My Do's and Don'ts of Fibro Talk

As promised yesterday, in addition to the awesome points Maggie makes in her blog post, "A Guide to Talking About Crohn's," here are some "DO's and DON'Ts" that have personally affected me when talking about Fibromyalgia. Some of these may come out a little...abrupt, if you will. But just stick with me, I promise to explain where I'm coming from.  

Here we go...

DO ask questions. This is important. I am always thrilled when someone wants to learn about Fibromyalgia. There are a lot of unanswered questions as to why people develop Fibro and how it’s developed. Some doctors still don’t even believe it exists (which is ridiculous). HOWEVER, even though many questions about Fibro still cannot be answered with 100% accuracy, there IS a lot of research and facts that can be understood easily. Ask me! I’ll be happy to tell you. 

DON’T ask me if it hurts. Ok so this is one that may sound a little harsh. Stay with me here, I'll explain.  When I’m asked “What happened to your wrist?” or “Did you hurt your back?” because I’m using an ice pack (or whatever the situation is), my usual answer is, “I have a chronic illness called Fibromyalgia. What that means is I have chronic, widespread pain in my joints and muscles. Ice packs help me a lot, so you’ll see me with them often.” 

Now, what I've done here is given a brief explanation that includes a few key words: Chronic, Illness, and Pain. (Remember those, kids. You’ll need them later.) I've also told the inquirer why I use the ice pack (or wrist brace, or whatever) so that in the future, there will be the expectation/understanding that this is normal, for me. My goal is to make what can be an awkward/uncomfortable situation for the inquirer, more comfortable and easy to understand. These kinds of situations can be extremely uncomfortable for the inquirer because often times they feel like they have asked a question that is too personal. (Another reason why I'm doing this blog...to educate non-fibro peeps that it's OK to ask.) 

After I have given you my brief explanation, if you come back at me with the question, “Does it hurt?” I will normally answer, “Yes,” and leave it at that. (I will also be thinking "Here's your sign," in my head.) If you then ask me, “Does it hurt really bad?” I will imagine punching you in the face and asking you, "Did that hurt?" (Yes I'm exaggerating. I would never actually do that, for those of you who are still getting to know me.)

Let’s go back to those three key words I told you to remember:

CHRONIC: This means all of the time, never-ending, FOR-EV-ER.

ILLNESS: Yes. I am sick. Unfortunately this isn't a sports injury that will go away over night.

PAIN: Yes, a Chronic Illness that causes Pain does mean I hurt, all of the time. Some days I hurt worse than others, but it is always there. Always.

Moving on....

DO believe me. When I tell you I’ve reached my limits, or spent all of my spoons, then I have. As a person with a chronic illness, I spend all day every day fighting to make myself look and behave as “normal” as everyone else. I don’t wake up and fight all day long just to use my illness as a cop-out. If I stay up too late, I’m the one who has to answer for it tomorrow, not you. And even though an extra thirty minutes may not seem like a lot to you, that thirty minutes could be the difference between me being able to get out of bed on my own in the morning, or having to have my husband physically help me up. This time I am not exaggerating.

(Please) DON’T baby me. I don’t need to be handled with kid gloves. Don’t get me wrong here. I appreciate sympathy, maybe even a little empathy (although it’s technically impossible unless you’ve lived the illness). However, I would prefer both sympathy and attempted empathy over cruel, disregarding, mockery. I CAN still function. I just have to do it differently than you. My brain is still alert and active (with the exception of my Fibro-Fog moments), but I’m still me. I haven’t changed, my lifestyle has.

And finally,

DO be patient with me, please. I know this is a lot to take in for you, and it still is for me too. I’m still getting the hang of my new lifestyle, so sometimes I will have to cancel our plans on short notice. I know it may seem selfish, but I really do have to focus on what is best for me and my health. Please, try not to be angry with me.

 Well, that's all folks!

