sipping with the enemy

Sigh. An act of simple self-indulgence can be such a complicated thing.

Unlike Dr. Horrible, I never set out to join the Evil League of Evil, it just sort of happened.

Part 1 went like this:

Last week we (me, Jeff, Mom,) spent four nights at the Good Medicine Lodge in Whitefish, Montana. It was charming, comfortable, friendly, and had cookies available at all times. But not just cookies. There, on the sideboard where one could indulge in a variety of teas and raw veggies, was a nifty little thing called a Nespresso, which—using capsules resembling mini versions of Keurig cups, or maybe chocolate covered cherries—would make a quick and delicious cup of espresso or lungo right on demand. And in any of several varieties.

Now I have never coveted a K-cup machine more than a little bit. I’ve enjoyed them at Helen’s house in New York, and appreciate the convenience in a household where morning coffee is not a regularly-brewed feature, but I remained happy to grind my beans and achieve coffee happiness the old-fashioned (or at least older-fashioned) way.

But these Nespresso shots...they were kind of special. Furthermore, it seemed a fun and lovely way to offer Jeff an evening cup of decaf without a major production.

So, Part 2 went like this: After duly researching such units, reading consumer reviews, and exploring alternatives, I concluded that the particular brand—Nespresso—would be the thing. I ordered one. From Williams-Sonoma, along with a frothinator (or whatever those things are called,) then signed up for my first batch of capsules from the Nespresso web-order site, placing special emphasis on fair-trade friendly varieties.

Part 3: Having placed the order yesterday, today I found myself steering Jeff around the Annapolis Towne Center as an after lunch walking opportunity. We detoured into Sur la Table, a too-cute kitchen boutique. Surprise—today they had a Nespresso operative...I mean representative...right on hand in the store, demonstrating the thing’s use, and answering my question about making americano with a Nespresso Pixie model. (This part has nothing to do with me joining the ELE, and would be cut if I were a good editor. But I’m not cutting it, because the encounter had about it that serendipitous sense of synchronicity which I so like.)

Part 4: I started thinking about how the Nestlé corporation was, as long back as the 70s, the subject of much controversy and censure due to the means by which they distributed their baby formulas in third-world country such that a dependence resulted where a dependence on formula couldn’t be afforded. (I don’t think a dependence on formula is ever a wise idea, even when it can be afforded, as I’m a strong advocate of “breast is best,” except in cases where there is no choice. But this is an aside.)

I have never since been a fan of Nestlé, and this old prejudice gave me pause when it came time to consider a Nespresso, but I really assumed—I really did—that the joint pressures of the WHO, public derision, and the money choice of better P.R. would have worked to steer Nestlé away from such deplorable behavior...especially given that the behavior went back, as I said, to the 70s.

But I didn’t Google it all up until after ordering my own Pixie, in electric blue. And here’s what I found out: As recently as ’07, The Guardian was still highlighting Nestlé's aggressive marketing in Bangladesh, re baby formula. There’s a boycott in Brazil pertaining to Nestlé extracting water from a sensitive aquifer. There are suspected labor rights violations by Nestlé in the Philippines. So, despite its dutiful march toward adding fair-trade varieties to its coffee line-up the Nestlé Corporation—though headquartered in neutral Switzerland—would, if it were a character in Dungeons and Dragons, possibly be classified not as neutral, but maybe as lawful evil. They certainly seem to dance mighty close to the line.

Which leads me back to me. I was always a determinedly neutral character when I played D&D, as I didn’t wish to be bound by any particular rules or loyalties unless they meant something to me. Which is also how I tend to play life. But I still suppose that each time I pull a tasty coffee from my soon to arrive gizmo, I am going to relive, in my head, the line from Jellicle Cats which asks “Have you been an alumnus of Heaven and Hell?”

So, yes. I’m getting one, and I hope I’ll enjoy it. But I won’t push the beasties or do any advertising on behalf of Nestlé. (Apart from this one post in which I confess to my conflicted nature.) I am merely presenting the truth about my real, unvarnished, imperfect self. I will also offer a link to this blog, called PhD in Parenting, for anyone who wishes to know more about Nestlé.

PhD in Parenting

Winding down...

Next time I come to Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, I will stay at the Flamingo Motel.

