When Time is of the Essence

Or not.

Time is a weird structure that we live in a mostly linear fashion but Heavenly Father does not. I've just reread a handful of my previous blog posts, looking for a specific set of emotions I had described.

I am grateful that I described them when I did because in rereading, so much of that pain is gone. There's a remembrance of it, like a scar, but no pain.

In June of 2020, I had that last miscarriage. In the months that followed, my husband and I looked into IVF in Belgium. The out of pocket, uninsured costs were the equivalent of $7,000 and that included meds and multiple rounds of treatment. This would have been done through the University of Leuven hospital, a teaching hospital that uses statistics to run its fertility clinics. Because the government subsidizes their national health care, success and failures are carefully monitored to ensure the fastest, most monetarily efficient ways to succeed.

My husband was in Iraq at the time, which wouldn't have been an issue since his testing could easily be completed during one of his R&Rs (three week visits to see us). After a full month of individual contemplation and prayers, we both knew that the decision to pursue IVF was ours alone. And we carefully chose not to do IVF.

About 7 months later, during his second of three R&Rs, I found out I was pregnant and announced it in the most dumbfounded way possible. The nurse at the embassy had called me at 7pm on a Monday. I ran upstairs, paced while she gave me my beta and set a plan in motion, then walked downstairs, where everyone was sitting on the sofas.

"What was that about?"

"I'm pregnant."

And then everyone's jaws dropped open, followed by "WHAT?!?"

In the following months, my husband went back to Iraq and I packed up all of our belongings and moved us back to Virginia. I returned to my old OB/GYN and was delighted to see Dr. Hamersley again. 

The pregnancy was not without complications. Initially, my beta was tripling and there was some concern that there was an issue with the pregnancy and then the ultrasound measurements were behind where I knew I was in the pregnancy. The hematologist was a little reluctant at first to prescribe me the lovenox I had used before but said that as long as my anti-Xa stayed in range, he'd let me take it.

At 8 weeks, when another ultrasound was showing slow growth, I began twice a day shots without checking with the doctor first. I mentioned it at my 9th appointment with my Belgian OB/GYN and she was okay with it and noted that within that first week of the new dosing, the baby's growth was now on track. At that point, I had an appointment at least twice a week with either the OB/GYN, my cardiologist, or the hematologist.

It was a lot.

When my husband returned to Belgium for his final R&R and to help us pack out, the genetic screening information arrived in the mail. He was the usual "mail getter" and opened the mail, reading the French without difficulty.

"IT'S A BOY!!" He knew before anyone else did. I had my hunches, especially at that most recent ultrasound, but now we had the DNA that indicated clear, perfect, XY chromosomes.

After arriving stateside, my cholesterol was really high (thanks, pregnancy and living in a hotel). My new job was super stressful. I lacked the experience to work in the position I'd been hired for and although I'm a quick study, my new boss was . . . not a nice person. The stress had created a placental bleed so I was monitored closely for that, too. 

Ten weeks into the new job I was "stepped down" a level at work and although it was a bit demoralizing at the time, it was truly the best thing that could have happened. The new position came with regular telework, amazing co-workers, a support team to assist in training me, and a really fantastic supervisor.

 And just like that the placental bleed healed.

My son arrived at what the doctors believed to be 37 weeks but was likely more like 37+3 because of when I ovulated. He was a solid 8 lbs 4 oz and had all the tongue-ties I'd come to expect.

Having a baby in your 40s is hard. Doing it with a full-time job that doesn't allow napping (oh, I missed those daycare naps!) was harder. Going back to work after a couple of months home was hardest.

And our son has a few health issues. One is genetic and permanent. The other is digestive and he has a decent chance of outgrowing it.

The genetic one is biotinidase deficiency. It's easily treated with over the counter biotin, but no one likes hearing that their child will have to take medication every day for the rest of his life in order to life. And we sure didn't expect that diagnosis after we had BOTH had genetic screening done in 2013 and were told there were no issues our children could inherit from us. If I have time, I'll write another blog post about this--the condition isn't going anywhere and it's rather fascinating if/when the mutation is caught very early on like our son's was.

The digestive issue is FPIES. He cannot eat oats without massive amounts of vomiting that starts about 2 hours after he eats them. It's miserable for all of us. He'll probably outgrow it but we won't know for quite a few years. In the meantime, no oat or oat products for him!