Do any of you have DO’s and DON’T’s when it comes to talking about your illness/disability/situation? Everyone has their own story. Some choose to tell it, and some choose to keep it private. You don’t have to have a chronic illness to have pet peeves about telling your story, though. It could be about a recent divorce, loss of a loved one, depression, addiction…the list is unlimited. In all of these situations, people are going to try to help you. By identifying the most productive ways to talk about it, it will not only help you, but it will help those around you to best serve you in your time of need…even if that means to just let you be.

Me + Universe = :)

Now that I have finally come to terms with the fact that my life is going to change whether I like it or not, I have decided to make the most of it. My life is not over. In fact, a new chapter is just beginning. Yes I know, how cliche of me. But seriously, life as I know it is changing, and it’s changing NOW. Enough of the kicking and screaming, toddler temper tantrum.

Something my BFF Maggie introduced to me has started to come in handy now that I’ve decided to work with the universe, instead of against it. One of the most important things any person with a chronic illness can do is count their spoons. I will assume most of you do not know what I mean. So, before we continue, go read this article.

No seriously, go read it. It’s brilliant. Also, it will make this next part make much more sense.

 <WAITING>

Done? Good. Now we can continue.

So, counting my spoons; this is something I now do every day. And it works. I have never been more in touch with the needs of my body than I am right now in my life. I am slowly learning things that work, and learning the things that don’t work faster. The best way for me to function at my fullest capacity is to be true to my routine. 

I wake up at the same time every morning during the week for work. After I wake up I get straight in the shower. Once I’m done doing all of the showery-business, I turn the water on almost as hot as it will go and begin my stretching routine. I stretch my hamstrings, my calves, then my arms and rib cage. Used to, I would rarely wear make-up or fix my hair for work. Now I make it a point to put my make-up on and fix my hair every day. It really does make a person feel better about themselves, even if they’re having a cruddy day. After I’m done getting ready, I go downstairs and make my coffee. While it’s brewing I eat my bowl of cereal and prepare my lunch. Once the coffee is done, I’m out the door and off to fight traffic on my way to work. I call my mom while I’m driving to have our morning chat. It really is the only time we get to talk in peace. Some days we talk about how crappy we feel, while other days we may just talk about the weather. 

Once I’m at work I get settled into my desk and take my morning medication with my coffee. At 10:30am Miss Ellen lets me have my break. I fill my eco-friendly plastic cup with Crystal-Light lemonade and drink only that for the rest of the day. I eat lunch from one to two, followed by my afternoon medication. Then at five I’m out the door to fight rush hour all the way home. 

When I get home I put my most comfy clothes on and start in on dinner. Sometimes I have to clean the kitchen first. This costs more spoons than I usually have prepared for the night. If I’m lucky though, the husband has cleaned it before I get home from work. After dinner, it’s dishes. By this time it’s about seven-thirty. I’m usually already out of spoons, but every once in a while I can muster up a few more for a fun activity or socializing. If not, I still have enough time to catch up on the DVR or watch whatever football game is on. This is also my ice-pack ritual time. 

Followed by more stretching, then to bed I go at in between nine-thirty and ten. Night time medicine, heating pack for twenty minutes, then I die for eight and a half hours or so. Rinse and repeat.

This is my life now. And it’s OK. I bring an ice pack with me to work when my back is hurting. Sometimes I use Bengay Cool Therapy. The eucalyptus scent vanishes, so it’s friendlier for public situations. When I first started at my current work place, one of my co-workers came into the bathroom one day when I was applying the Cool Therapy gel to my shoulder.

             

         “Oh did you hurt your shoulder?”

*Sigh* Which response should I give this time? Probably the short one.

“Yeah. I get muscle spasms in my shoulders a lot.” Good. That was short enough.

           

          “Oh no, that’s too bad!”

If only you knew…

            

          “You know what my sister’s friend does when she gets spasms?”

Oh no, here it goes…

            “Her friend used to be a flight attendant. She’d get leg spasms real bad from being on her feet all day. She’d just drink some club soda and that’d fix her right up! You should try it.”

C’mon lady. You’ve got to be kidding me…

“I will have to try that sometime.  I appreciate the recommendation.” I say instead with a meek smile.

