Destiny - a novel - 7. Chapter 7: Doubt

Chapter 7: Doubt

Jack is in charge of the remote, and the TV blares.

Only five days left before Christmas…

Images of male and female models in red turtlenecks with white trim come together to hug and act delighted by the little held-up boxes in crimson paper tied with pasty ribbons.

…Stanford Shopping Center is the one place you must stop to get your checklist ready for Santa to say you've been NICE all year long…

A white plaza with ground-level shops flashes on the screen. Christmas trees march down the center, and happy shoppers stroll arm in arm along either side, enjoying the fresh air. The shot changes into a rolling one of the interiors of stores: big ones, like Neiman-Marcus and Bloomingdale's. There is a definite bump in the elegance factor as the narrator concludes.

…A must-see place, a must-feel experience. Stanford Shopping Center – where Santa comes to get that special gift!

"Jack," his mom says. "It's a little loud."

The riveted face of my boyfriend suddenly blinks as if Mrs. Shaw has snapped him out of a private thought. I instantly want to cry, and as he picks up the remote and mutes it completely, I realize Jack was just caught up in a wish that he could go see Stanford Shopping Center. How sad that I can't take him, and it kills me that the place he wants to visit is less than a half-mile from this hospital bed.

The room is quiet this afternoon. Dark clouds roll past the window, but they seem to be setting their sights on lands farther in from the coast. A tray of barely picked-at lunch is on the rolling bedside table, but Jack has pushed it away from him. He's had treatment this morning, and it shows. My poor boy – no, correction – my brave, strong, beautiful boy has dark circles under his eyes and seems to touch his forehead from time to time like he has a slight headache. He glances at the snow globe, and I think that if Jack wants to escape, I wish I could give it to him, if only for an afternoon.

His mom is sitting in the lounge chair next to the bed with her head back and her eyes closed. I know she may be pretending to sleep, but she's not.

Dawn and Jackson sit on the couch facing one another and playing Rummy 500. As I lean on the wall near Jack's closet, I envy them a bit. They play intent on the game, and unknowingly or not, they've escaped the horrible waiting feel of this room to be alone with one another. The only drag about that for Dawn is what a rotten victor my little bro makes. A smile comes to my face as I see Jackson's spine stiffen: that's prelude, and in another second, he lays down his final set of cards with a cocky smirk for Dawn. "Haha, that's another, let's see – 10, 20, 30…" He goes on tallying his score like a 'dingbat on parade,' as Dawn might term it, and judging by the young lady's expression, just one thought is on her mind: 'There's nothing worse than a sore winner!' And I have to agree.

Jack clears his throat to get my attention.

"What is it, babe?" I ask, kicking myself away from the wall. "Do you need the barf bucket?"

Jack does a quick glance at his mother while giving me the hush finger.

He looks at me once she doesn't stir, and his puppy dog eyes beckon me to his side.

I reach down and stroke his cheek. He tells me softly, "I wish you would climb in bed with me."

"Ah, Jack. Let's cuddle later. I don’t want to…" I trail off on purpose and gesture towards his resting mom.

"I'll hold you to that, Lincoln. Later today, let's 'smash.'"

"Well, I don’t know about 'smashing,' but, if you play your cards right, maybe a little smushing."

"Fuk, you're sexy, Lincoln Oliver."

"Ditto, kid. Can't you see the problem you just caused for me, you know, front and center behind my fly?"

Jack grins and at the same times bites his lower lip. He slowly rocks his head from side to side, saying, "I was unaware. Step into my grasp and let me do some independent verification."

"Oh, no." I lean my head closer to my boy, kicking my hips and waistline just beyond comfortable reach of his maddeningly skillful fingers. I go down so my lips brush his ear. "Later, babe, when we're alone."

I kiss him on the way up, and delight to see his mischievous grin has morphed into a blushing smile.

Color and movement from the silent TV catches my attention for a moment. It's an in-house promo vid on the hospital, and images of the big Christmas tree set up in the main atrium float past.

Jack's cold hand comes out to touch my cheek. The coldness startles me a bit.

"Linc, this is hard on you, isn't it?"

"Come on, Jack." I grab his digits and begin rubbing some warmth into them. "You're out there running all the passes, and doing all the work here; I'm just part of the cheerleading squad."

