my mission to make sure that Faron had what he deserved. I would not settle for anything less. He deserved nothing less than the absolute best.

 

 

In the Spring of 1987, my Mother and I moved into a 2 bedroom apartment in West Newton. Our landlord was a nice, old school Italian gentleman. The apartment wasn’t anything special but it was clean and it did the trick. We settled in nicely. Over the next few years, the landlord did do some work in the apartment. He bought us a new stove and installed new peel and stick tile on the kitchen floor. The rest of the apartment remained untouched. The kitchen cabinets (what few there were) were very old and were not really very useful due to poor design. The bathroom was pretty much the same. The sink was just that, a sink with exposed plumbing underneath. You could pretty much say these two rooms were stuck in the 50’s. Again, it was clean, just not very modern.

The house had a fairly nice yard, not huge but ok. We could park two cars so that was a plus. Five or so years after we moved in, Mom applied for and was approved for senior housing. She moved out of the apartment and into her own place. I was now on my own for the very first time. And I loved it! Mom took with her most of the furniture, leaving me with just bare bones stuff to get by. It worked for a little while but I needed to get my own things and make this place my home. The year after Mom moved out, the landlord came to me and wanted to raise my rent by $300 a month! WHAT? I was beside myself. He said it was the water bill. The price of water is high in Newton. I convinced him to accept $200. It would be tight but I would make it work. So as I looked around the apartment, it became clear it needed work. Paint, carpeting, kitchen and bath work. I made a deal with the landlord that I would pay for and do all the painting myself. I would pay for new carpeting. I would spruce up the bathroom as best I could. There was nothing I could do in the kitchen. I’m not that talented and I did not have that kind of money. The deal was that I would pay for everything in exchange for him NOT raising the rent for the next several years. He agreed.

I spent about $10,000 dollars to do all the work and to buy some new furniture. It was hard work but I believed it would pay off in the end. When I was done, it looked fabulous. It was my home now and I loved it. A few years went by and he came to me trying to raise the rent. With the help of his daughter (she lived on the first floor), we were able to hold him off for a few more years. Then I couldn’t hold him off any more and every year, he raised my rent by $100 per month. It became very difficult and uncomfortable living there. It was especially difficult dealing with the son of the landlord. The issues I had with him are far too many to write about. He was and is a jerk. But he was able to manipulate his father and that made my life much more difficult.

The problem was that apartment prices in Newton are OFF THE CHARTS expensive. There was no way I could afford to move and stay in Newton. There was no way I could move and stay anywhere CLOSE to Newton. I was trapped. I needed a miracle. It took several years of looking before I finally go it. I had friends who had friends…but there was never any openings. People don’t move out of apartments with landlords that treat them well. I had asked one person who owned several places to please keep me in mind if anything came open. I was his perfect tenant…single female, no kids, middle age, no drama. He didn’t have anything when I first talked to him so I kept looking.

Fast forward to August of 2014. I boarded the Schooner Heritage for a week sailing the coast of Maine. About half way through the week, I happened to have cell service on my phone. I noticed I had a call and voicemail. It was the friend of the friend. And he had an apartment he wanted to show me. I was freaking out!!!! I told him I was in the middle of the ocean but that I would be back in a few days and would make a plan to see the place. I got home and made an appointment to meet him at the house. I walked into paradise. The apartment was HUGE. It was in the middle of being remodeled. Fresh paint throughout. Hardwood floors refinished. BRAND NEW kitchen….cabinets, appliances, lighting. BRAND NEW bathroom…new tub/shower, vanity, floor tiling. I could not believe what I was seeing. And I could not even afford this luxurious place. Or could I…?

There is something to be said for a property owner who believes in having good tenants. A person who believes that it’s not all about money. A person who takes care of his property and makes sure the tenants don’t have to worry about anything. This man hung the golden ring out in front of me and told me to grab it. There was just one small catch…

 

In the Spring of 2014, it had been a year since I lost my kidney to cancer. It had been a year since my choice to have life changing surgery had been dashed in the blink of an eye. I was still in the program, although not to the degree that I had been prior to the surgery. I had needed to step away for awhile as the previous year had been such a whirlwind. But now I was faced with making the commitment and decision again. I needed some more time and I also needed to get my head back in the game. Not so easy to do. I was torn. Could I do this again? Did I have what it would take to make the commitment again? The staff in the program did not make this easier for me. In fact, one person made it much harder. She kept insisting this was no big deal and kept after me to make the choice to have the surgery. It was a pressure I did not need nor appreciate. I spoke to the Doc about this and she did her best to assure me that the choice was mine and to take whatever time I needed.

