Latest / Shouty Brain / #7: Let's Talk About Death, Baby
Transcript
- Trevor Holland: Hello, welcome to Shouty Brain with me, Trevor Holland. hope everyone's doing okay. A little bit of a change of pace this week. I'm gonna be flying solo. As you'll know, I I normally have a guest on on most weeks. This week, however, I thought it would be nice to have a little one on one time and a little bit of a story, in fact. 'Cause I've been thinking over the last few weeks, how every experience I have in my life or have had in my life has has been informed by my Audi HD to to one extent or another. And so that made me start thinking about emotionally charged experiences and my own perception of those and my own experience of them, how that might be somewhat different to to neurotypical people. I'm wondering if this is going to resonate with some of you out there. It is gonna be a little bit delicate in parts. If you've been paying attention to the title, we're talking about death, baby. and it's it's a big one because listen, anyone who experiences the loss of a a loved one, it's a profoundly life changing experience, especially if that person was particularly close to you, and particularly if you were in the some would say unfortunate, some would say privileged position of actually watching that person's life ebb away in front of you. now that experience is nearly twenty years ago for me, but it continues to be something that I think about a lot. And my emotional processing of that event was definitely not you know, on point. I I wasn't fully I think processing what was happening 'cause it was just such a an emotional sensory experience. So I'm gonna share today the story of the day my dad died. so that's what's happening. So strap in guys. So Let's start from let's give you a bit of context. So I'm forty two years of age now. This happened when I was twenty-four. The day was October eleventh, two thousand seven. She's pre ADHD diagnosis, pre autism diagnosis obviously. At that time I'd dropped out of uni about three years prior. My life was going nowhere. I was lily padding from job to job, from idea to idea, from one flight of fancy to another. I was shagging my way through South London, drinking my way through South London. I didn't know my ass from my elbow. That whole period of my twenties pretty much call it my wilderness years because there's much of that decade that I don't actually remember. Not because I was off my head but just because I was I was elsewhere. But this day I remember details of this day very well. So during this time I was living in Croydon in a in a house share with three other guys who were all strangers at the b you know but before I moved in of course. I moved into this house share just near East Croydon Station. With three guys I didn't know. One of those guys I became really close friends with. The other two Yeah, we got on okay, but that was not the kind of environment that I f flourish in. You know, I don't play well with others necessarily. These guys were very They were lads, and I I'm not a lad. So it wasn't a particularly comfortable place. I felt a little bit off kilter anyway. This particular day I was off work and I'd just made myself a Jackie Potato with tuna before I was a vegetarian. Now You have to forgive me here because I'm going to be giving you details and minutiae within this story that you may think are completely irrelevant. But I'm taking you through my experience from start to finish and everything's got a point. So bear with me. So I've got this Jackie Potato with tuna in a bowl. I'm carrying it through to the front room. And I get a call on my mobile from my mum. And I can't even tell you why I was feeling this way particularly, but I was feeling quite close to the edge of overwhelm before I'd even received that phone call. Ostensibly can't think of any one in particular thing that was making me feel that way, but I was very tense. I felt like I was right on the verge of being overstimulated. So I get this phone call from my mum. Which interrupts me from the important task of eating a jack of potato. And she was called on me just to ask me for my postcode. I can't remember why. I think she needed it because she wanted to forward some post to me or something. But I remember Flying off the handle when she asked me that question. Like in that moment, it was the most inane question to be asked at the most inopp inopportune time. I screamed at her. And I remember the coffee t the coffee table in the front room, I had the jacket potato in a bowl on the coffee table. And I f saw the red mist, I booted that table across the room. Table went flying, bowl went flying, Jackie Potato went flying, tuna went flying. Quite the shit show. The potato didn't survive, I'm sorry to say. It was a write-off. And I can't quite remember how that conversation ended, but during that period of my life I was very volatile and I always used to lose my rag with my mum a lot. I don't know why. But I really had a go at her about it. And I used to get like that anyway, but this particular moment I felt completely out of control. Completely overwhelmed. I did not know what to do. It was just autopilot. Now, that conversation came to an end. And I was getting ready to to start tidying up the the massacre from the potato murder. Then I got another call from my sister this time. And she called me to tell me that that dad had taken a turn for the worst