He licks his lips, as a clearly wicked thought enters his beautiful head. "Stud, I'd love to see you in cheerleading shorts. Tight, ass-hugging, flimsy shorts."

I feel like taking his hand and placing it palm-up on my bulge to show him how instantly hard he's made me. But my still-lowered gaze catches Jack's mom stirring, so I decide I better not grope myself with my boyfriend's fingers. At least, not now.

"How are you feeling, honey?" Mrs. Shaw's voice startles Jack a bit from his wicked 'smashing' intentions.

"I'm… I'm ok, Mom."

"Good, dear." She stays seated, stretches her arms over her head, and makes a couple of pops come from her shoulders. She seems to renew her understanding of the scene with one smooth sweep: Dawn and Jackson on the sofa, Jack propped up in bed with the TV on, and me leaning over him and holding his hand.

"Oh dear." She sighs, lowering her watch and adjusting it with fingers to better read it. "I have to call Christie later today to see how she's doing."

I straighten up a little more. "I would tell you to give her my best, but I don’t think she wants it from me." My attempt at a laugh falls like a lead apple through the branches of Newton's tree.

"Lincoln – " Mrs. Shaw starts.

"I'm sorry," I apologize. "I just don’t think I know why they act the way they do." I stand fully upright.

Jack's mom continues, "I don't think they mean any harm."

A sound catches in Jack's throat.

"I mean," Mrs. Shaw states rationally. "They've had a tough time of it too, what with their father dying, and Jack being ill. All I'm saying boys, is, give them some space to turn around in. Too much – you know – too much pressure can be a destructive force."

Jack and I can read doubt in each other's face.

Mrs. S. stands up and indulges in more stretching. A cheery voice tells us, "I think his early loss drove Hamish into a defense mode that he's still stuck in. If you ask me, his having a string of girlfriends, to whom he can't seem to commit to fully, shows this unease with himself. I do believe, boys, that Hamish's current loveless life is just a sign that his temperament will soften once he gets into a serious relationship."

"You think so, Mom?"

She comes up to Jack's bedside. "I think he's harmless."

I startle everyone, including myself, saying, "I think he hates me."

"Lincoln – " Mrs. Shaw starts off sadly.

Her son interrupts her. "Mom, you know Linc is right." Jack turns to me. "Well, Christie and Hamish don’t know you. But perhaps you are right to think they hate the idea of you, after all, it's your picture that makes it on TV everyday. It's your presence that's shown constantly supporting me, so I imagine my brother and sister don’t like feeling excluded from The Leukemia Kid Show anymore."

"Jack…" His mom's voice sounds tired, but upset too. "Do you really have such a low opinion of your siblings? Please don’t think the worst of Hamish and Christie. The truth is, we all handle stress differently, and we all have to stand back a little and let others turn around in their own space. That's only fair."

"Well," I halfway mumble. "I predict it's not over between them and me."

Suddenly Dawn and Jackson make excited gestures to the TV.

Dawn cries out, "Look! It's starting."

Jack fumbles for the remote, and a moment later the sound is blaring again. It's the daily press conference from Dr. Kimball and his Stanford colleagues happening downstairs.

"Thank you all for coming here today," Jack's oncologist announces from behind the podium.

Reporters immediately call out: "Dr. Kimball! Dr. Kimball!"

He motions towards a woman. She asks excitedly, "It has been nearly a month now, what is Jack Shaw's prognosis?"

"Jack's leukocyte counts have leveled off, and we are currently optimistic that a gradual reduction will begin to occur. As of now, he has yet to turn the corner."

Another reporter does not wait his turn and shouts out, "How is Jack's morale? How's he holding up?"

"Jack's spirits are high. He is…" There is an awkward beat of silence. "He is motivated to fight with everything he has."

A young woman with a slick ponytail and glasses holds up her gold-plated pen like she expects Dr. Kimball will call on her next. He does.

"What about the rumors that the man frequently seen with Jack Shaw is actually his homosexual lover."

"Um, the word is Gay," Dr. Kimball says dispassionately. "LGBT folks have fought too long and too hard to be re-sexualized by the 19^th Century notion of 'disease.' Gay is an affirmation, and just as African Americans do not allow themselves to be described as 'Negroes' anymore, Gay Americans reject the 'h-word,' or at least they should." He suddenly chuckles. "Or, think of it in the same way flight attendants reject 'stewardess' as antique and embarrassingly outdated."