Frankly, I do not have any immediate plans though. I could easily love the Northwest, I think...(I don’t know...I’d have to try a whole winter before saying for sure...)but I cannot think of any logical reason I’ll be back soon. Still, the Flamingo Motel it would be. I almost booked it for tonight’s pre-flight-home stay. Excellently reviewed, refurbished 50s motor lodge in the heart of downtown, with great walk-to-dinner potential. But I was thinking we’d barely have time to do more than eat and sleep, so I stuck with the known quantity, and we’re here at the Holiday Inn Express. And a very nice HIE it is--the “guest services manager” is a Weimeraner named Dodger, and Jeff and I actually got 20 minutes in on exercise equipment for the only time this trip. But still...you can’t beat local color, unless it’s horrible, and the Flamingo looks good.

Deploying all my electronic oracles (iPhone Yelp App, Googlemaps,) I found us a cute bistro where we could get a light dinner, as I am still trying to digest the past week of food with limited success. (Nothing wrong with the food, mind, it’s me and travel.) Then, with the drizzle abating somewhat, we took a drive along the Coeur d’Alene lakefront, and that was a good move.

There’s almost nothing as useless as seeing nothing of a new town but the Holiday Inn Express just off highway exit 11, and I had no clue, really, what C d’A was like at all. It’s quite interesting, but barely urban. There’s lake, then an intriguing architectural assortment of rich-people houses, then a couple streets of classic Northwest mining town, then batches of smaller bungalows, and then the usual sprawl of shopping, services, and hotels for people who are not brave enough to book the Flamingo the first time.

As for a second time...hmm. I have been thinking of this trip as evaluative as well as diversionary. How would Jeff do? Will I ever choose anything but car travel again? Tentative answer: Not without lots of careful thought. Even the duration--a week--seems to contribute to his level of tiredness and functional downshifts, but we’ve managed well enough.

I’d say the trickiest part was lurching through five Empire Builder cars for each of the four times we took meals in the dining car. It got so that every time the train stopped at a station--if we were even close to a mealtime, we’d try to cover at least half the ground with the train not moving. Jeff is slow and not well balanced.

Still, he remains generally remarkably cooperative and ready to go with the program even when he has no idea what the program is. At about the border between Montana and Idaho, as we headed west from Whitefish, Jeff leaned forward a bit from the backseat of the rented Chevy Traverse and said “Are we on Amtrak?” It’s moments like that that make me realize just how gracefully he manages utter cluelessness.

In theory we will be home tomorrow night. Delta has changed the departure time of our connecting flight in Minneapolis twice since I booked it in January, each time narrowing our layover. According to our current itinerary, there are 34 minutes between our first and second flights, and the first has a 50% on-time rating. But Expedia says Delta says that is acceptable. I will appraise them of our medical situation--inability to hustle--when we check in to our first flight, to put Delta on notice that if they don’t hold the second gate open for us long enough they’re going to be sending us home on Thursday.

Things I can't help but enjoy:

The bathroom faucet in our room at the Good Medicine Lodge, Whitefish. It’s a spillover design. Essentially, it’s designed such that the top front quarter of the spout is cut away, making you think you’ve activated an aqueduct every time you run water.

The espresso machine. It operates very much like a Keurig coffee dispenser, except that the pods are smaller (as, of course, are the cups.) We made decaffeinated “Intenso” after dinner tonight, and it had that frothy stuff on top, like Americanos from Caffe Nero in London. I will not buy such a machine. I would use it too much.

Using (successfully) the Jedi Mind Trick on speed cops in Columbia Falls, MT. You don’t want to give us a ticket. You just pulled us over to wish us a beautiful day.

Queen size beds. We fit. I don’t have elbows in my face. Thank goodness I’m getting one soon.

The word “kla-how-yah.” It was chiseled into the concrete at the back entrance to the (closed for the season) Lake MacDonald Lodge in Glacier National Park. It’s a greeting comparable to “hello” in the pidgin language of Chinook Jargon.

Walking.

Food and Being Food.

6 am. I just got up to the gentle tinkling of my iPhone alarm. I am not interested in any 2-hour time shift wake-up headaches and, these days, I invariably am too tired to write at night. “These days” meaning in general, not this trip. I had a thought about this last night--while I may not feel as though caregiving is an exhausting treadmill (so far,) I am sure that being in constant charge of someone else who can neither put his own coat on nor find the bathroom himself is having the same effect as being the mother of toddlers. At night, your brain just says “no.”