Having a little, dimpled boy running around the house has flipped our lives upside down. He was an excellent night sleeper from early on but a series of ear infections upset that pretty badly and he's only just starting to sleep through the night again. 

So here I am. With my oldest daughter applying to colleges, a newly minted teenager, Dash--who continues to live up to her nickname, and R2. Our mid-life miracle.

Heavenly Father knew all along that R2 would be a part of our family. He always knew. So when we were praying about IVF, our son was already waiting to join us, one way or another. And that's a miracle and a blessing I'll never forget.

Halfway through 2020

Type up six paragraphs. Delete. Type seven new paragraphs. Delete. Type, delete, type, delete.
There's really no other way to say this and I really don't think 2020 needs an introduction at the halfway point so here's the shortest version of my 2020 that you'll ever read: I've suffered another miscarriage.

There, I said it. Or typed it. Whatever. 2020 has just sucked on a million different levels.

To be fair, I wasn't pregnant for very long--just 3 days of beautiful, double pink lines getting darker and darker and then poof--gone. Three days of emotions so complex I'm still trying to unpack them three weeks later.

I've had so many miscarriages over the years that I've lost count. Based on my recent Facebook memories, I had one in mid-July 2009 but I have no memory of that one and haven't included it in any of my medical forms because I literally forgot about it. How sad is that?

My unsuccessful pregnancies look something like this:
2008--miscarriage discovered at 8 weeks, likely lost at 7.
2009--probably lost it at about 6 weeks but I really can't remember. I would have been far enough along to have told family but not friends and I typically share early on.
2011--Two losses this year. One at 5 weeks and another at 7 weeks.
2012--I definitely lost a perfect baby girl at 12 weeks. I think I lost another earlier in the year but I don't remember for sure.
2013--Miscarried on the way to a wedding. Just 4 weeks. I hate weddings to begin with so miscarrying on my way to one just added insult to injury.
2014--Jackson was stillborn at 21 weeks. Our only son. He'd be turning 6 weeks old in a couple weeks.
2020--loss at 4 weeks.

And these are the ones I know about. I may have had more but I lose them so early I may have missed them. In the medical world, they call me a habitual aborter. Isn't that a fun label to have? #sarcasm

I would have missed this pregnancy/miscarriage if it hadn't been for an agreement I have with my cardiologist to take a test every month before my period to make sure I stop my heart meds early enough. I'm not sure if I consider that lucky or unlucky. . .

We gave up on trying to get pregnant in 2017 and I haven't had a single positive test or anything close to it until 3 weeks ago. I'm still processing the fact that I was pregnant and that I lost it and thinking that this should be easier because we weren't actually trying--but I guess after 15 years trying to grow our family, that kind of emotional investment doesn't just "sit this one out" because we decided that we were done a few years ago. Emotions have memories, too.

I'd do it all again if I could and that's what I learned in that 3 days: I want another baby. Or two. I know I'm crazy but I'm forty years old and I'd go through the hormone therapy, the shots, the pregnancy-crazy, the 6 weeks of breastfeeding nightmares-until-we-figure-it-out, the diapers, the sleepless nights--all of it.

The last 3 weeks have been spent with me debating this and each time it comes back to, Yes, I'd do it again and I'd love it. Apart from my non-life-threatening PVCs, I'm healthier than I've been in years. I'm getting less sleep than I used to and not experiencing the afternoon "oh my gosh, I need a nap" slump.

But the thing is, starting over is such a huge emotional investment and any effort for another pregnancy could result in nothing more than adding to my list of miscarriages. Is that what I want? Is it something we want? Is it something I'm willing to risk? Is it something we're willing to risk?

I just don't know the answer to those questions but I do know how to get them: Prayer. So if you see me alone on my bike, taking a slow, deep breath, I'm praying and I'm listening.