After the reporters share a sharky laugh, Miss Pretentious Gold Pen persists with her line of demands. "But what of that man? Who is he; is he Jack's male lover?"

A look comes over the oncologist's face that makes me exclaim, "Uh-oh. You don't want to make him angry – you won't like him when he's angry!" I laugh, but Dawn shushes me loudly.

Dr. Kimball continues, "Look, the truth is, I am not able to 'dignify' your question with an answer. We are not here to discuss my personal life, or yours, or anyone's for that matter. But I will say this: LGBT folks are our friends, our coworkers, and most of all, our family. I had a Southern upbringing in Alabama, and while Gay was mostly not talked about, when it was, it was accompanied by sad head-shakes and words of 'poor things.' When I started med school, and even more so when I started my residency, I quickly came to see with my own eyes that our Gay friends, coworkers, and family make the most compassionate of all of us professional caregivers. And why? Because in this society, as young people they had to fight to get the same level of respect for themselves everyone else is afforded, and consequently think nothing of sharing their compassion freely with others in pain and undergoing stress."

Jack's oncologist gathers himself for a moment; as he leans forward, his hands go out on either side of the podium. He chuckles all of a sudden. "Jack's status as single or taken on any social media sites he may belong to, is a private matter. That level of information, as I have said, has nothing to do with these daily updates on Jack's health, although I can assure you the amount of love and support surrounding Jack as he fights for his life is truly awe inspiring."

Jack clicks off the TV. "I'm feeling tired."

Mrs. Shaw makes a snappy round up motion and starts moving towards the sofa. "Come on Dawn, Jackson. Let's go grab some food and leave these two in peace for a while."

She gives me a wink as she grabs her purse.

In another moment, they disappear through the door, which I kick away the doorstop from, and let it settle closed.

I step out of my shoes, lower the guardrail and slide in bed besides my boy.

I raise my arm and Jack effortlessly rolls into my embrace. I kiss the bridge of his nose. "How are you feeling – truthfully now?"

"Bad, Lincoln. I feel like I've been run over by a Mack truck, one that put itself in reverse and squashed me again."

"Do you have more treatment today?"

"Yes, at four o'clock."

I hug him closer and feel his silky breath on my neck. I slide my hand down his back. "Your doctors say you need to stop acting like an invalid." I give his ass cheek a slap.

"What do you mean?" He pushes back to meet my eyes.

"They said it's best if you keep your spirits high, get out of bed, and walk around the hospital. Exercise and improve your mood, they said."

"Phew! – They did, did they?"

"Yup."

"Ok. Then help me up."

I smile, beaming with pride, and lay a big, proper, smacking-wet kiss on my boyfriend.

I get out of bed and go around to the other side to lower the guardrail. Jack tosses off the sheets and sits on the side for a moment.

Grabbing Jack's pajama bottoms, I thread his legs through them. He stands and pulls up his waistband so it disappears under his gown. I grab one of his oversized flannel shirts from his closet and hold it open for him to slide his arms through. Then I grab my letterman jacket and drape that over his shoulders.

We start to walk, and I halt him. "Wait. Let me…" I adjust his cap so USA is front and center. "Now you're set." Kiss. "Love you." He looks hot.

"I fuckin' love you, my beautiful Lincoln Oliver."

˚˚˚˚˚

We're in the elevator now.

While walking around Jack's floor, there were many friendly faces from nurses and staff, each one seemingly relieved to see Jack up and about, and a few faces even offered warmth and support for me.

We're going down, and there are a few people with us in this cab, or else I would be holding Jack's hand and leaning into him for a kiss.

The door opens on the Atrium Floor. The others scramble out, but me and Jack take our time; we have no particular place to go and no particular duties to attend to.

This atrium space has several levels of balconies running all the way around. As befitting one of the great hospitals in the U.S., everything is a combination of traditional accents of polished wood and slick modernism in white metal and gleaming surfaces.

Planted in the center of all of this is a truly massive Christmas tree.

Jack and I slowly tread across the white stone floor, almost as if pulled by a magnet hidden in the core of the tree. Off to the sides, people with staff and visitor badges bustle in and out of gift shops, coffee kiosks and newsstands, but Jack's eyes of wonder are only trained on the tree.