On the Empire Builder, Mom (who has taken cruises of many stripes,) likened the cabin and dining arrangements to shipboard. While Amtrak does not feed you as bodaciously as a Viking cruiseliner, you never feel--when the next meal time arrives--that you’ve done much to burn off the last fueling. As a result we got to Whitefish well primed for a bed & breakfast experience of the bountiful food sort.

Woody and Betsy, who run the Good Medicine Lodge, believe in breakfast. Yesterday’s offering included individual asparagus quiches, slices of scone, a commodious dish of mixed berries, a sideboard loaded with cereals, juices, milks (including soy,) and an assortment of toastable breads with jams. Plus coffee. There is always espresso, tea and cookies on offer all day. They invite you to sample wine and cheese at 4 if you’re around, and yesterday afternoon set out a platter of raw veggies with dressing.

As it is the lowest of low-season in Montana’s Flathead Valley (skiing is over, summer fun at least a month away,) we are the only guests for now, and we’re feeling a little bad that our food intake capacity is so relatively minimal.

Today we will be exploring Glacier National Park, and--today being Easter, when many stores close--we’ve packed our plentiful dinner leftovers from McGarry’s Roadhouse (across the street,) and will be having cold noodles, wokked veggies, and fish for lunch. Which I hope will not be in the car. Mom is worried about mountain lions.

Yesterday, in the Whitefish train depot’s “Stumptown Museum,” Walter, the venerable museum volunteer who tottered around illuminating various highlights for us, mentioned (after pointing out the taxidermied large cat,) that such felines were more dangerous to hikers than bears. (I know that, being much familiar with goings on in the Boulder area where Jeff’s brother lived for years,) but I am not concerned that we will be jumped by a lion if we stick to the more populous easy circuits, especially in a group of three. I hope that since it is “National Park Day,” or something, and entry is free, that there will be enough other visitors for her not to feel like a strolling kebab.

At the museum, it slipped that yesterday was Walter’s birthday (something, he said, like 21 x 4.) Mom made us sing happy birthday to him. This is so typically Gale, but I’ve learned that resistance is futile and went along.

The longest Empire I've ever chugged across...

I am in the “jump-seat” in our cabin on the Empire Builder. Jeff is in bed, which means he is 12 inches away. This afternoon we negotiated on how many times he may cause me to wake up tonight. I suggested 2. He thought 3. “Done,” I said. Any number of “wake Emily ups” that exceed the number 3, is the number at which I may refuse and say “No. Back to bed. As per agreement.” Let’s see how that goes.

Mom and I have a thing we say, and this started at least in the declining years of my dad, who died of Parkinson’s in ’09. At a certain point of night, his “carriage turned back into a pumpkin.” This is the point at which function and mental clarity become dicey at best. With our 20 or so “wake Emily ups” last night on the Cardinal, Jeff’s pretty much been a pumpkin all day. This means that we cannot move, without firm hands-on guidance, about the train at all. If we are not holding hands as I lead the lurching way through the 75 or so cars between our caboose sleeping car and the dining car, he will become confused by every human head he sees, no matter the gender or hair color, and freeze in perplexity. (It’s 2 coach cars, then the observation car, then two more coach cars, then the dining car. Ok, so I hyperbolized by 70. These are long cars.)

I am pleased to say, though, that The Empire Builder has reclaimed and possibly exceeded the level of service we experienced on Amtrak in October, and which I found lacking on the Cardinal. Stands to reason, I guess, for a line that is named after men who routinely self-congratulated as they wiped out entire civilizations on their way to conquer the American West. We were even served dinner on “china” aka Corelle. And the food was several cuts above. Still leaving me to wonder just how Amtrak determines which routes get short shrift and which are worthy.