This is just one of the many dreaded conversations I often have with people. It seems that no matter how little (or lot) I tell someone, they’ve always got “the fix” for it. To quote Ricky Buchanan in her infamous “Open Letter to Those Without Invisible Disability or Chronic Illness,”

“If you want to suggest a cure to me, please don't. It's not because I don't appreciate the thought; and it's not because I don't want to get well. It's because I have had almost every single one of my friends suggest one at one point or another. At first I tried them all, but then I realized that I was using up so much energy trying things that I was making myself sicker, not better. If there was something that cured, or even helped, all people with a certain illness or disability then we'd know about it. This is not a drug-company conspiracy, there is worldwide networking (both on and off the Internet) between people with similar and different chronic illnesses and disabilities, if something worked we would know about it.”

Read the full letter here.

Now, the incident in the bathroom with my co-worker is sort of an exception. I was not honest with her about my Fibro. So to be fair, she did not know any better. She really was just trying to help, and I would accept that any day over rudeness or mockery. (Yes, it does happen.) However, that exact instance is why I have decided to be open and honest about my chronic syndrome. If someone doesn’t know, how can I expect them to react properly?

“React properly.” Now, THAT is an interesting concept. How does one react “properly” to finding out a friend/co-worker/family member has a chronic illness. Well,  Maggie does a WONDERFUL job in her blog, Crohn’s Chronicles, explaining her view on how to talk to a friend with a disability. Did I mention she’s brilliant? She really is. I’ll reiterate once more, I probably wouldn’t even be writing this if it wasn’t for her strength and determination to educate the world about her own chronic disease. 

Tune in next time for my own DO's and DON'Ts section. :)

Would you like a slice of Reality with your wine?

If there is one thing I can say without a doubt about myself, it’s that I tend to do things backwards or just completely out of order: willy-nilly, if you will. My willy-nilly nature made going through the five stages of grief interesting to say the least. Before my diagnosis, I spent much time being angry, then in denial about the condition my body was in. Those were my two favorite steps, and the ones I subsequently spent (spend) the most time on. Some days I’d pretend I was sixteen again and I could physically do as I pleased. I even went to a dance class with Jeremy’s younger sister, Victoria, just to show that “I still had it.” I don’t know who I was trying to prove “it” to. Myself, I suppose. However, I quickly learned that “it” was long gone and running as fast as Usain Bolt in the 100 meter dash, never ever to return.

We started with stretching. This I could do, mostly. We pointed and flexed our feet in a straddle.

What the hell…my feet are sickling. STOP THAT. Turn out, turn out!!!

(For the non-dancers, sickling means turning your foot in, instead of out. Bad ju-ju.)

Then we began the floor combinations. The nice 30-something year old teacher with her mid-drift showing (post-baby and looking darn good) quickly ran through the combination. I stood at the back of the line to give myself more opportunity to learn it. (My brain isn't that fast these days.) She added floor work to the beginning of the combo…I’ve always hated floor work. By the time it came to be my turn I decided to just go after it.

Fail.

            “Hold your center! Don’t fall out of your turn! UP UP! You’re behind! Chasse, Tor Jete, Soutenu, Plie!” the too skinny teacher shouted as I made my way across the floor with the grace of a walrus on dry land.

All of the little teeny-boppers were watching, smirking. I was mortified. Not only could I not complete a simple Pique turn without sickling my damned foot, I couldn’t get my fat arse off the ground fast enough to stay with the music. I stood at the back of the line once more, holding back my tears as Victoria gave me an encouraging look.

           

          “Don’t worry. I’m out of shape too. I can’t do near as much stuff since I tore my hamstring," she whispered with an encouraging smile.

That didn’t help. But she tried.

“It’s just so frustrating! I used to be able to do all of this, easy. And now I can’t even point my toe correctly!”

            

          Giggling, she said, “It’s ok. Neither can half of these dumb girls either. Just have fun!"

Once again, she tried, but it didn’t help. How was I supposed to have fun when I was failing so miserably at one of the things I used to be so confident in? This was one of the biggest ego-destroyers I had ever encountered.