It must be 40 or 50 feet tall, and its artificially green limbs step back as they rise to form a perfectly controlled pyramidal cone. Strung from these branches are continually lit white lights, while others buried deep within and closer to the trunk occasionally blink in slow sequences of dark blue, magenta and red.

Large ornaments also rise like static soap bubbles so that the largest are spotted around the base, and slowly decrease in size as they climb to the twinkling crystal star crowning the whole thing.

I almost get lost in my own thoughts before I realize Jack has stopped. I take a step back and scan his features. He likes what he sees, and I dare not interrupt his moment of blissful escape. Lord knows my boy deserves a few minutes where all his pain is set aside.

His hand slips into mine. "It's beautiful, Lincoln. Did I ever tell you what I used to do at home under our Christmas tree?" His expectant and beautiful eyes look into mine.

"No, Jack. You didn't."

"When I was little, and sick, I'd slide myself under the lowest branches, with my head on the Santa-face tree skirt, and just look up. I could see all the sparkling lights, and the little quiet motion of the ornaments. My senses would be overwhelmed as I folded my hands on my chest, and the scent of pine would come to me, and at those moments, all my hurt would go away. I was thinking about Christmas morning, and about how I had something to look forward to."

"Ah, Jack – "

"It's hard to describe, but laying under our family's Christmas tree made me feel both less real – more magical and special – and more alive at the same time. The only other time I really felt all those things at once was the day I arrived in L.A. and went to Santa Monica beach where I watched the sun set into the water. I was alone, and somehow that was ok too. Do you know what I mean, Linc?"

"Yes, kid. I think I do."

"But do you know what I just realized?"

"No, baby. What?"

"I have a new Christmas morning now. A new goal to make it to, and one that's just as exciting and motivating to me."

"What is it?"

"It's you, Lincoln Oliver. Thinking about you is my new Christmas morning."

I squeeze his hand. "You charmer, you act as if I'm doing anything but be with you."

"Yes, Linc. That's exactly what I mean. You are about the bravest – "

I cut him off with a hug. "No, kid. You, you are the brave one."

"If so…" he rubs my sides "…it's because you are next to me."

I feel like giving Jack something intimate in return for sharing his Christmas tree memory. "Hey…" I tease him with my tone. "You asked me way back why I kept and used my real name in L.A. Did I ever answer your question?"

He thinks about it for a brief moment. "Nope, Mr. Evasive, you did not."

"It's kinda sad, Jack. But, the truth is, I used my real name so that if my parents even lifted a finger to look for me, they'd find me." Damn, I've done it to myself, but now I feel like crying. "See, Jack. They never did. They…at least your mom was trying to find you. I hope you know that makes me sympathize with her a lot."

"Oh, Lincoln – "

"No need to say you're sorry my folks didn't want me back. It is what it is, Jack. And I'm not gonna worry about it anymore. I guess that's the reason why I'm telling it to you now; it's so I can forget about it and move on."

"Ok, Lincoln. Thanks for telling me, and you're right – it's time for both of us to move on."

Our lips come together for a quick, but noisy, open-eyed smack. I gently push back. My index, middle finger, and thumb find his chin. I rotate it slightly and kiss my boyfriend. The crowd and their noise fades far into the background. Maybe I too need my moment of total relief. God, how I do love him, and God, how I am afraid for him.

I pull back and make sure a big smile is the first and only thing Jack Shaw sees once he opens his eyes again.

My arm slips across his back and my hand settles on his waist. We stand quietly like that, with heads tilted and touching, to just drink in the beauty of the Christmas tree.

Eventually I ask, "Are you getting tired?"

"No, Lincoln. I feel recharged. I'm glad you suggested this walk."

"Me too, babe. Do you want to go a little farther?"

"Yes – let’s see what else this place has to offer."

"You got it, kid." I kiss him once more for good measure.

After a bit, we set off slowly in the direction of the public lobby – the place where security signs people in, or checks their badges before being allowed into the hospital proper. At first I can't quite make out what is going on behind the glass wall that separates it from the atrium space. There is movement in the form of bright lights and silhouetted figures moving about.

It hits me all of a sudden; my arm flies out to halt Jack's momentum. The lobby is packed with reporters doing interviews with Dr. Kimball and his associates. They're like media piranha separated from us by only the thin glass; it's as if the cold panic of being next to a cracking aquarium overtakes us.

