Belated surgery thoughts

 Would it have made better sense for me to make a log of all this while it was actually happening? Sure. I do keep a daily journal/diary so there is actually a fairly decent record of the day to day experience, which I will draw on here, but it's not designed to be a cohesive narrative about the surgery itself since it's where I write about everything and anything that's going on that day.

Anyway, there may be stuff in here they didn't tell you about top surgery, or it may be stuff you already knew, or a mix. This is just my own personal experience. First off, it's important to note that I have led an absolutely charmed life and have never had any kind of actual surgery. I've had a mole removed with local anesthesia, and I have been put under twice, once for my wisdom teeth and once for an endoscopy. That last one sucked. I did not handle the anesthesia well as I had a headache for two days straight after. I told them this in advance. Anyway, I still have my appendix and tonsils and all that, I've never been cut open before. I've never been in the hospital (as a patient) apart from the week I was born, so I really wasn't sure what to expect.

Preparation: I knew I had a decent amount of body hair. Literally the first thing the surgeon said, on seeing me shirtless, was "You're gonna want to shave that, or else the nurses will." and boy did that last part sound like a threat. So I shaved my chest. It took an HOUR to shave my chest. Holy crap you don't realize just how hairy you are until you have to try to get rid of it. It's long and it's a carpet but the hairs themselves are fine and straight and just defied the razor sometimes. And then when I finally finished- I even went up into my armpits just a little (for reference it was absolutely good that I did that), I looked in the mirror and I did not like what I saw. I felt like a shaved bear. I felt naked. I didn't think I was that attached to it but I just looked Wrong without it. I also had to wash with chlorhexadine soap both the night before and morning of surgery, that was such a familiar smell, we used that stuff for everything when I worked at the vet hospital.

At the hospital: It felt really weird to go in there essentially in pajamas and slippers, but I guess that is exactly what you should do? I did wear a button-down shirt, which was recommended. Again, felt naked because my wife had to hold onto my wallet and stuff. I did not wait around in the waiting room for very long before they took me back and put me in a bed, but I think I was probably back there for an hour or more. The nurses were nice, everybody was nice. We'd had some mild concerns because it was a Catholic hospital. I was anxious anyway, but everyone was so pleasant and honestly they made it the best experience it could've been. The nurses and anesthesiologist were all black women, which is not important except-

Immediately post-op: I was dreaming and there were people nearby talking, and then I realized I was actually hearing the nurses talking and remembered I was in the hospital. They must've knocked me out still in that waiting room full of beds because I have no memory of being wheeled out of there to the surgical theatre. I had a really hard time opening my eyes, and when I did there were a handful of nurses and they were every last one of them white women. What the hell happened? Somehow despite the fuzzy-brainedness of anesthesia plus my own possibly autistic bad social graces, I managed to just restrain myself from saying out loud 'it sure got white in here!' Only just. They let me sip some water because my mouth was super dry, and they had given me a scopalamine patch behind one ear before they put me under which may have helped, because I felt fine apart from super sleepy. My bed was in a very cramped, labyrinthine room of beds and equipment that looked very behind-the-scenes to me, so I was actually pretty surprised when they brought B right on back there. She helped me to get dressed and the nurse basically had her doing the more sensitive stuff like my underwear and pants. Very tactful. They also let me touch my chest, but I was already done up in the compression vest. Still, almost cried when I felt how flat it was. They sat me up for the getting dressed and B said afterward I seemed fine until that moment, at which point I turned paperwhite. I was immediately nauseous. Did not puke, but it was an effort not to. They got me into a wheelchair and wheeled me out, B by my side all the way to the car and my god that wheelchair ride was the most nauseating experience ever, they had me holding a barf bag. Still did not puke. Car ride was also sickening but honestly not quite as bad as the wheelchair/elevator combo? I don't love elevators at the best of times, though. My father-in-law drove us, and he and B both helped me from the car into the house and all the way to the bedroom and sat me down, and just like that, I was fine. Once I sat down on the bed, nausea was gone. No headache. Still slightly loopy feeling, but otherwise perfectly okay. I was desperately thirsty, though. I was thirsty nonstop for about 48 hours. I sucked down gatorade like it was the best thing ever. I did not take a nap. Within maybe half an hour of getting home, I'd gotten up and walked the length of the house to the couch without assistance, and we watched TV while I drank gatorade like it was air and periodically went to pee because I was drinking gatorade continuously. I ate some dinner. I was coherent and totally fine. 