Nonetheless, Mom and I have, we believe, managed to get on the blacklist of dining car powers-that-be on both legs of our trip. On the Cardinal, we surmised that the laggardly speed at which we were served breakfast was due to our not tipping the dining car lady to her liking. We did not realize she took orders, microwaved, AND served, is the thing, and we made up for it by tipping well at breakfast, even after she punished us. Here, on the Empire Builder, we’ve run all sorts of wrong ways with Fran from the dining car. First, after showering Jeff in the more commodious downstairs shower room, we emerged as I was giving Jeff the sort of clearly articulated directions he needs (“Jeff, we are going this way,”) only to notice that Fran was making an early dinner announcement on a microphone right outside in the corridor. She stopped, mid-sentence, and stared at me while I hastily hushed myself. Mom, who was upstairs, says she didn’t hear me over the P.A. system, but Fran is not to be trifled with. Our dinner reservation was for 6:30. Having to traverse half the length of Wisconsin to get to the dining car, we left early to wait halfway in the observation car. (Here’s the Amtrak rule: Don’t come to the dining car until they invite your reservation time via P.A.) Here’s the problem: Announcements were apparently not getting to the observation car so when Mom finally, at almost 7, went to check to see whether we’d missed our call, Fran told her in no uncertain terms that 6:30 had been called “3 times.” Shortly thereafter, Fran called the 7:00 people, admonishing a colleague to repeat the announcement in the observation car because “people are claiming they’re not hearing the announcements.” Fran must not have gotten to our waiter, because he was nice to us. We hope we have paid our dues now, and will be served breakfast. (below: Gale and Jeff befriend a frisbee player in Chicago.)

Cardinal does not rule.

Leg #1 (Washington Union Station to Chicago,) began with me taking pains to get us on the road early enough in the morning that we’d have at least 2 options for commuter trains from Baltimore to D.C. That worry in the bag, it was easy to relax at Union Station. Now we’re aboard the Amtrak Cardinal, which cuts a clockwise arc as it swings us south a bit en route to Chicago.

The Cardinal employs an older car model--a Viewliner--where I feel a bit more squished for space than on the Superliners with which I’m familiar. I am wondering how Amtrak divvies up the relative service levels of their cross-country routes...who gets the newer digs, an observation car, and helpful route maps in every cabin, and why are others a bit on the cut-rate side?

Nevermind. There are some lovely backyards in mid-Virginia, and plenty of debris piles as well. We’re glad to see it all. Now, my intention is to be doing my Japanese workbook. Luckily I brought a pencil so Mom can do her crossword puzzle. Between our cabins (A&B) is a pocket door which the cabin attendant, Shawna, had now unlocked 3 times for us, as it likes to slide shut from the rocking of the train. Presently, it is blocked with Mom’s suitcase. (photo: Mom, through the opened door between cabins.)

I wondered aloud to Mom whether this was a bit of a silly trip to be taking her on. She says of course not. She’s a trooper. Jeff, meanwhile, is wondering if it’s time for a Chardonnay yet. Evidently, not-reading Warren Buffett and the Interpretation of Financial Statements is not sufficiently riveting. Yes, I’m sure wine will be available with dinner unless wine doesn’t make the Cardinal’s somewhat stripped-down amenity cut.

Thursday observations: On the Cardinal Viewliner, dining car table service can be a bit sluggish. Breakfast, to be served to any comer from the room or roomette section of the train, appears to be managed by one young lady doing the order taking, cooking, and serving. We had nowhere to go, fortunately, and watched Indiana farms roll by while our tummies rumbled and breakfast, in spare form, finally came. Take home point: Had the Amtrak Cardinal been my first cross-country train venture, I would not have been quite as enthusiastic to try again. Next up: The Empire Builder. I’m banking on the 2/3 chance that it will remind me more of October’s experience.

Is Emily crazy? Stay tuned...

This could be it, Ladies and Gentlemen. The trip to determine whether we are henceforth constrained to car travel. Since the starboard wheel of my old roll-aboard cracked like a ripe walnut on the outbound leg of our southwest trip in October, I researched a bit, and purchased an Eagle Creek replacement. I am sorry to report that it devotes a wee too much real estate to a slide-in spot for a laptop, sacrificing (it seems) a bit of clothing square footage. If I try again, I will surely want to examine the suitcase options in person (as much as I love Amazon,) but for now Eagle Creek will have to do, stuffed to the zippers though it is. (I even used

pack-it system thingies, dang-it--those zipped mesh pouches meant to magically make all your stuff fit. I’m deeply disappointed.)

In addition to two zaftig roll-aboards, we will be toting a hefty backpack full of travel docs, books, my little Mac, and overflow. This brings us to the logistical dilemma which will be either resolved or muddled through tomorrow, in the trenches. Can Jeff still pull a roll-aboard without giving every passer-by a flat tire? Or should I pull both, and saddle Jeff with the backpack? Which hand will I use to guide Jeff lest there are other women with similar hair about? A foot? A leash? And can we get up the train’s little narrow stairway?