  

It’s kind of funny how Denial has its way of hiding its big, scary-self when Reality comes to give you a swift round-house kick to the face. Right about the time my face met with the bottom of Reality’s shoe, I decided to add “Dancing” to my list of “Things I used to be able to do, but I can’t do anymore because of this stupid Fibromyalgia crap.” Ok, so maybe that isn’t the exact name of the list, but you get the idea.

There are several things on that list that I cannot do, at all, or at least without some assistance. The list includes but is not limited to: lifting heavy objects, vacuuming the stairs, scrubbing the bath tub, giving the dog a bath, dancing, standing on hardwood/concrete floors for long periods of time without proper shoe support, sitting up-right for long periods of time, lying down for long periods of time (unless a muscle relaxer or two is involved), crossing my legs, sitting “Indian-Style”, holding a blow-dryer….the list really could go on and on.

You might be asking yourself at this point, “Well what on earth can she do?” It took me an extended amount of time to figure that out for myself. I spent a good portion of my time hanging out in the Step 4 Lounge after I received my diagnosis. It’s actually been one of my favorite places to frequent on and off for the last fifteen to twenty years. Needless to say, Depression and I go way back. If we were to have a relationship status on Facebook, it would be “It’s Complicated”. If we were to have a song, it would probably be “I Miss You” by Blink 182. Just call us “Catherine and Heathcliff.”

I think I’ve made my point.

In the past, we would tango every once in a while about things from my childhood, some tango’s lasting longer than others. Ever since I had met Jeremy though, my "dances" with Depression were getting shorter in duration with longer periods of time in between. After Reality hit me though, I basically tried to adopt Big-D as my BFF. It took several friends’ encouragement and a TON of research for me to finally ease my way out of the Step 4 Lounge and start inching towards Step 5 Adventure-land FunPark.

But wait, I skipped Step 3! Yes, actually I did skip Step 3. Completely. Unfortunately (or fortunately?) with my existing knowledge of Fibro with my mom, I didn’t bother with the "if only's"; which is odd considering I was inducted into the Dweller’s Hall of Fame at the early age of six. However, I knew in this case, there wouldn’t be much use in dwelling. If only (haha) I had taken that approach from a holistic perspective, I probably could have skipped straight to the Step 5 FunPark!

Ah….Step 5 Adventure-land FunPark. Arguably one of the best places I have ever been in my life. It most definitely beats any park I ever visited as a child. The entire place is tailored completely for ME (says the only-child, with excitement)!!!!! As soon as I arrive, a good looking man that strikingly resembles Chris Hemsworth hands me a pair of glasses that conveniently flatter my features. When I put the glasses on, everything turns bright! There are rainbows and happy people all around who understand everything about Fibromyalgia. There are no stair cases to climb or uncomfortable chairs to sit in. Everything I touch becomes as light as a feather. All sodas are sweetened with Splenda, and fresh fruits and vegetables are available at every corner. If I start getting fatigued, a big fluffy bed appears out of nowhere to sweep me off my feet into a comfy, deep sleep. The best part about this place, though, is the attire. Only soft sweat pants and t-shirts with fuzzy socks and memory foam slippers are allowed to be worn. It IS the perfect pla….you aren’t seriously buying this crap are you?

Alright, let’s get real, shall we? Acceptance isn’t this perfect little place where suddenly everything becomes OK again. In fact, that place doesn’t exist and it never will. But, with the right tools and state of mind, you can get really close. And that’s what I’ve been doing.

Yes, I have finally accepted and determined that I have Fibromyalgia and I will continue living.

All together now, “I have Fibromyalgia, and I WILL continue living.”

Good.

Closure...?

I finally have my diagnosis! This is good, right? Now I can make a plan, move forward and everything will be hunky-dory. 

False. 

For the most part, everything stayed the same. Jeremy still had to help me out of bed in the morning, I still had to take “ice pack breaks” at work, and I was still surviving off of caffeine highs from energy drinks around the clock. The only thing different was the added cocktail of prescription meds throughout the day while my co-workers stood by and joked about me being a pill-popper. 

I’m a pill-popper. Awesome. 