and we were gonna need to go to the hospice to see him. You know, to to give you a little bit of context. My dad was diagnosed with lymphoma in I think two thousand and one, maybe two thousand and two. And he'd gone through lots of aggressive chemo, lost all his hair. And he had been in quite a a long remission for a number of years before it came back, as often it does, with all its mates. And it came back in force. And I believe around that time he was possibly gonna start getting some more experimental treatment that wasn't gonna require him to have a bone marrow transplant. So they were going through the process of looking for suitable donors for him. But anyway, he he took a turn for the worst and ended up spending time in a in a day hospice in Chichester. The idea was for him to go there for the day and be cared for and then go home again. He had like a hospital bed set up at home. So it was just gonna be a place that he'd go every now and then. It wasn't necessarily at that point being pitched as the you know, the final destination, so to speak. So Zoe, my sister, she calls me and says we've got to go down to see him. So she comes round to pick me up. And we we make the journey. down to to Chichester. Now Zoe and I we we're in many ways we're very similar. We've got our di we've got our differences, but we get on really well. We're really close. what we've got is the shared experience of growing up with the same parents, which is always useful. Because, you know, parents are are batshit. Crazy, aren't they? Let's be honest. Now the trip in the car Zoe and I, you know, we w we we'll show our emotions. We're not backwards about that. But we are very much humour in the face of adversity. So I I seem to remember a lot of that journey being laughter and fucking about. I remember there being an inordinate amount of roadkill on the road down to so many dead badgers. I felt like that was Yeah. At what p at one point we got lost. The Satnav tried to take us down a cul-de-sac. Literally a cul-de-sac and met metaphorically. And we parked up in this driveway. And we're we don't we hadn't been to this hospice before. And we hadn't we hadn't really been to any hospit hospices, hospice prior to that. So we didn't really know what it was supposed to look like, but what we did know is that it probably wasn't a semi detached house with gnomes in the front garden and a Volvo on the drive. And I just remember that being hilarious at the time because, you know, we we're going to see my dad in a in a capacity that is likely gonna be the last time we end up getting lost. So we we saw it out, we get there. Now this was becoming quite the sensory experience by this point because I was absorbing. Even if at the time I wasn't sure I was I was a sponge that day, I was absorbing everything. I can still remember the smell. I can still remember the sound that my trainers made. on the floor in there, the shiny laminate floor that you get in these kinds of places. I remember the fluorescent lights, the slightly warm yellow colour of them. I remember the walls that felt so cold and oppressive yet kind of welcoming in a way where the walls felt obliged to seem welcoming. But it was a cold, dead theatre of death. We got there and we got into this kind of waiting area. I believe my mum was already there, her partner. My uncle Bob, who's my dad's brother. His wife Kathy, my auntie. These are all family members that I I haven't s hadn't seen much of recently. And you know, these kinds of awkward social situations are bad at the best of times. How do you start a conversation with someone? How do you maintain a conversation with someone? But I just walked into a room that I've never been to before that is overloading all of my senses. And I'm supposed to interact with someone who looks a lot like my dad but doesn't smell like him and isn't him. I want nothing to say to him. I'm sorry your brother might die today. Good to see you, how are you? Sorry that you still smell weird. But I I did what I'd been taught to do by my observations. Now I'm not sure my performance was quite up to par that day, but I managed to muster a bit of a kind of nod and a Hey, good to see you, all that kind of shit. And then we were given the opportunity to go and see my dad in his room. So Zoe and I were were led down this corridor with the aforementioned oppressive cold walls and the squeaky floor and the warm fluorescent lights and the smell of disinfectant and potpourri and hurriedly disguised piss and shit. And we're taken into this room. Which kinda look like a mix of motel room and hospital room. You know, with those generic those generic landscape paintings on the walls. More squeaky floors. There was a French window leading out into a little garden area, which was actually quite nice. I had my dad's ashtray set up next to it. 