Drains & Vest

Post-op week 1: I sat on the couch and alternately watched movies and stuff, but also dozed off sitting up every couple of hours. I slept in the bed alone, and slept only 2-3 hours at a stretch, then got up and walked the house, then slept another couple hours. I was still thirsty more than usual but after the first 48 hours it wasn't like a desperate thing. By the end of the week the compression vest was starting to get uncomfortable, and I had some pain up towards my armpits. Emptying the drains twice daily was gross, I don't know how I would've done it myself (or at least it would've been awkward) but B did it for me like a champ. By the end of the week there wasn't much in them, which was as it should be. After one week we went back and they took the vest off and the drains out- I'd heard it was painless, and I figured that was an exaggeration, but while I was taking a bracing breath the doctor and nurse each took one side and by the time I'd finished breathing in he was like 'yeah they're already out now' and I went 'what??' because I literally did not feel a damn thing. My nipples looked like purple blobs. There was still sharpie and iodine stains all over my chest. My body looked like a horror show but it was flat. Also after I removed the scopalamine patch I apparently neglected to wash the area behind my ear thoroughly. The next day I proceeded to touch that area, and then later my eye, causing my pupil on that side to dilate hugely and become unresponsive to light. Cannot recommend. Made watching TV and my vision in general feel weird. Wore off overnight. I had been warned, so I figured out real quick what had happened, but it was still an experience I would like not to repeat.

Post-op following weeks: We were allowed to take the vest off briefly and B helped me take a sponge bath literally that same day, and we tried but it was clear a lot of the stains were going to take more than one washing to get off. I realized I had more sensation than expected, and the incisions went way further up towards my armpits than I anticipated. Also that's where the drains had been coming from so it made sense that was a sensitive area. Working at a vet I'm kind of used to looking at incisions, and once I got cleaned up a little I could tell mine actually did look pretty good. Unfortunately I continued to have pain in my armpits over the next few weeks. I was keeping my arms down all the time, and not using deodorant because that's not something you want in your incisions as they're healing. The discomfort actually got worse until I lifted my arms enough to get a good look in the mirror and realized I had a yeast infection. Cool. Fun times. If you have assigned female parts, as I do, and have ever been on strong antibiotics (I had those post-op so probably a contributing factor), you may be familiar with yeast infections in a very sensitive area. I was okay there, but I've never had it in my armpits before. Had to call the surgeon and get a prescription, and yeah that sucked. I wish I had realized that's what was happening sooner. So that's my warning to others. Overall my pain levels were worse around the armpits and that yeast infection than they ever were for the incisions themselves. I did take the opiods. After the first few days I only used them at night, and took extra strength tylenol during the day. The vest got annoying and uncomfortable, like wearing a binder 24/7 basically, so I looked forward to baths/showers when I could take it off briefly. We got rebandaging down to an art, but again something I do not know how I would've managed without my wife's help. She did so damn much for me. Gradually I got better range of motion back in my arms, and my nipple grafts turned from purple to reddish-purple, the left one turned into something like a sad pepperoni, then pinker, then slowly into just a nipple. The right one... did not. I was worried about it early on because it seemed to be lagging behind the left in progress. It stayed dark, then turned ugly and darker with pus. The surgeon declared it a layer of necrotic tissue over healthy tissue. Eventually the dark parts came off to show pink underneath.

When I finally got the compression vest off it was such a damn relief. It was itchy and obnoxious by then.

Nearly 6 months post-op: Not quite there yet. My six months visit is next month so I guess I'm closer to five right now? My right nipple graft did not, technically, fail. It did take damage. Up until a few weeks ago it was still flat, if pink, and it is only just now trying to show some distinction between the aereola and actual nipple and gaining some dimension. There is a weird little lump of aereolar tissue that escaped damage but honestly makes it look more weird by comparison rather than less. It may look normal in a year? Or it may not. The left side is raised and a normal color and just generally looks as normal as could be. The incisions are definitely still visible, but they're not raised anymore and I feel like they're subtle enough that with time they may become hard to see. I'm still using silicon scar stuff on the incisions and the right nipple, and damn that stuff is expensive, $80 a pop. I've looked for over the counter stuff but the gels do not have the same ingredients and the scar tape doesn't work as well, it gets uncomfortable fast. I had to work hard with hot compresses and a massager/roller to get rid of some lingering swelling, but I'm past that now and I honestly absolutely love how I look with a shirt on. Actually shirt off is okay, too! It's a work in progress, scar-wise, but overall I'm happy looking in the mirror. I did worry with my chest flatter my belly would be more visible. It is. I'm remarkably okay with that, although I should try to lose a little weight. I'd like more muscle on my arms. I have basically a dad bod. Some days I want to improve that. Some days I just don't care that much. I'm okay with it, and that says a lot about just how dysphoric my chest was making me. 