Let’s flash back for a few moments to the late Spring of 2013. I had physically recovered from the kidney cancer surgery but the mental recovery was far from over. The feeling of how “easy” my cancer had been haunted me. It was made worse by seeing the rapid decline of Bill and his prostate cancer. When I tried to express these feelings to family and friends, they just did not understand. I had never felt this way before. I felt lost and very much alone. So I made a decision to ask for help. And I did. The program gave me the name of a therapist that among other things, specialized in weight loss issues. Before making any decisions, I did some investigating about this person. I liked what I read so I decided to give her a try. I made an appointment for a day in June of 2013 and I have been seeing her almost every week since then. It’s a deeply personal decision and one that should not be taken lightly. And it is not a decision that should make you feel anything other than empowered.

As I went into the Summer of 2014, I was a walking fiend! And I would workout in the local pool every day. I was “crushing the grind”! It was not uncommon for me to grind out 2-3 miles a day and 3-4 miles per day on the weekends. I like to walk in places that are surrounded by nature. Trails through the woods or along rivers, ponds and streams are my favorite. I think this is because it’s very calming. I had discovered the Battle Road Trail in Lexington/Lincoln/Concord. It’s a 5 mile stretch of walking paths through Minuteman National Park. I liked it a lot. As the Summer wore on, I made the decision that I wanted to walk the entire 5 mile length of the trail. It may seem like that’s not such a big deal but to me it was huge. It was going to be my Marathon. And I trained like crazy.

The end of August was approaching and this meant it was time to sail away again on the great Schooner Heritage. I had made the decision that I after I returned from sailing, I would set a date to follow in the footsteps of the rag tag group of minutemen who revolutionized our country. The winds of change were blowing…

 

 

 

 

 

It’s taken me awhile to get to this next chapter. Not because I’ve been lazy or have lost interest or anything like that. The story goes places that are difficult to describe. The story is also deeply painful. I have tossed and turned this over and over trying to settle on a way to keep it real but to also protect feelings. It’s not just about me.

After Bill passed, my sister embarked on a new life. It was her path to carve and one she had been pondering for awhile. She knew that when Bill passed, her life would change. She was still young and vibrant and did not want to curl up and die. I understood that. Decisions and choices were made. And many of these choices would impact our relationship in ways I could never have imagined. We were on different planes on this and struggled to understand each other. Neither of us was right. Neither of us was wrong. We are two and a half years beyond the death of Bill and we still struggle to understand or accept each other’s view. We have admitted some of our faults. We have each accepted some blame. We are very different in how we view various issues. But we are a work in progress. She is my sister and I will never be willing to let that go.

 

I pretty much recovered from losing a kidney…physically. The toll on me mentally had yet to rear it’s ugly head. I really didn’t have time to dwell on it or recognize that there was more to it than just simply cutting out a cancerous organ and throwing it away.

Summer was soon to be upon us. It’s not necessarily my favorite time of the year. Although I love the idea of being out in the sun and fresh air, the fact that heat and humidity is part of the deal is for me, the deal breaker. I hate heat. I despise humidity. I can really only survive it being trapped inside with air conditioning. Or being in a pool or any body of water. For the last many years, I would travel north to the great state of Maine and hang by the lovely pool at my sister’s house. For the 4th of July, we would attend the annual Taylor family cookout at the family cottage along the shore of Lake Messalonskee, one of the Belgrade Lakes. But this year would be different…

On the 2nd of July, my brother in law Bill suffered a catastrophic event. His advancing prostate cancer wormed it’s way into his spine and in the blink of an eye, paralysis struck. He was completely unable to move from the waist down. It was awful. And so totally unexpected. He was rushed from Waterville to the hospital in Portland with the intent of having emergency surgery in hopes of reversing the paralysis. This turned our world upside down. While my sister rushed to Portland, I drove to Waterville to tend to Lucy and Buzzy, take care of the pool, do some laundry and pack a bag for her. I then drove back to Portland to be with her for a few days. We “celebrated” the 4th of July by standing on the roof of the hospital parking garage and watched the fireworks from the Sea Dogs stadium. Not nearly as spectacular as we were used to but everything was still really just a blur. In the days following the surgery, it was clear that reversing the effects of the paralysis was not in the cards. It was so shocking. It was so unexpected. It was so sad.