'Cause my dad smoked like a chimney. He was always smoking roll ups licorice papers, if you remember those, the dark brown Rizzlers. I used to chew them when I was a kid 'cause I was hungry. his wife Jane was in the room with him. She was sitting by his bed. Seeing my dad, I'd seen my dad in hospital situations a lot. He had a lot health issues. But fuck man. He was He was a bloated baby. A big bloated baby. No hair. Face was gone as fuck. No colour to him particularly. And he had such big tumors that his gut, his belly was distended. So he himself looked pregnant, like a pregnant baby. And I barely recognised him. He was kinda sitting up in the bed and he had a he still kinda had a twinkle in his eye. But I also remember I'd already started to disassociate by the time we got into that room. Thinking back now, I I I I know that my mind was trying to protect me. And it started to remove me mentally from the situation. Because I was completely ill equipped for it. So I already felt like I wasn't really there. We we exchanged pleasantries and so on and so forth. It started it started to get a bit much. That smell. The hospital piss shit disinfectant potpourri smell. Everything felt wrong. My dad's a fat pregnant baby. The weird room. family I didn't really know. Outside. Something in me. wanted to protect me, so it removed me. So when we left that room to go back into the waiting room, We walked down the corridor back to the waiting room and I just carried on walking. I don't think I had much to say about that. I don't think I had much control over that situation. My legs took me away. They were, fuck this. Nothing good is happening here. You need to remove yourself from this situation. So my legs took me. Out of the room. Out of the building. Through the car park. Down the road. Must have been walking ten minutes. I don't even remember doing it. It was just I'd absolutely reached my limit of what I was able to process. And my body protected me by r walking me out of there. Where I was going, I have no idea. But I do remember. sort of having a moment of lucidity, I sort of came round and I realised I was halfway down a residential street, many, many, many miles away from home. And I could hear my name being called out. And it was my uncle Bob and my auntie Kathy basically chasing me. Came after me to find me. Now, I know my family loves me, but when we're dwarf talking about extended family, people with whom I don't have a particularly close relationship. It's hard for my mind to reconcile genuine affection and love from people that I don't know very well or I feel like I don't. But these two came to get me because they were worried about me. And all at once I felt loved and special. But also like a complete liability. I was twenty four years old, I was a fully grown adult, and I was being wrangled by distant family members who needed to gather me and collect me from myself and return me back to that place because I couldn't bear to be there without them effectively forcing me back. I remember my uncle Bob saying something like Come on back, Trevor. Your dad's asking after you. And I seem to remember thinking That may be the last time he's ever gonna ask after me. 'Cause he's not gonna be Asking anyone anything. So I w I kind of out of embarrassment more than anything, went back like I was being marched down death row by these two people. We got back into the waiting room and I remember trying to hide myself. I used to do this thing quite a lot when I didn't want to be in a room and would almost put myself into a sensory deprivation situation. So I wore a lot of hoodies when I was younger. I remember sitting in that room and I put my hoodie on over my face, right over my eyes. And leaned back. 'Cause if I couldn't see anything And if I couldn't hear as much, then I could pretend I was anywhere else. It's like playing hide and seek with yourself. But I could still hear. I could hear the small talk, the awkward conversations between family. Trying to feel the silence in what was a situation where they could have just been saying, Holy shit, Phil's gonna be dead today, maybe But they didn't address the elephant in the room, they were just talking inane shit about holidays and weather, the kind of stuff that makes people like us just Cringe, what's the point? I remember hearing various people in their rooms moaning in pain, being comforted by loved ones and staff members. Then I heard this other cry coming from a little bit further away and I recognised it. And it was my dad, he was he was yelling out in pain. Like a like an injured cat. And he was being comforted by a nurse. And she said it's okay, Philip. And he said, It's Phil. Call me Phil. Even then. Even then he wouldn't have it. He didn't want to be called Philip. His mum would call him Philip when he was in trouble. But then remember him saying to the nurse, Nurse, am I dying? What the fuck are you supposed to say to that question? I can't actually remember what she said. But Imagine being him in that moment. He's looking for comfort or he's looking for confirmation, reassurance. And he's asking someone the question, am I dying? Have you ever asked anyone that question? He was shitting himself. One of the last times I saw my dad before he went into the hospice, I went to see him at home. And we went out to his garage, which was next to his house, because that's where he kept all his tools, but he also had his little smoking area down there, so he'd have a chair and he'd have his little ashtray and shit. And we were sitting there smoking. And I remember him saying to me, I wonder what it feels like to die. No, I never know I never knew with him whether he was asking that question because he wanted to know the answer or because he wanted my opinion. Or he was asking me that question to remind me that he was dying. I don't know. That he wanted he he was curious. I wonder what it feels like when you die. Well motherfucker you're gonna find out. So I think we went back in to see him. I'm sure we yeah, we