I expected to one day look in the mirror and be surprised to see my chest flat. That's never happened. What has happened was looking in the mirror and having a slow dawning surprise that I did not see something unexpected in the mirror, like breasts. It's a reverse surprise. I'd love for the right nipple graft to eventually get with the program, but if I were to never get any further than where I'm at now, I'd still be happy and I don't regret it at all. And I will still continue to heal, from here. I'm 45 years old and stuff takes a little longer than it used to. Maybe I'll get back to doing bench presses and see some improvement, there. Maybe I won't, and that'll still be okay.

Feb 8, 2024

Oct 12, 2023

Oct 25, 2023

As a note, I will say I've glossed over the truly hardest thing in all this. In the month leading up to my surgery, we discovered that my cat was terminally ill. For a while there we were just desperately hoping she'd hold on for a few weeks past my surgery, since we knew she'd be thrilled to have me home 24/7. She did, and she was. She sat in my lap and hung around me a lot while I recovered, although she was never exactly a lap cat. Still, she wanted to be where I was. She actually hung on until just a few weeks before Christmas. We were debating what to do over euthanasia to make it as painless as possible (she was terrified of the vet), and waiting for those final signs like not wanting to eat- she was taking medication, but I just put it in her food and she ate it, I vowed I would not force pills down her throat. Ultimately she was begging for our pizza and eating great even that night, although she seemed a little disoriented at bedtime, climbing half into her bed, looking bewildered, wandering around a little. I got up to pee in the night, and she didn't show up in the bathroom doorway. Yes she was still even doing that normally. I had a feeling, after how she'd acted a few hours before, and went looking for her. She passed in her sleep, laying on the dining room carpet in the same spot she'd been frequently napping. I'm so grateful to have had her by my side through the hardest parts of my recovery. I'm so glad she seems to have gone out painlessly at home. 

I still miss her every day.

Maxie Magpie trying to sit on both of us at once

This is not a promise to update regularly

 Hey if there is anything I'm consistent about, it's being inconsistent. I'm not sure anyone really reads this blog anyway, it's partly a journal for my own purposes, but if somebody else is reading this and gets anything useful out of it will you let me know? Drop a comment just so I know I'm not talking into the void.

A lot has happened. There was a global pandemic and I stopped cutting my hair. My mother-in-law passed away (after three rounds with lung cancer, it was late stage emphysema that took her life, but she never caught Covid which may speak to our many precautions). We did lose a good friend to Covid. Our president finally changed, although depressingly dangerous political movements remain. I got burned out after nearly nine years at the vet clinic and fled, eventually landing at the county library in circulation, thus following in my father's footsteps. What I loved about being a vet assistant was the sense that my job helped people, and made the world a better place. Working at the library helps make the world a better place, too, and I've learned about myself that is something I need to feel fulfilled in my work.

Some things are the same; B is still my wife and we remain very much in love, although she is now experimenting with she/they pronouns. Her sense of gender fluidity is a revelation that makes as much sense as my own transition, and I'd love her even if she decided she wanted to transition herself (although this seems unlikely). My parents remain awkward about my being a man, although my father uses my correct name. We're still in the same house, with the same cats. I'm still on testosterone, for about 7 years now.

Some things have changed very, very recently.

At the beginning of last month, I finally had top surgery. I'm still recovering, through my 45th birthday, and that recovery is kind of rough. One of my nipple grafts is struggling along a little, and my arm mobility is still limited. I can't lift a whole lot, and I'm still in a surgical compression vest, with some daily bandaging changes. In the evenings though, I take the vest and bandages off to do hot compresses, and each time I get more used to my own bare chest. The incisions themselves have healed so well I've been told to move on to scar cream on them. I'm optimistic that at my next visit I may be done with the vest. Most of all, when I'm dressed and I look down or look in the mirror, what I see there is right. 