From my managers' views, I should be getting better. Sickness goes just like this: 

1. Get sick. 
2. Go to doctor. 
3. Get medicine. 
4. Get better. 
5. Viola! No more problems. 

Right. And I’m freaking Tinkerbell. 

I tried sitting down with a few of my managers to explain how Fibromyalgia works and that some days I’ll look and act normal, and other days, (most days), I’m going to hurt and need help. I tried to explain how my doctor and I are still adjusting my medications to find the right combination to give me the up-most relief I can obtain. I tried to explain to them that I was doing the best I could, that I still liked my job and I still wanted to work there. 

Yes, I was accused of not caring about my job. MY JOB!!!! The one consistent thing I’ve had since I was fourteen-years-old, and the one thing that guaranteed I would have a place to live and a car to drive. Seriously?!!?

But alas, if I didn’t have a smile on my face and a pole stuck up my you-know-what like a stick-puppet, I clearly didn’t care. Honestly, this was the first time in my life I was starting to put my health and wellness (pardon the official wordage) ahead of everything else. So why on earth was it making things worse?!

My “considerate” GM said, “You need to take care of yourself. But you need to be here, too. We have a business to run and customers to serve. So if that means you need to wake up a few hours earlier to have time to stretch and get rid of the stiffness, then that’s what you need to do.” 

I'm going to pause for a moment to let my fellow chronic peeps get their cursing fit out of the way.



<PAUSE>




Now, for those of you at home who are still learning about how this whole chronic illness thing works, I’ll lay it out for you: 


 chron•ic [kron-ik] adjective 

1. constant; habitual; inveterate: a chronic liar. 
2. continuing a long time or recurring frequently: a chronic state of civil war. 
3. having long had a disease, habit, weakness, or the like: a chronic invalid. 
4. (of a disease) having long duration ( opposed to acute). 


There. That’s better. 

Needless to say, my management didn’t get it, and they weren’t willing to TRY like I was TRYING to help them understand. The stiffness doesn’t go away. The pain doesn’t just go away. Waking up earlier makes it worse because sleep is one of the only things that help me feel better. I can’t just “walk it off” like some athlete with a charlie horse. This pain is here to stay and it really has no consideration for the customers I have to serve. Now, I understand there is a business to run. I didn't spend the last four-and-a-half years of my life whistling Yankee Doodle and staring off into space. However, there are also policies and procedures for people who have health issues that aren't necessarily planned. (Are any health issues really "planned"?) I asked to work shorter shifts until I was able to get my diagnosis. The response I received from local HR was, "Maybe this isn't the job for you." 

SERIOUSLY!?!?! Is THAT why you put me in the position I was in? Yes, please, make me a leader in your building and responsible for financial results. I'll work 40-50hr weeks and come in on my days off to help YOU. But when I need help, "this isn't the job for me." 

/end rant

The day of my diagnosis, my rheumatologist told me I needed to find a new job. I laughed at her then. I wasn't laughing anymore. Instead, I was devastated. This company, that I’d put almost five years of my life into, was now seemingly betraying me. It was now clear that I HAD to find a new job. By this point though, it wasn’t my choice or on my own time. Shortly after my “just walk it off” conversation, I found out my supervisor position was being eliminated soon due to the massive Corporate Restructure the company was going through. Thanks to the awesome economy, I soon would not matter anymore. Here Jeremy and I are, about to be married in less than three months, and I’m going to be unemployed for the first time in ten years. I had the option to re-apply for other positions, but based on how I was currently being treated I knew this was my time to walk away with my pride (and anger) still intact. Conveniently enough, my vacation was coming up the week after I got the news of my elimination. I was supposed to be going home to have a relaxing and fun week planning my wedding with mom. I don't know that it was necessarily relaxing, but I did manage to have a fun week and get most of the wedding planning done.  I never went back to work, even though I was guaranteed a job for another three weeks. Instead, I elected to drained my vacation, sick time, and personal time to keep an income. Once I returned to New Orleans, I slept a lot, and I drank even more. I’d call it your good old fashioned pity party with a side of self-destruction. 

Yeah, I know. Go me.  