did. We went back to see him again in the room. By which time I think he'd calmed down a bit, but he was exhausted. This whole experience was taken a lot out of him. And he didn't have much left. He was laying back in the bed by this time. And I just had a I'd I'd I'd very recently had this forearm tattoo. if you're just listening, it's a forearm tattoo with roses and flames stuff. I'd only just had that tattoo a few weeks prior. And he he said to me, Come here, son. Show me your arm. I haven't seen it in all its glory. And remember he kind of stroked my arm and said, it looks good The actual tattoo was for him, in part at least. Four roses, a big red one, a big blue one sorry, a big red one for my mum, a big blue one for my dad, and two smaller purple ones underneath for myself and my sister. Blue one that represents my dad. Now I subsequently learned that certain blue pigments don't take very easily in the skin. But that was my dad's one. It took three attempts to get that blue rose to take. Because my body was rejecting him, I guess. In the same way that my mind had been rejecting him for several years. Because the day he sat me down and told me that he had cancer and that was terminal. was the day I completely emotionally detached myself from him. Again to protect myself. I don't remember feeling anything when he told me that. But anyway, he looked at my tattoo, told me it looked good. And I think it was someone else's turn to see him. So Zoe and I and I believe my mom as well. we went outside for a cigarette. I actually remember what was happening Jane, my my dad's wife. They were setting up a a little kind of cabin bed next to his 'cause as I said, he was only there as a a day patient, but I think this day because he wasn't doing very well, the idea was that he was going to stay there overnight and Jane was going to stay next to him. So I think they were setting up a bed for her next to his in the room. So we went outside to let that happen. We were just standing there, the three of us, myself, my sister, my mum, just shooting the shit, just talking bollocks. As we often do. And then trotting out of the building comes one of the nurses. And she says You should come inside. He's taken his last breaths. Fuck man. What do you do with that when someone says that to you? What do you do with that when you're not? undiagnosed autistic and ADHD. How do you how do you process that information? I don't know. So We went in. And That corridor that I told you about, that was different this time. It was so much darker. And so much longer. And the walls felt so much closer to me, like they were pressing up against me. The sound of my feet squeaking against that shiny floor was so much louder. The only thing that I could hear more clearly than that. Was own chest. Just reminded me that I'm still alive, that I'm still there. And came someone came walking down the corridor towards me and it was my cousin Louise, who'd arrived shortly before. And she was in fuds of tears. Because she'd just gone to see him in his room and I think just had said that said her goodbyes to him. In my heart now, I'm sad for Louise because she loved my dad very much and she was very, very sad that he was gonna die. They had a lovely relationship. He loved her too. But then What's this bitch crying about? This is my dad. It's got nothing to do with you. Mind your own business. I'm the one who's sad. You don't get to be sad. I felt as though I had the monopoly on loss. Like no one else has the right to be upset. My sister, yes. Jane, his wife, to an extent. My mum? Sure. Everyone else can fuck off. 'Cause I'm the one who's supposed to be feeling all of the things right now. So why was I not feeling all the feelings? Maybe that's why I was pissed off. Because Louise was so effortlessly able to express her profound grief in that moment. What was I able to do? Just noticed that the room was dark. didn't know what what are you supposed to do? What are you supposed to say? What are you supposed to feel? 'Cause I was doing nothing that I was allegedly supposed to be doing. All those times that I learned by observation and figured out how to do stuff because of films or T V shows or just observing other people in the wild. I know how to do this, I know how to talk to you, I know how to look at you. I had it down to a fucking fine art, but that day, eleventh of October twenty seven. I was a fucking amateur. Completely out of my depth. So as we approached his room, I remember we passed someone else's room. The door was closed, but they had countdown on. And it was the last bit of the countdown. That bit. As I was walking past. So countdown, counting down. Fucking irony of it. We got into the room and my dad was laying on his side in a fetal position, so even more like a fat baby than before. And he had just pissed himself. 