Still a bit unnerved, we turn heels to almost bump into a Latino guy, who's maybe 21 or so, has two large 'diamonds' in his earlobes, plus a somewhat anxious look on his face. His lab coat and staff badge continues the momentum of his body as he comes running up to stop in front of us. "You guys don’t want to go in there."

"Yeah," Jack laughs. "We figured that one out just in time."

"Hey, Jack," the cute guys stammers out a greeting with a shy but hopeful look on his face. "Do you mind if I…"

"What's your name?"

"Javier Peña – you can call me Javie. I'm a radiology intern upstairs. You're Jack Shaw, right? I saw you with Dr. Kimball."

"Yep. And this is Lincoln Oliver."

Javie smiles at me and thrusts out his hand. "Hey."

I shake it, and Jack continues, "I'm gonna marry him someday."

Javier smiles even more. "That's really cool, man." He fumbles in his coat pocket and pulls up his phone. "Um, my girlfriend and me – we both – can I get a pic? She'll go crazy. She wishes you all the best."

"Sure!" Jack tugs on my elbow to pull me back to his side. I slightly bend my knees and he reaches his left arm over my shoulder and neck. We pool our grinning faces with the radiologist's, and Javie snaps a selfie.

He pops back up from looking at the new picture on his phone with an emotional pause on his face. His blink and momentary bite of lower lip conveys that what he's about to say comes straight from the heart. "Take care of him, Lincoln Oliver. We all love Jack and want him to pull through."

He starts to move away, then turns back to us with a pretty loud and confident voice. "And, I think you guys make about the most beautiful couple I've ever seen! Catch you later, dudes."

He heads to the elevators, and totally agreeing with him, I lean over and plant a kiss on my boyfriend's honey-sweet lips.

˚˚˚˚˚

It's getting close to 4 PM, and the leaden sky today has not lightened one iota from this morning's gloom. So much for our drought winter! Soon the low-angled sun will set and no one under it here will be any wiser. Only the glare from this hospital room will increase against the window glass until I finally lower the blinds again for the day.

Dawn and Jackson sit side by side on the couch just below this view of the world. Their heads are pressed close together and the small LED screen from my brother's camera lights up their twinkling smiles and eyes. They are reliving photos that Jackson has taken, and their occasional laugh becomes increasingly suppressed in glances of self-awareness around the room.

I'm standing like I was earlier in the day, before we ventured out to the atrium and its tree, with my back against Jack's closet. From here I can easily survey what my brother and Dawn are doing to my right, and Jack lying in bed with his earphones in and his eyes closed. The soft strains of Woodkid's new song about finding a way back home again drift out slowly to me in the familiar way a song you love will grab your attention almost in silence. I guess it's like a small ray of sunshine piercing the otherwise gloomy days around Jack.

To his left, in the far corner of the room next to his bed, Mrs. Shaw busies herself with needlepoint in the lounge chair.

Almost 4, that means Jack will be rolled off to treatment anytime now. I also know he'll come back sick as a dog. There's too much pressure on the kid.

The movement of Mrs. Shaw's hand again draws my attention to her, and I suddenly realize she didn't go back to rest today at the motel. It will be another rough night for her here; I wish I could relieve her graveyard-shift burden.

I hear some soft footsteps, and watch Jackson and Dawn look up towards the door. Dr. Kimball rounds the corner looking like shit; there are dark marks under his eyes, and a swollen redness that makes me think maybe he's been crying.

He stops and asks no one in particular: "So, how's Jack doing?"

Jack opens his eyes and scooches up in bed, withdrawing his earbuds.

Mrs. S. speaks first. "He's fine, Dr. Kimball – but – how are you doing?"

"Good, good."

The oncologist strides past me with a half-raised grin. He goes up to his patient's bedside and reaches out a hand to touch the side of Jack's neck.

"Not too hot, Jack?" he asks.

"No, not right now – not much fever."

"Yes, I can feel that, and that's good. They'll be coming for your next session."

"Yeah," Jack sighs.

"Hey." The doc's tone brightens. "I was just talking to Marta, and she sends her love to you, as always."

"Well, tell her I love her back."

The doctor doesn't answer but looks sad again.

Dawn and Jackson get up and come to the foot of the bed.