There's no little shock or jolt over the change, instead what I've noticed is a lack of the little jolt of dysphoria that was so familiar every time I looked down or in the mirror before. There's no adjustment, no need to mentally reconfigure my self image, just a peaceful contentment that what I see matches what was in my head all along. I knew that I was dysphoric before, but I never realized to what extent until now that it's gone.

Half a lifetime ago, when I was in High School and College, I drew characters that were more or less my masculine ideal. They were tall, with long hair and a full beard and mustache. Tall I am not, and will never be. But it has struck me that what I see in the mirror now matches that ideal I held before I allowed myself to really acknowledge as a personal yearning. The man I have become is the very man I wanted to be, decades ago. I know not everyone gets the same results with T, that there's no way to predict or control it. I also know that at this point I have probably seen most of the changes I will ever see, as a result of T. My voice is a solid baritone, my beard has filled in, anything from here on out is largely the changes of aging. I'm not afraid of getting older, because I will simply continue to grow as the man I always wanted to be. I have been so lucky, so blessed, and I feel so grateful for the man I have become.

It's not fair.

 Had a dream I can't remember enough of to bother dream journaling it, but what I do remember from just before waking was worth a note. The whole dream was vaguely like a movie about a young queer friend group. I was mostly following a young trans guy, and he had a girlfriend; it was basically my wife and I if we were together much earlier and I'd figured myself out as a teenager. The trans guy was excited he got taller (hey, I gained about an inch throughout college), and his gf was happy for him. There was a very flamboyant queer friend (maybe transfemme?) who was picking on him a little. At one point they said "We gotta get some nail polish on you, queer it up!"

And he said "Nail polish makes me feel like a girl again, I don't like it."

They kept picking at him, and the gf took them aside and tried to work out why. They said they didn't like what he was doing (re. transitioning) and she pointed out that he/I was just being true to himself the same as all LGBTQIA+ people are trying to. They broke down and said "But My truth gets homophobic slurs yelled at me from passing cars, but His truth gets him respect and normalcy and that's not fair!"

They were bitter because of that and I honestly can't blame them, and it does tap into the reality that transmen seem to have passing privilege at a higher rate than transwomen. Not all transmen pass. Nonbinary folks may have an even rougher time, in a way, and passing should never have to be the goal for anyone. 

Queerness is very much about fighting the patriarchy, yet for many transmen the end goal- especially for white transmen, can leave them looking physically just like the patriarchy. It would be a lie to say there are no benefits to looking like a cis white man. It's an awkward juxtaposition and one that I've struggled with. It puts transmascs in an odd place in the queer community.

No, it's not fair.

Thanks for the back hair, Dad.

 My father's middle name is Harry.

Wait, back up, that joke works way better verbally, and usually there's a lead-up about body hair, and 'Harry' and 'hairy' sound the same... I'll just start over.

My father looks like Santa Claus. White hair, full beard, glasses, slightly stocky build- maybe a little skinny for Santa but it's enough that kids give him long looks around the holidays. Growing up, I never, ever saw my father shirtless, unless I caught him changing clothes or something. He wore t-shirts under his button-downs. I guess I just thought he was modest, which fits with his quiet, introverted personality.

Then one day my mother told me he's embarrassed to be seen shirtless, because he's so hairy. I can remember a few glimpses of my dad shirtless over the years. He's covered in curly, thick, grey-white hair. He's fuzzy with it.

If he were a gay man, he'd be a bear. This is not a criticism!

We do not get to pick and choose the genetics we inherit, and we are a physical equation heavily based on what we get from our parents. Transmen are always warned, when starting testosterone, that we can't pick and choose which masculine traits we'll inherit. Male pattern baldness is the big one a lot of guys look out for. My mother's father was starting to thin on top, but still had most of his hair when he passed in his eighties. My dad's hirsutism extends to his head, so I've never been especially worried about my genetics on that front. I have been losing some hair, but I recently realized my mild hair loss has been the squaring up of my hairline, a fascinating but common change after a while on T, and one that helps make me look more like a man.