'Cause apparently that's what people do just before they die. They void their bladder and their bowel. So we just went the bed. So again, a baby. He was kind of facing Jane. He's lying on his side, like I said. Jane was in fuds of tears, holding his hand. And although sort of his back was to me, I was standing at the foot of the bed so I could see the side of his face. His eyes were open and he was staring at Something and yet nothing. Because he was not there. He was snoring. He was doing the agonal breathing. Which if you've never seen it or heard it, I hope you never have to. There's reason why they call it the death rattle. Because he was literally rattling. I could fucking Flatcast in it. The snoring he was doing was getting slower. And I could tell that this was reflex breathing. This was his body. Really just last chance saloon. Last ditch attempt to keep him alive. They're like, we're gonna keep pumping this motherfucker full of oxygen even if he doesn't want us to, even if he nothing else is working. It was such a poignant moment because his body was just trying so hard to keep him alive. It was all pure reflex. He wasn't even there anymore. He took one last big gasping, rattling breath. Yeah. That was it. I wasn't looking at my dad anymore, I was looking at a corpse. This is the man that I love. And hated and feared and adored and resented and was embarrassed by and was embarrassed of But then loved again. Then pretended I didn't, so it'd be easier. That is the the man who raised me with my mum at fifty three years of age, dead. fucking corpse. And it's unbelievable what happens physiologically. The difference between someone who's asleep and someone who's dead. When you're asleep you're still engaging the muscles in your face. But when you're dead nothing's engaged anymore. So gravity has a different effect on the way you look. You don't look like the same person anymore. He was a shell of of a being that was amazingly significant part of my life. Was just not there anymore. I was just staring at him, I didn't know what to do. I think I was holding my hand holding hands with my sister who's sitting next to me, she was in floods of tears. Jane in front of me was in floods of tears. My dad wasn't doing much. And neither was I. I was nothing. is the staring I have? Did nothing. I said nothing. My face did nothing. The nurse was in the room as well and she said You guys should leave, give us a couple of minutes to dress him, you know, to make him look a little bit more presentable so that we could then come back inside and say our goodbyes to him when he's not looking like he's literally just died and pissed his pants, I guess. So we left the room and my mum was waiting in the corridor and she looked at me expectantly like, What's the sitch? And I I remember doing this little nod. I just went this little solemn nod to denote he's gone. And you know why I did that? 'Cause I'd seen it on T V and I thought it was cool. 'Cause I didn't know what you're actually supposed to do in that moment. So I copied something I'd seen. Probably on casual casualty or some shit like that. And I remember thinking at that moment, I went and gave my mum a big hug. She was comforting so you know and I think I said something to my mum about how I wasn't gonna go back in and say goodbye 'cause I think I'd had I'd had quite my fill of confusing experiences for the day. And I didn't think I would gain anything from going to see him again. Like that's going to see the corpse again. But my mum said, Yeah, you really should. You don't want your last memory of him to be that. You want to see him looking a bit more peaceful and you can s have a bit of a quiet moment with him and say goodbye. And I never took my mum's advice. But I did. I did that day. I took comfort from her, maybe knowing more than I did about something. I went along with it. I didn't have any fight left to be rebellious. So when we were told by the nurse that the room had been prepped for us, I can't remember who went in first, whether it was me or Zoe or my mum went in and at some point as well, on her own to say goodbye. So I went in. And they'd kinda made the bed. It's a fucking sham. I know why they do it. And it's very sweet. On one hand. On the other hand, I'm like, who are we fucking kidding here? Why are we trying to make this dead guy look like a sleeping guy? Why are we lying about this? Let's be honest. This is a guy who just fucking died and pissed himself and and rattled his way into the eternal void. Why are we making him look like he's asleep? 'Cause he is not. He's dead. that that's part and parcel of the pomp and circumstance of life. There's kind of rituals that people do that seem to make sense to everybody else but me because I don't see the fucking point of anything. When something doesn't make complete and utter sense to me, it is pointless, it is useless, and I will fight against having to do it because it is trivial horseshit. But something made me want to play along this time. So he's laying on his back all tucked in. His eyes were closed. But not quite. You can still see through the gap a little bit. And just like the muscles in the face aren't engaged when you're dead, neither are the muscles around your eyes. So they're no longer looking at anything in particular. They're not even necessarily looking in the same direction. And they're not looking at anything crucially. And you can tell these are eyes that have seen a lot, but no longer see anything. And I didn't know what to say. Imagine being so socially awkward. That you don't know the right thing to say to a dead guy. But again, I'd seen enough T V and movies to know what people normally do. So I leaned down and gave him little kiss on the forehead, which was already cold by the way. And I said My dad, I love you. And I did love him. But those were just words at that moment. That was just going through the motions because this is what people do. That were those words, by dad, I love you, in that moment didn't mean anything. It