The Month of May

     The month of May and I do not have a very good relationship. I'm not entirely sure when it started, but I know that as early at May 2004, I already had pretty negative feelings for the month as a whole.
     By 2004, I was already realizing that we had a fertility problem. Although I'd been off all forms of birth control for well over a year, I still hadn't gotten pregnant and wouldn't be for over another year. Sitting in church, or even watching tv, and seeing all the commercials and hearing all the comments about motherhood left a pretty bitter taste in my mouth.
     If we fast forward fifteen years, it is now May 2019 and my overall opinion of the month is significantly more complicated than it was then. Since 2004, I have succeeded in giving birth to three living daughters whom I love dearly and they are the only reason Mother's Day is allowed in my home. They want to celebrate me, so I allow them to do so.
     Mother's Day brings everything painful in my life to the surface because, truth be told, I've never experienced an extreme loss or pain that didn't involve motherhood. My own mother died in 2012 and my mother-in-law, whom I loved dearly and had become very close to since my own mother's passing, died just under two years ago. This will be my second Mother's Day without her love and guidance.
     Two days ago, I sat on the stand at church, having lead the Sacrament hymn and waiting until the next portion of the meeting to sit with my family. A wave of grief and pain swept over me as I watched the teenage boys bless and pass the Sacrament.
     I miss our son.
     I miss the hugs, the laughs, the conversations, and the chance to watch him grow from week to week. Those things that should have been, will never be.
     I will never get to watch as my husband places his hands on our son's head to ordain him to the priesthood.
     I will never get to sit and smile at him as he passes the Sacrament to me, to his dad, or to his sisters.
     I will never get to hear him ask questions about the world around him, about my job, or about the Gospel.
     I will never get to holler at him to take a shower because he stinks when he walks in the door.
     I will never get to do his laundry, tuck him in at night, or hold him tight when the world is simply too big for him to handle.
     I'll never get to listen as his dad reads Tolkien to him before bed or explains the intricacies of the Star Wars universe as it was when he was young.
     There will never be and pictures of my son standing in a historical battlefield, with old cannons beside him or pictures of him with his sisters.
     Most of the year, those "nevers" don't weight on me too heavily. I am able to accept them as a part of my life and with the understanding that if Jackson hadn't died the way he did, I would not have Dash and all the immense joy she brings to me.
     But May is different. Mother's Day is different. Year after year, May rips open the scars I bear then asks me to be grateful for them, demanding that I acknowledge them with each social media post, commercial, or overheard comment about Mother's Day.
     I have developed the habit of avoiding church on the most painful of days but I can't do that this year without seriously hurting the feelings of my very sensitive eight year old. Spitfire will be singing her first solo in church, something she is both nervous and excited about. It would crush her if I couldn't summon the strength to sit and listen as her beautiful, clear voice as it echos through the chapel.
     So I will go. I will sit on the edge of the bench with a giant handkerchief and listen as she alone sings the following words:

Maybe I'll never know the love it takes
To make me a happy home that's warm and safe.
And maybe I'll never see how you pray for my every need
And wonder what more you could do for me.

     And when the rest of the primary children join in for the chorus, I will likely get up and exit the chapel, making as little of a scene as possible but unable to sit for the rest of the song.

Will We Ever Be Healthy?

The last few months have been particularly grueling. It's not language barriers, difficulties at school, transportation, or finances, in spite of that five week government shutdown.

It's our health. The five of us cannot seem to get healthy and stay that way. Seventeen days ago, Dash started fussing loudly in her sleep. This is my clue that she's about to spike a fever and sure enough, she was running about 101 degrees Fahrenheit by 4 AM. She woke with a wet cough as well, so I figured she'd caught some virus at school.

Later that morning, a mother with twins in Dash's maternelle texted me a photo indicating that someone in the class had been diagnosed with scarlet fever. Well, okay then. Dash is coughing and her throat doesn't hurt, so it's not strep.

When her fever went over 102 with ibuprofen in her the following evening, I got worried and we asked a neighbor from our church to come and help give her a Priesthood Blessing.  I had also walked to the nearest open pharmacy to purchase acetaminophen. That proved just a bit trickier because the drug names here are different. I put Google to work when the pharmacists offered a specific liquid for fevers to confirm that what I was purchasing was, in fact, what I was looking for.

Shortly thereafter, I smelled it.

If you've had children with it before, you know that smell. The smell of strep throat.

Ugh. It was a Saturday night and the only thing open was the emergency room. I made a call to the Embassy nurse and she agreed to meet me the next morning to check Dash.

She did not run the strep test, mainly because Dash had the swollen lymph nodes, spots on her tonsils, and the unmistakable strep smell. So, we gave her a nice, juicy shot of penicillin and I expected everything to be okay by the next morning.