Bill remained in the hospital in Portland for a few more days and then was sent back to the hospital in Waterville to continue to “recover” from the surgery. What faced them now was so daunting. Wheelchairs? Handicapped ramps at home? Full time care? What the hell was going to happen next? It was a long Summer. I spent every other weekend driving back and forth to Waterville just for the purpose of being with my sister. I did whatever I could around the house to make it a little easier for her. Every moment she was not at work was spent at the hospital, navigating his care and his future. For one brief moment, it was thought that Bill could return home and move forward from there. Are you serious???? A handicapped ramp was built for his wheelchair so that he could get in and out of the house. He was brought home one day just for a visit to assess the house and the potential for him to be sent home. It was heart wrenching. And it was very clear to my sister that he could never come home again. Bill missed his Lucy and Buzzy almost more than anything. So we brought Buzzy to the hospital for a visit. You can do that. Lucy missed Bill terribly but she was not a candidate for a hospital visit. Everything about this cancer sucked. It was so unfair. But it would get worse…

As the Summer days wore on, it became clear that something else was happening to Bill. His cognitive skills began to change and diminish. The cancer spread up his spine into his brain. Really? Prostate cancer never does that. Except it did. In mid-August, Bill was moved into a nursing home. It was awful. My sister did everything she could to manage his care and fight for better treatment for him. She was determined. But some things are out of your control. We could see what was happening to Bill. We knew his time was ticking away. He was sent back to the hospital for some medical issue. He would not go back to the nursing home again. I continued my trips and did what I could. I would visit Bill in the hospital sometimes but not always. It was so hard to see him suffering. It was in these moments that my cancer story reared it’s ugly head for me. Again, how could I have been so lucky? It was so “easy” for me. Cancer? No problem, just cut it out and be on your way.

I was about to leave on a 6 day sailing trip at the end of August. I had given serious consideration to cancelling the trip because Bill’s days were coming to an end. But it was decided that I should go sailing. I went to the hospital to visit before I left for the trip. I told Bill I loved him and he said the same to me. I walked out of the room. I would never speak to him again. I sailed away and returned on August 31. Bill was still alive but was on his journey to another cosmos. I did not go to see him, I didn’t want to. I stayed with my sister through the Labor Day weekend and headed home on Tuesday afternoon. Bill passed away while I was driving home. It had been a long, hot Summer and now it was over. There was no more pain and no more suffering…for all of us. A new and very different life was about to begin…and I was not prepared for it, at all.

In the days immediately following the Marathon bombing, a flurry of activity continued to swirl around the event. Plans were made to honor the victims and the survivors even as the entire area surrounding the finish line remained locked down and under the control of the FBI and numerous Federal, State and Local agencies. The amount of evidence being gathered was mind boggling. Mayor Tom Menino stood tall for his Boston and made sure everything possible could be done for the families of the victims and survivors. He also worked to help the countless runners from around the world who were not able to return to their hotels or the finish line area to retrieve their personal items. I continued to heal from the surgery I had just two weeks prior to this event.

On Thursday April 18 at approximately 5pm, the combined task force members, headed by the FBI, held a press conference. It was at this televised event that we got out first look at the evil that was responsible for this horrific event. In this day and age of technology, the amount of video footage available to the investigators was astounding. Even more astounding was the ability of some handful of men and women tucked away in some dark room somewhere that looked at hours and hours of private camera footage to find the faces of evil in ALL of the film they looked at. It was these “blown up” photos that were presented to us by the FBI. We were asked if we knew them? Did they live near us? Were we friends with them? Would we turn them in?

Who were these faces of evil? It would not take long for us to find out. Tragically, it would cost one more life, almost cost another life and create more victims over the next 24 hours. A college campus would be the site of an assassination. A small sleepy suburb would be lit up in the middle of the night. Terror would once again visit neighborhoods. Unprecedented steps would be taken to neutralize the faces of evil.

At approximately 10:20pm, MIT Police Officer Sean Collier would be ambushed and killed as he sat in his patrol car doing the job he loved the most. We could not know at that time that there was a strong connection to the Marathon bombing. I was sitting on my couch watching TV and listening to my radio. Once again, not really listening…it was just on. I heard the broadcast of the murder of Sean Collier over the radio. Shortly after that, there was a report of an armed carjacking in Cambridge. Were these two events related? Did it have anything to do with the faces of evil?

Shortly after midnight, my radio exploded with some of the worst transmissions I have ever heard. I could hear the Watertown Dispatcher (note singular not plural) doing his absolute best to keep up with the transmissions of his Officers as they encountered the faces of evil on a quiet little side street in a quiet little neighborhood in Watertown. Nobody could have ever predicted this. And NO AMOUT OF TRAINING can ever prepare you for this kind of attack. I don’t care who you are or how long you’ve  been in the business, this shit just doesn’t happen here. But it did. The bravery of the Watertown Officers, the overwhelming response from surrounding agencies in those early moments was unprecedented in this area. In the Dispatch world, we have a system that allows for your 911 calls that can not be answered to bounce to an adjacent community so that they can answer them. The backup for Watertown is Newton. And the calls we took in those initial moments would curl your hair. The 3 Dispatchers working in Newton answered countless 911 calls in those first few moments. One of those calls was a woman who could see everything from her second floor window. The Newton Dispatcher kept her on the line for some 20 minutes as gun shots flew and bombs exploded. The Newton Dispatcher was her lifeline as she sat alone and terrified in a back room of her apartment as the world she knew came crashing down around her. I sat on the couch through the night listening to the search for evil. I wanted to be at work, doing what we do. But again, I was not able to be there. And I felt terrible.