Dr. Kimball does a painfully slow scan of all the faces around him. He settles back reluctantly on Jack. "I…I was talking to Marta about something important, something that's been weighing heavily on my mind."

"And what's that, Doctor Kimball?" Mrs. Shaw's tone startles me. There is almost a palpable undercurrent of 'watch it.' Her mama-bear instincts have just kicked in with force.

The doctor blinks and I can hear him swallow down a lump. "Jack," he says, getting choked up. "Marta and I would not be together without you. To us, the little seven-year-old we met and helped will always be our personal cupid."

Jack darts his glance to me for a half-second; I know he really wants to roll his eyes, but he resists the urge.

"But," the doctor stammers. "I've been internally questioning if it's always right – in every situation – for a young one to go through…to go through, what you have."

"Doctor – " The warning tone is back in Mrs. Shaw's tone.

"Please listen for a moment. I was drawn to pediatric oncology in medical school after a volunteering session at Cincinnati's Children's Hospital. My mind-making decision was set to ease, as one little girl – even through her suffering – was able to smile when I read Clifford the Big Red Dog to her. The way her hand would squeeze mine, the crystal-clear laugh, it was all the career validation I needed. The girl died a few weeks later, and I threw myself into my work and studies.

"So, Marta and I have known you, Jack, for half your life. There's no one braver than you, and time and time again your spirit was our hope and inspiration as you battled and went into remission."

He raises tear-filled eyes to Mrs. S., but his voice goes on with calm conviction. "To both of us, the courage of that little boy, and worst of all, his suffering, has a deeply resonating and personal connection to us."

He looks down at Jack again.

"But, I've been wondering if it's always the right thing to fight. Maybe it was your having to run away that began my crisis of faith, but do the parents always get to decide, and when is enough enough?"

There is shock in the room. It pings around like a silent wave from corner to corner, from face to face.

"As I say, I've been talking to Marta about it, and she's been a calm voice on a sea of turmoil."

Mrs. Shaw stands. "I think every parent just tries to do what they think is best…you're not saying you question Jack's – "

He cuts her off. "No, no. Now that Jack wants to fight…" his glance falls on me for a second "…and do it aggressively, it's all clear in his circumstances."

Even a quick scan of Mrs. Shaw's features reveals that she has complex feelings about what is going on right now. "Now is not the time to talk about it. It's important for Jack to have a clear mind going into his afternoon session."

"You're right." Dr. Kimball pulls himself together. "My moment of doubt is beside the point right now." He extracts a hankie to dab at his tears.

Jack's hand comes up to touch the back of the doctor's; it is clearly a reach-out on an emotional level as well. Jack stays as steady as a rock in a sea storm. "Thank you. Thank you for having these questions, maybe some kids will benefit from them in the future, or at least, having been one of those 'enough is enough' kids, I would hope some sane and rational discussion that's not one-sided can come about. I for one think you are the brave one here."

"And you know I am fighting for you, Jack. All the way."

"I have no doubts about you, doc. You’re the Man."

"I'll do everything I can for you. Thank you for your continuing trust."

Dawn nearly gasps. She pushes Jackson aside and goes to support Mrs. S. with open arms. Only then does Jack see he's brought his mother almost to a state of tears. The thing with female tears is knowing when they are angry or sad. Jack may have professed his faith in his oncologist, but perhaps his mother has newfound concerns about him.

These proceedings are interrupted by loud knocking at the door. Two lab-coated radiology interns come in for Jack with a wheelchair.

"I'll see you upstairs, Jack," Dr. Kimball says and exits the room.

Mrs. Shaw and Dawn excuse themselves to the public restrooms down the hall. "I'll see you when you get back, sweetie," Mrs. S. says before caressing his cheek and leaving.

I stand by Jackson near the couch and the interns get Jack out of bed and situated in the chair.

They roll him out with Jack's hand coming up flat palmed. I hold mine in the same way, and the intern pushes Jack so our palms run over one another for a second. "I'll be here too, Jack, when you get back."

They go through the door and disappear from sight.

In another moment, I find Jackson studying my face. He and I just slide into a silent huddle.

In that comforting pressure from his body, I wonder if I'm truly worthy enough for Jack. Maybe I too would just like to get away for the day… I can't, but as I squeeze and draw my younger brother into a proper hug, I suddenly have an idea that he and Dawn can and should do just that.

This has been hard on all of us, that's for sure.