Nope. Thirty six hours later, Dash was still running a fever over 101 so I took her back in. By then, her throat wasn't red and the lymph node swelling was gone, but Dash was clearly still sick.  The clinical diagnosis we were given was "virus" and that I should expect the fever to last 8-10 days and the cough to persist for a couple of weeks after that.

Dash finally went to school for a half day a full week after she'd started showing symptoms.  The night before, however, The Reader, who is now 12 years old, started running a fever and coughing. From one child to the next . . .

Four days later, we were in The Netherlands at the Scoliosis Care Clinic, the facility we have picked to treat The Reader's scoliosis. She napped and coughed on the three hour drive up, survived the two and a half hour fitting, and then napped and talked with me on the drive home. It was a very long day. Dash came with us, still coughing, but in good spirits otherwise. On the return trip, the weather was rough. We drove through some snow but mostly it was a slushy rain. In California, driving in the rain wasn't much of a problem because they use reflectors on the highways that can still be seen in a downpour. In Belgium, they do not do that. The paint is minimally reflective so add on a frozen, slushy mess on unfamiliar roads on the outskirts of Antwerp and I was a wreck. I could not see the lines and my life and those of my children were depending on my ability to seeeeeeee. With one quick second of freak out, I maneuvered my van behind a big rig in the slow lane and just stayed there, using his tread marks to line myself up on the road. The lines on the road appear at certain points, but for about 10 kilometers, I was driving with my trust fully on the location of the truck in front of me.

I'm not exaggerating when I say it was the second scariest conditions I've ever driven through. I was so very glad to get HOME that night.

By the following morning, The Reader was running a scary high fever. When our mercury thermometer hit 105.1, I tamped down the immediate panic attack and called the nurse to see if I needed to take her to the ER or not. The verdict was for me to bring her in as quickly as possible, so I had The Reader put on a face mask and we made our way to the embassy.

It was pretty clear to me that she had the same virus as her little sister but because she has more sensitive lungs, it was having a greater impact. The nurse said she had pneumonia, gave her a breathing treatment, and would be willing to give an antibiotic, but since the initial illness was viral, it wouldn't do much but that what was really needed, was for The Reader to get hydrated. It was then that I thought about just how little my fever-running-daughter had drunk on our trip the day before.

Less than 12 ounces of water. 

So, with all the effort she could muster, we started having her sip water and an electrolyte beverage, sip by sip, until she was hydrated.  Her fever came down to a reasonable level.

Over the course of the next few days, The Reader was supposed to be increasing her number of hours in her new RSC brace. The brace applies pressure to one part of her ribs while allowing room for expansion in another part, helping to reverse the curve in her ribs and increase her lung capacity in the "squished" lung.

Wearing a brace while coughing cannot possibly be fun. Those first few days though, my darling child managed to keep adding hours of brace time at night.  First three hours, then five, then six, then eight and last night, she wore it for nine hours. On top of that, she has slowly been adding hours during the day. Today she wore the brace to our two hour church block as well as at least another three hours while we spent the afternoon as a family.

The clinic gave her a schedule to adjust but it seems my daughter is on her own accelerated schedule, which is fine by me!

The brace has a temperature sensor on it to monitor compliance, so The Reader also knows the clinic will be able to read how much she's wearing the brace when we return for her in-brace imaging.

The Reader has missed six school days with her illness and is still coughing but knows she really needs to return to school, so she is planning on that for tomorrow.

That said, Spitfire will not be going to school. She went to school feeling crummy on Friday but because she wasn't running a fever, I sent her anyway. She's now coughing and running a low grade fever, having caught that same stupid virus but not reacting as badly. We haven't had an actual flu test run, but late last week Belgium announced they're officially at "epidemic" level of flu in the country, so I believe it's what my girls have been fighting, one by one.

My husband has been on the brink of illness for over a few weeks, too. It's like he just can't quite get healthy.  None of them can.

In all this, I haven't had much more than a little stuffy nose and a mild, dry cough, but that's pretty normal for me no matter the season.

What's happened the last two and a half weeks is just an extension of what we have been dealing with since we moved to Belgium. One illness after another and then another. . . It's exhausting.  As I rest in bed at night, thinking about my day, I can't feel anything in my chest. My mind races but my heart beats so softly I can't feel it, and that's unnerving too.