Like everyone in Eastern Massachusetts, I “sheltered in place” while the hunt for evil continued. We knew one was dead but where was the other? We were all glued to the TV throughout the day wondering where evil was. Did he get away? Did he have help? Was he in my back yard? It would be a very long and difficult day for the public but an even more arduous day for ALL of the law enforcement personnel that responded to Watertown to search every inch of a large area looking to find the remaining face of evil. It would take all day and into the night. And it would take a humble quiet man who stepped out of his house for a cigarette and noticed the covering on his boat was not quite right. When he climbed a ladder and looked into his boat, what he saw would shake him to the core. The hunt for evil was over…we knew where he was, he just needed to give himself up. It would be a few more hours and a few more bursts of gunfire before evil was neutralized. I have never been more proud of our law enforcement officers than I was that night. But I felt so useless, unable to be there when I was needed the most. It was something I struggled with.

And then I ran into Tyrone. We all know Ty, we all love Ty. There was no better TV moment than his smiling face as evil was captured and taken away. He became a bigger celebrity than even HE could imagine. When I saw him, I told him I was proud of him. I had know Ty for close to 40 years and had worked with him for over 15 years. I told him he did his job and he did it well. We were chatting and I told him how I felt bad for not being able to do my job at the moment I was most needed. Ty stopped me from saying anything more and simply said to me, “You did your job, you trained ALL of those Dispatchers that were working that night. Don’t you ever doubt how important you were when the shit hit the fan”

Thank you Ty. Your words made all the difference and will stay with me for the rest of my life.

 

Marathon Day came on Monday April 15. It was a beautiful Spring day. One thing you should know about the Marathon. For Bostonians and all those that live in the Commonwealth Of Massachusetts and everyone in the general New England area, Marathon Day is special, very special. It was “Patriots Day”.

It is the day the heralds the arrival of Spring and brings us out of our homes and back into the world from a winter that is often harsh. It is a day where the only morning baseball game in all of Major League Baseball is played. It is a day when eating sausage, peppers and onions on a roll on Yawkey Way at 9am is oaky because after all, sausage is a breakfast food. People pull out their shorts and bare their pasty white legs to the world in hopes of getting a little color as they sit in the roof top seats at Fenway or find a nice spot along the Marathon route in the miles of greenway that cover Heartbreak Hill. It is the day that people flock to the corner of Washington St and Comm Ave in Newton to hang with the men and women of the Newton Fire Department and buy hot dogs and chips to support Muscular Dystrophy. It is the day that long before dawn, Minutemen muster in places like Lincoln, Maynard, Stow, Lexington and Concord and re-create the battles that gave us our true independence. It is the day that will always be known for the “shot heard ’round the world”.

How were we to know on that beautiful Spring morning that a day that was always so festive and fun would become the worst case of domestic terrorism our nation had ever seen. In my little corner of the world, I was still recovering from surgery. I was doing well but still moving a little slow. As was customary, my sister had come to visit for the weekend. We were not able to do all the fun little adventures we liked to do because I was still on the disabled list. But we made the best of it and did what we could. Unfortunately, she had to return to Maine a day early to attend to her husband and his progressing prostate cancer. So I sat on the couch and watched the Sox game and then the Marathon and took it easy. My coworkers were working hard all along the route in Newton, keeping the crowds at bay as the masses of runners came through and faced Heartbreak Hill. I was listening to my portable police radio. Well, I wasn’t really listening, it was just on in the background.

And then everything changed. Explosions were set off at the Marathon finish line. There was panic and chaos. And there was carnage, lots of carnage. Unfathomable carnage. I now payed much closer attention to my radio as I watched the “Breaking News” and “Developing Story” reports on TV. In an unprecedented move, the Marathon runners were stopped along the route and not allowed to continue into Boston. I listened as our command staff barked orders out to Officers and Dispatchers making sure to keep everyone along the route safe. I wanted to go to work and help…but I couldn’t. It was hard.

We all know what happened that day. “Boston Strong” was born that day and would become the slogan of our Nation and of the World. We were Boston, we were strong, we were Boston Strong. How could we ever know what was to come in the ensuing days and how strong we would have to be?