Weird trip it will be. Why are we going to Whitefish, Montana anyway? What is in Whitefish in April? (answer: possibly nothing.) So, I am bearing a bit of an onus. It is the onus called--”I picked this trip because we couldn’t find anything else, but Mom’s accustomed to real trips, so all the weirdness of this quirky adventure will rest squarely on my unremarkable shoulders.” That is a long name for an onus. But, I hope, we will not have long distances over which we must tote our collection of baggage.

More notes from the world of research protocols...

Yesterday was about the closest I’ve come to giving myself a sharp talking-to about “dragging” Jeff into clinical research. I know, I put stupid quote marks on the word dragging. Because I can’t decide if it applies. I do not force, neither do I coerce, arm-twist, or hornswaggle him into participating. BUT, I do profoundly understand at this time that between the two of us, I do the thinking. If I think something is a good idea, I say so and he agrees. Likewise, for bad ideas. So, when it comes to anything that may have uncomfortable aspects, I have to do two things: Explain, such that he understands and can assent. And measure my grasp of his nature (altruistic) and current ability to tolerate bothersome procedures against what is likely to occur.

Because, truthfully, I don’t believe there are too many people with AD-like processes going on in their brains who are completely capable of making these decisions for themselves. Which leaves me to bear the responsibility if a day feels a bit too arduous. Yesterday at NIH skated pretty close to the too-arduous line.

I like NIH, as a site for research participation. As I’ve mentioned, the people are nice. They’re also very casual. About half of everyone has jeans under his or her lab-coat. The others wear scrubs. Our main doc-in-charge was off for the day (as were 3/4 of the other folks you’d normally see milling about. Friday may just not be a big day for government work. Even the Au Bon Pain had let their stock dwindle in anticipation.) Instead, we had a Nurse-Practitioner who introduced herself as Dr. Hyphenated-LastName (which I forget in its entirety.) “Were we expecting an NP?” I asked. “Oh,” replied Dr. N-P, “I have about ten degrees, including a doctorate.”

She also was sporting NIH denim-professional, and possibly had not combed her hair in two and a half days. Prior to the prep process, she asked Jeff if he had any questions. True to form, he replied, “What is the meaning of life?” “42,” I said, “You already know that.” But Dr. N-P had another lengthy response which led me to fear a full-gospel evangelization was about to occur. I don’t think she understood that Jeff was being silly. She, fortunately, stopped short of the religion-specific details of the meaning of life, but I sensed it was difficult for her.

But, Dr. N-P knew her way around a PET scanner, and that’s what really mattered. Actually, so did the other 5 or 6 people who were in attendance with varying degrees of attentiveness. This was the most well-attended PET scan I’ve ever seen. Actually, it’s the only PET scan I’ve ever seen, as Jeff’s diagnostic one, in ’07, had me in the waiting room. Not so at NIH. I was free to expose myself to radiation, so long as I knew what I was doing.

The things which added up to me second-guessing myself were basically these two: For this inflammation-measuring PET scan, an arterial line was required. An arterial line is inserted in (typically) the non-dominant wrist, and requires a local anaesthetic, plus a bit of immobilization, courtesy of a splint-like board. This was not sufficient to keep him from risking dislocation of the stop-cocks by waving his arm about, which meant that--at pre-scan bathroom time--I needed to keep BOTH arms (the other had the regular IV) out of trouble while dealing with all the jeans-zipper and undies concerns myself.

I would say, though, that the worst of it was 90 minutes of having to keep still in the scanner. That’s a long time for someone who forgets from one minute to the next that he’s not supposed to move his head. To help with this, a plasterish sort of mask is employed, as a reminder not to jerk about if you wake up from a doze, mid-scan. I still had to remind him. Many times. At 30 minutes left, I started an encouraging countdown, and (thankfully) we made it.

We will be returning in May for an MRI. I’m pretty sure the MRI is easier. At that appointment, we will also consider the option of another PET study which does not involve an arterial line. Let’s see how it goes.

Here’s the thing that always happens though--Jeff does not complain. He does not mind needles. He does not freak out. And--once they bring up the hockey-puck cheese pizza with green salad and two orange juices in tiny cups--he’s as happy as can be, and completely free of the sense that he’s been put through the wringer. So I will ponder. Research is valuable, and we’re doing what we can.

cogging the wheel...