When you go your entire life using your own heartbeat to rhythmically put you to sleep, and then all of a sudden you can't feel it in your chest or hear it in your ears, the silence is deafening.

So as my children get sick one by one, over and over again, I'm left wondering how long I have until my heart beats so softy it just "gives up" . . .

The cardiologist insists my low voltage isn't "that low" and I confess that on these meds, I seem to do pretty good three of every four weeks, but having lost my mother, both my grandmothers, and my mother-in-law at young ages, my own mortality haunts me as I try to sleep.

My First Belgian ER Trip

You all know my family moved to Brussels 8 weeks ago. We were not informed that we'd be in a hotel for more than a week until about 12 hours before the movers came and packed everything out, giving us little to no time to rearrange our stuff.

We moved in a smelly, gross hotel with the tiniest kitchenette I've ever seen (It has one functioning burner) and none of the restaurants are open for dinner because they only cater to the business lunch crowds. This has meant some serious challenges in trying to feed the family, as there is also only a teeny-tiny grocery store nearby and the prices are quite high.

This has been really stressful for me, apparently, and I've developed a heart condition thanks to all of it.

We finally move into our home on Thursday, but we won't have our household stuff, including sheets and towels, until Friday.

This heart condition is likely a part of me for the rest of my life. My mother developed a similar problem at the exact same age during a high-stress summer. She was on heart meds for the rest of her life and eventually died of heart failure at the ripe ol' age of 55.

I'm freakin' scared that the family decision we made has ruined my heart and will forever taint the wonderful experiences I have been having and will continue to have here in Brussels.

My sensitive 8 year old was so upset by my trip to the ER on Saturday that her stomach is all messed up and she's had to stay home to be near the bathroom today. The other girls are scared, too.

For those of you in the medical field, it's a persistent PVC with pretty low voltage. The PVC's are occurring at a rate of 8-20 times a minutes so it's pretty bad. All my minerals and other labs came back perfect so there is no medical reason for this to have happened.

Until I meet with the cardiologist next week, I have been told to be as sedate as possible (ha! we're MOVING again this week and it's a 20 minute walk from the metro to my kid's school, each way, twice a day until that move happens). The doctor at the hospital has put me on the European version of the same exact medication my mother was one. According to my father, she didn't have PVC but she would develop a very hard, fast heart rate. I am on the lowest dose possible and it seems to help, but is wearing off too soon. So I sleep great, wake up and have about 2-3 hours where I still feel good, and then my heart feels all wrong again for the rest of the day. The cardiologist is highly respected by the medical staff here at the Embassy so I am hoping he is as good as they say. I was sent to a specific hospital by the embassy health unit and it happens to be the nearest local hospital. I was worried that I was bankrupting us but my heart was beating so badly that I felt I didn't have any choice. I found out just why so many people love socialized health care! For the entire 3-4 hours visit, including being seen by multiple doctors, getting an x-ray, 5 vials of blood, and continuous monitoring, the out-of-pocket cost for us was under 300 Euros. In the US, that would have run well over 10 times that amount. I will not hesitate to go to the ER again!

But that said, as I sit here feeling my heart do flip-flops around itself, i'm frustrated and scared. This wasn't supposed to happen. I'm the healthy one in the family. I'm only 10 pounds overweight, my blood work is always perfect and other than infertility-causing autoimmune weirdness, I've always been pretty darn healthy. So a heart condition that makes it so I can barely stand on a metro, or walk down the street, is painful.

What I Mean by Clear Bathroom Doors

As promised, I'm including some photos of the bathrooms doors that I mentioned in my last post.

 In this first picture, the bathroom door is closed. There is a reflective coating on the glass that allows you to see the bed. I am standing at the foot of the bed, for reference' sake. Please note that you can
A) see the toilet
B) see the bathroom counter
C) see EVERYTHING in there

If I turn out the light inside the bathroom, it's harder to see through but still possible. The other bathroom is in the middle of the hallway, which is even worse. We're admittedly grateful that this bathroom is around the corner from where the kids are!