Everywhere else, the hair is growing. They talk about a 'treasure trail', and I don't have that, because instead my hair is thicker from chest all down my stomach, a uniform downy carpet. It's not curly, like my dad's, but there's a hell of a lot more than there was a year ago. Hair is thicker on my arms, and creeping up the backs of my hands. My nose hairs- which were perfectly serviceable before, are not so much thicker as longer and I can't see the evolutionary point in that.

And then there's my back. Which is not hairy. Or rather, it's very selectively hairy. For weeks, I kept having a specific spot on my back that itched. Then one night my wife pointed out, as we were getting ready for bed, a single dark long back hair that conveniently sprouted where the band of my bra rubs against it daily. It took about six months before two more showed up, also conveniently in spots where they're irritated all day. And that's still where I'm at, a few months later. Fur all down the front of my body, and three random back hairs.

My beard is filling in well though, it's curly like my dad's but not grey yet, even though a fair amount of the hair on my head is. I don't know that I will ever look like my father- the genetics from my mother's side may help balance things out and her dad was pretty sparse on body hair, but if I do end up being a bear, I'm okay with that.

I think my dad should be okay with it, too. It's not a bad look! Besides, his middle name really is Harry. That's a dad joke for you, anyway. I've inherited that, too.

My dad, or possibly Santa

New year, same me, and that's okay!

I'm attempting to catch this blog up, little by little. The vlog transcripts take time, and my time is limited. Anyways, I had a decent Christmas and New Years Eve spent at home in pajamas with my wife and talking to friends on the internet. I couldn't help but notice these were the same people I spent New Years Eve with 20 years ago, except I wasn't sitting beside/married to one of them then, and we were all worried about our computers blowing up at midnight because of Y2K.

Today the year is starting off on a slightly sour note, although it's a distinct improvement over the year we spent new years day at a memorial service. We are going to do that thing dreaded by so many people on the lgbtqia spectrum: visiting relatives.
A year and a half ago, I got married, and unexpectedly two of my wife's aunt & uncle sets declined to attend, one pair with apparently a very public proclamation that they objected on moral grounds. The other set said the same, but did so more quietly and only when questioned, or at least this is the impression I've gotten from the fallout. None of this was said directly to our faces, but neither was it said with any warning not to let it get back to us, which it inevitably did. These people are my father-in-law's sister and brother, and he was actually deeply hurt about it even more so than we were. On the other hand it has possibly brought about more awareness for him of the struggles we face.
My father-in-law is one of eight, and all the rest of his siblings were supportive in one way or another (some couldn't come due to age-related health issues but sent well wishes). Because nothing was said directly to us, we said nothing back, just had our wedding with people who wanted to be there, and it was awesome!

But here's the thing; Our 'lifestyle choice' was in no way a surprise to any of these people, and they were very welcoming up to this point, and in fact continue to be welcoming. By the time we were announcing our marriage, we'd been together for at least sixteen years. I went to family reunions and holiday gatherings with my wife almost every time, and the times that work meant I couldn't, they all asked where I was. Everyone in the family knew we were a couple, and a few of them had even asked about if we were going to get married, after it was finally legalized here. My being trans is new, but that's very unlikely the wrinkle, because that wasn't even an obvious part of the announcement. For a decade and a half we were the lesbian couple in the family and for the most part people didn't address it directly, but accepted us. We thought we were good, because there were zero objections about our relationship until we made it legal.

It's a weird hill to stand on, and it's bugging my wife more than me, because it's her family. But what makes it stranger still is now that we are married, the vocally protesting aunt is still inviting us to family gatherings. Both of us. We've mostly made ourselves scarce, in the past year or so, but showed up for a funeral and an anniversary celebration for an aunt and uncle set that happily came to our wedding.
This time, she has apparently noticed we're avoiding her and harped on making sure that we know we're invited. She wanted to be very sure that we knew, and that we'd be missed if we don't come. So we're going, but we haven't heard a word of apology, and I'm not sure if she expects us to pretend we're not married because that's not happening.