Tuesday: Were we in Nevada? No desert to be seen. Must not have been Area 54. Perhaps it was Area 45. Aka NIH, or the National Institutes of Health.

Yes, we have once again plunged brain first into the sea of Clinical Research, where parking is validated and all the anglers wear white coats. As per the emailed instructions, I ferried us to the West (I think, or was it North...I think they like to disorient you) entrance on Cedar Lane, and we proceeded through the 12 steps of decontamination.

Well, we were thoroughly inspected, at least. You drive up to and almost over 3 orange cones, as gestured. You forget how to pop your trunk, thinking he meant “hood,” and instead get out and open the back hatch manually. While the guy with the funny wand gives your car the once over, you enter the gatehouse, wait for the lady to get off the phone, then present i.d.s for her scrutiny. Then they give you a yellow dashboard seal of approval paper, remove the orange cones, and dispatch you to the Parking Garage of  Never-Bring-a-Hummer-Here. Where there are no available spaces, despite the fact that you even threaded your car along the entire golf-cart width circuit without a scratch. You still have to turn your keys over to the guy with the impossible accent so he can double park you. You think. He might have said “I get good price. We give you pretty bicycle after.” But you couldn’t understand him, so you take your claim ticket and head through the double doors. At which point you switch back, narratively speaking, to the first person.

The thing is, everyone at NIH is nice. I don’t know why this is. I’m used to encountering folks who barely tolerate their jobs, no matter where I go, but at NIH they apparently take their hospitality training directly from Minnie Mouse. We arrived with 30 minutes to spare before we were due at admissions, and knowing our first day of rigmarole would be lengthy and arduous, sought a snack. So I stared at the “You Are Here” chart by the elevator, scanning for a coffeeshop. Not on there. At this point, very nice person #1 asked if we need help, and pointed us in the direction of the atrium wherein one may find an Au Bon Pain outpost. Hooray! Coffee! Tea! Cinnamon rolls! And an architecturally intriguing space in which to consume them.

At the appointed time, we presented ourselves at admissions where we were given a friendly greeting, a “welcome packet,” and a 45 minute wait time. The packet contained phone numbers and a booklet detailing the whats and wheres of being an in or outpatient at NIH. The waiting room contained people, whom I tried not to examine too obviously while secretly wondering what studies they were all into. Meanwhile, very nice person #2, who was something along the lines of “patient hospitality coordinator” checked that all was peachy with us, and it more or less was, give or take 45 minutes.

When our name came up, very nice person #3 checked us in, and we were escorted upstairs by the young lady who, evidently, administratively assists the physician in charge of our study. From here on in, things were pretty familiar. The doc explained the study, gave Jeff a check-over including the usual things like “draw these 2 interlocking pentagons” (no way,) “spell WORLD forward and backward” (half-way,) and “remember the words ‘apple,’ ‘penny,’ and ‘racecar.’” (2/3 of the way...not bad.)

This was only interrupted by very nice people #4 and #5, in the guise of patient advocates, whose job was to make sure we hadn’t felt coerced by our referring physician, and also to ascertain whether I was using Jeff as my entry in the Science Fair, but they apparently bought that since I’m only studying Japanese right now he was with me at NIH as a willing and semi-lucid participant. So we passed. And signed some papers that allowed me to sign all the rest of the papers.

Several bouts of poking, prodding, and EKGing later, Jeff was clearly pretty exhausted and our day at NIH was nearly concluded. Our little admin assistant showed us to the atrium alcove where we would obtain our “Extended Visitor badges” with photos (lordy, mine is bad,) and bade us farewell.

We are scheduled to return next week for the PET scan which will measure brain inflammation. Our new badges will let us bypass car inspection, but not--I suspect--the parking conundrum. This depends, of course, on whether the government’s playground standoff means everyone scoops up his marbles and takes them home for the week, or whether services including NIH will carry on as normal.

It will be shorter, and less tiring for Jeff. This time, I rewarded us with a pizza at Matchbox Bistro in Rockville, complete with beer in goblets. That helped a lot. Here’s how I can tell. After our early dinner, we got into the car. “Pleasant day,” Jeff remarked, as we settle in. I chuckled. “What did we do?” “Had food, took a nice ride,” he said.

Was it all gone? The atrium, the nice people, the mental calisthenics, the needles,  the paper signing? Well, for that moment a good feeling in the tummy was all that counted.