The kitchenette is quite small. Although there are 2 burners in that space, it only has space for one pot unless both are tiny. We're a family of 5, so tiny pots don't work. The movers forgot to pack one drawer of spices but that's ended up being a pleasant thing because those spices have already been put to use with several of our meals. Below the stovetop is the adequately sized dishwasher. In the cupboard above the stove is a microwave and then above that, the two pots and skillet the hotel has for our use. Below the spices is the fridge. . . on the other side, garbage and a handbroom is below the sink. The sink is tinier than the stove and set up so that if you try to wash a dish, it knocks the faucet and turns the water off, which is frustrating. Above the sink in the first cupboard is the dish supply (there are more wine glasses than dishes in that thing) and above that is a bunch of coffee equipment because apparently, the giant coffee maker on the counter isn't enough! The middle top cupboard is where we're keeping cereal and rice.

We're making it work, mostly because we don't have much choice, and trying to laugh through the chaos. It will be another 2 weeks before we hear if the gov't has signed a lease for a home for us and after that there will still be a delay before we can move in. I am hoping that delay is as short as possible.

Touring the City without a Phone

Since I last posted, my husband and I have given up on another pregnancy. We did several more medicated rounds, but with the stress of the death of my beloved mother-in-law and then returning to teaching, we couldn't keep it up any more.
If my spouse asked to give it another shot, I absolutely would, but I'm more or less at peace with our decision to be done.
It's strange though, because I'd always wanted four children and even now when I could kids or sometimes when I've set the table, I start to count out 6, rather than the 5 of us that there are. It's not upsetting, but there's a small piece of my family that will always be missing.
Either days ago I stepped off an airplane in foreign country, something I haven't done since I was 14 years old. That country was an English speaking one, so although the accent was fun, I knew what was being said around me and how to communicate with waiters, sales clerks, etc.
But here in Brussels?
Nope.
I have always tried to help those around me who couldn't speak English and am so grateful now to be having the experience where I am now the oddball. My children have been begging me to let them get ice scream and waffles (yes, it's a thing here) but I'm legitimately scared of trying to order such a thing from a street vendor.
We are in temporary living quarters for the next 2 months. Our location is pretty fantastic but the accommodations are pretty awful. It could be worse, don't get me wrong, but it's pretty bad. I'll post pictures when I get a chance, but imagine this: You're in a two room suit. One suit has a king sized bed with a gigantic picture of a woman with hair in her face over the bed. The picture takes up the entire wall. The bathroom has a near constant smell of fart or leftover fecal matter and there's no fan to clear it out. The shower stall is clear as is the door between the bedroom and the bathroom. Yes, CLEAR. As in, you can see right through it so nobody can go to the toilet in privacy. There is less than three feet between the toilet and the king sized bed . . .The second suit is similarly designed, although it has a decent sized tub in addition to the stinky shower. There's a tiny kitchenette and by tiny, I mean that although there are two burners, you can only use one at a time because you cannot fit two pots on there simultaneously.
Because we have a kitchenette, we do not qualify for the meal reimbursement we expected to get and really wish we had available to us. We're sinking about 100 euros a day into food because there isn't a decent grocery story nearby and nothing within walking distance is open for dinner. We could live off sandwiches from the local mini-mart style things on all the street corners, but each sandwich runs about $4 each and there are 5 of us and . . . sandwiches get really boring, really fast.
We've only been here 8 days and I'm already annoyed by the struggle to feed the kids 3 times a day. Dash had cereal for dinner last night. I've been a parent for 12 years and this was the first time I'd ever said anyone was eating cereal for dinner.  There are plenty of places to stop and grab lunch but the only places open for dinner are those that cater to city-living, meaning, hangout on  a patio and drink for a couple of hours. They are not kid-friendly at all.
We've spent hours upon hours on our feet, walking around the city, hopping on public transit, and walking some more. I'm getting to know the Metro here pretty well and will get better about the trains and trams as well with some practice.
Today I navigated several square miles without a working phone. Oh, did I not mention my phone problems yet?
Yes, we've been here 8 days but our phones were cut off on day 2, so I've been without cell service or data all week. This means I've been using old school maps to get from point A to point B. My kids gave me an A- for our adventures earlier this morning and an A+ for later in the morning. The minus is because I walked down one street too far at one point, but this actually allowed me to get some cash out of an ATM and let us walk down a busier street, which also felt safer. . . so maybe I deserve an A for overall navigation. Yes??
I'm heading over to the Embassy again later today with the hope that I can meet with the cell provider that will be there. A week without service (oh yeah, I signed up for service last week, so it SHOULD have been working 6 days ago) is rather ridiculous.