was just something to say. Obviously I meant it. But right then Then I left. And I went home. No. I know that was a meandering story and had a lot of gaps and a lot of moments where I was thinking about what I was gonna say next. And maybe it was boring, maybe it was insightful, maybe it was funny, maybe it was dark, I don't know what the fuck it was. But it's story time, guys. So I wanted to tell you the story of my dad dying. Now subsequent after that Let's say that the way I handled his death was the catalyst for what would then become my diagnosis journey. And maybe we'll cover that another day. But suffice it to say I I did not do do well. But it took me a long, long time. It's like I said, it's nearly been twenty years. It took me a long, long time to make peace with that day. And I'm not sure entirely that I am even have. But because I felt so guilty and confused about my own reaction to it and I you know you'll know that people like us, we spend most of our lives if we haven't been diagnosed, or even if we have, feeling useless and lesser and incapable. And those perceived shortcomings were never more apparent than that day when I was found wanting, lacking in the skills to to do that stuff. took me a long time to kind of make peace with the fact that I didn't do something different or say something different. But I did exactly what I needed to do. And exactly what I could do. 'Cause I'm not wired up like them. But it was ahead of a day. And I tell you the other thing I felt bad about for a long time. was the fact that I was looking forward to him dying. Makes me feel awful even saying that out loud. But I was looking forward to him dying. The reason for that was so it would be done with. Because I like to close the book on something. Once I know the reality of the thing and I've started to adjust to that new reality, it's all or nothing. Being in limbo for eight years while someone is dying more slowly. and maybe coming back to life but still ultimately dying. It's like, come on, make your mind up. It's one way or the other. Either live or don't. And I was kinda let's just get this over with. Let's wrap this up. Made me feel like a complete cunt for saying it. But hopefully at least one person listening or watching this will understand what I meant by that. It didn't mean that I loved him any less. It didn't mean that I was hurting any less. I was looking forward to him dying. Turned out, I shouldn't have 'cause it wasn't very fun. But anyway, listen. For those of you who are still here, thank you. Thank you for listening. Thank you for watching. And by the way, please don't worry about me. I might have gone into dramatic reading mode then. I'm fine. It's been nearly twenty years. I'm cool. Don't worry about it, okay. It's just, you know, thinking about that moment, thinking about that day. I have to put myself back there, right? But you can hear my voice, I'm fine, right? But what I'd like from you. Talk to me about your experience of loss as someone who is neurodiverse. How have you handled these emotionally significant periods of your life through the filter? Neurodivergence. I'd be really interested to hear your story. So please reach out to me. you can get hold of me on Instagram, you can DM me at Shouty Brain. You can email me shoutybrain at gmail.com. You can contact me directly through my website, shoutybrain.com. You can comment on the video on YouTube. There are so many ways. There is a plethora of methods. to contact me. So please do. I want to hear from you. So I'm trying to build something here. I'm trying to build a community. and I want to hear from everybody. I want to learn. Am I am I making sense here? Because this is my particular journey. Does it has anything that I've said resonated? Do you have anything to add? I just you know let's let's talk guys. I'd love to hear from you. And also, you know, the usual kind of housekeeping. I would really appreciate it if you would follow me on Instagram, if you would subscribe to the podcast, if you'd subscribe to the YouTube channel, if you'd like the videos, you know, comment, engage. If you're just listening to the audio version of the podcast, please subscribe to it and leave a review. The only way that I'm going to be able to grow is if people engage with it and I've been hitting some fantastic engagement up till now and I really appreciate the people that are reaching out. I love what I'm hearing from people and I'm very humbled by the things that people are saying to me. It's so sweet that people are feeling people are picking up what I'm laying down. You know? It's landing with people and it's exactly what I want. But I'm a greedy boy so I want more of that please. Alright? So I don't know what next week's episode gonna be. I've got a couple of interviews lined up, so don't worry. It's not just gonna be this shit from now on, but it's gonna be a bit of a mixture of the two because sometimes I just like to talk. I need to catch myself when I'm in the right mood and I like talking, 'cause not all the time. Sometimes I don't wanna talk for days. Right now I wanna talk. But thanks for sitting here and listening to this. Cause it was quite, you know, not the easiest thing to talk about, but an important thing to talk about. And I hope you took something from it and it wasn't completely boring. But thank you so much guys. Keep in touch. I love you. I'll speak to you soon, okay? Take care.