We're not going to press the issue, of course, but these people are somewhat religious and our best guess is this is a 'Love the sinner, Hate the sin' approach. That doesn't make a lot of sense to me either, though. The so-called sin is in what we do, and who am I if I am not defined by my actions and the choices I make? I am not a person who is separate from loving Bridgie, or from being trans, those things are a part of who I am. If I loved somebody else instead, that wouldn't be wrong either, but I would be a very different me than the me that I am. I would be a different me, if I wasn't trans- and I don't mean the me that I was before I knew, because I was still trans then and just lived in confusion over how I was so terrible at being a woman. The me that I am today is stronger and happier for standing beside my loving wife, and having a face in the mirror that I recognize as my own. There is no moral scalpel to separate me religiously from these things, because I would bleed out and wither. We are who we are, and love is a thing that needs to be whole and complete.

I'm not planning to say all of this at the party; we will go, and eat some snacks, and make small talk about our jobs and weather, over the noise of the kids. And then we will come home, where we are happy to be ourselves.

His father's face in the mirror

Talking to my mother about my transition still feels like baby steps. It can be frustrating, this far on, because I pass for a man in my daily life with ease. I came out to my parents three or four years ago, before I started testosterone and when the realization was still pretty fresh even for me. Because I had talked it over with my then-girlfriend/now-wife and started to come out to a few select friends, my mother felt that I came out to them absolute last (not true at all) and was apparently hurt by that idea. I think I may have discussed it with my boss, before them, partly because I was unsure how my transitioning would affect my job (not at all, as it turns out, but we live in an at-will employment state so it could have gone another way). Maybe I could have come out to my parents sooner, but it felt like something that needed to be done in person and I was counting down the months to them visiting in person, at the time. Also it was hard, harder than any other interaction I have ever had regarding my transition.

I feel like my parents don't understand that sometimes. I am cautious approaching them with things not because I don't care about their opinion, but because their opinion holds more weight than that of other people. This is true even now that I'm an adult who's lived across the country from them for close to two decades. My wife's opinion holds even more weight, but I am also more sure of it in advance. What my parents will think of something is as much a mystery to me as what I think seems to be to them. Obviously there's a communication problem there, and I'm not sure how to solve it. I talk about my mother's comments on things more often than my father's because most of the time my dad just doesn't say anything at all. I'm not sure if he feels that her words carry for them both, or if he has no opinion at all, or just doesn't want or know how to communicate it.

In some ways, maybe I'm more like my father. I'm cautious extending my opinions on things, laid back and patient, sometimes to the point where it's a flaw more than a blessing. I let life and people run over me sometimes, because I don't want to be confrontational.

Anyway, I'm not sure where I'm going with all this, but on Halloween night my mother and I were chatting over text, and she mentioned that the way my hair is now makes me look a lot like my father. My father now looks a little like Santa Claus, but she sent me a photo I'd seen before of the two of them when they were younger. It's a picture I'd seen before, but not in a long time and I'd never realized such a strong comparison.

I hear my father's voice all the time, now. I think I had a lot of his vocal habits before, but now that my voice itself sounds more like his, half the time when I talk I'm startled by just how much I sound like him. I don't know what he'd think of that. Maybe I never will. I don't know how I feel about possibly looking like Santa someday, either.

Birthday thoughts

I'm turning forty next week. I've heard (and it's true) that a lot of the markers for being a successful adult have been culturally erased, or at least put out of reach for the majority. On the other hand, as this birthday closes in I stopped to assess. I'm happily married, with a stable relationship that has covered nearly half my life. I have a steady job that could probably be classified as a career- and I'm salaried now, at that. Two years ago, my big birthday gift was starting testosterone, and I cannot overstate the change this has made in my life. For the first time in my entire life, the face in the mirror is mine. (This has even nearly abolished my mirror phobia.) I shave. The guy I see in the mirror now looks good even rumpled and unshaven, and for all the little idiosyncrasies of hair in unexpected places, having a beard is awesome!

At this moment, Maxie would like to remind me I also have a very loving cat.

I haven't been as productive creatively as I'd like, but what else is new. On the other hand the stuff I've been creating the past couple of years is exciting and I've been consistently satisfied with the results. Prop making scratches an itch I didn't know I had. My drawing, too, has reached a level where what I turn out is pretty cool, even if it's mostly sketches these days.

My car is possibly in its final days, and the house we're in has structural problems that could go bad in the future, and the government is a ship of fools being sunk by a schoolyard bully at the helm. And yet I am finally who I'm supposed to be and where I'm supposed to be. My wife has a good job, and huge personal success as a runner. I don't think I could be this content if she wasn't, too. There are a lot of problems in the world, but we're as successful as we can be.