My next rheumatology appointment was approximately a month after I was laid off. I still was not improving pain-wise. We changed a few more of my medications, including my anti-depressant. For the next two weeks, all I can say is, I don’t know how on earth Jeremy lived. Seriously, it was bad. My mood swings were off the charts! One minute I’d be freaking out about something so small, the next I’d be crying because I was so sorry for being crazy, shortly followed by zombie mode where I'd just stare off into space. If I was interrupted from staring off into space, the cycle would repeat. I'm going to say that with the grace of God and patience of Buddha, Jeremy managed to keep his cool and never once came back at me crazy like I was coming at him. Needless to say, all of the craziness was shortly followed by another adjustment to my medication, and another…well, you get the idea. Finally we got it leveled out and I stopped re-enacting scenes from "Psycho Fiancée Part III."

In between the sleeping, drinking, and watching lots of Ellen Degenerous, I was managing to put in ten to fifteen job applications per day. I wasn’t eating much. (Gotta fit into that wedding dress!) I didn’t hear back from a single application I put in. Apparently, my previous company didn’t hold as much weight on a resume as I thought it did. What was left of my ego/self-confidence was officially crushed. 

Had the last four-and-a-half years of my life been a total waste?





They say when you’re diagnosed with a life changing illness, you go through the same, or similar, five stages of loss or grief: 

1. Denial and Isolation 
2. Anger 
3. Bargaining (if only we had…) 
4. Depression 
5. Acceptance 

I can definitely see the similarities. Technically it is the death of the life I once knew. By this time I was smack dab in the middle of Step 1 and well on my way to Step 2, my forte. Somehow, I imagined the “closure” portion being much more......closure-like?

The Diagnosis

The day of my rheumatology appointment finally arrived. As "luck" would have it, my parents had previously scheduled their vacation to New Orleans to be the same week as my appointment. Once I got checked in at the hospital, the four of us sat in the waiting room. Dad and Jeremy played Angry Birds on the iPads, and mom and I just sat there. Waiting.

 Finally my name was called, and Jeremy, my mom, and I rose from our chairs to go back to meet my new doctor. Immediately the nice nurse with the braces made a "aww poor baby" face and said, "Sorry, only one person can come back with you."

I elected to have my mother come with me. I knew I was already nervous and scatter brained, so hopefully my mom would remember to ask all of the things I would inevitably forget. After being weighed (ugh) and getting my temperature taken, we got settled into the examination room. The nice nurse with the braces handed me an ugly hospital gown to change into. 

          "Everything but your underwear, hun. Here's an extra one to put around your backside."

How thoughtful.

I changed into the dreadful garments and sat, fumbling around with the two-page list I'd written the night before of things I wanted to mention. I kept thinking to myself that I was going to look like an insane hypochondriac when I started rattling them off. But oh well, this is what I waited eight weeks for. Go big or go home, right?

We waited a short time in awkward silence, my nerves vibrating the entire time. My mom kept patting my knee and saying, "Just take a deep breath. It's going to be fine."

Finally, Dr. Collins came in. She had a kind smile and a soft hand shake. After a few routine questions, I brought up my list. To my surprise, she acted very pleased that I made it. 

Maybe I'm not a hypochondriac after all? 

After shakily rambling off everything on the list, Dr. Collins interjecting here and there, she asked me to sit on the examination table. Carefully, she examined my entire body. She felt each of my fingers, joint by joint, moving to my wrists, *ouch*, up my forearms and squeezing my elbow a bit, *ouch*. There weren’t many places she touched that didn’t hurt. Once she finished the examination of my back and legs, she let me get dressed. 

            

         “Based on your test results and physical examination, I’m going to definitely say you have Fibromyalgia,” Dr. Collins said matter-of-factly. 

What? I’m twenty-five. This is not supposed to be happening to me. I’ve always joked with my friends that I had the body of a 90-year-old woman, but I didn’t mean it. I take it back. Is this my payback for being an ornery kid when my mom was suffering?

X-rays of my hips were ordered to make sure I didn’t inherit my biological father’s arthritic cartilage. Then, a different nice nurse lady drew six vials of blood to test for every auto-immune disease and deficiency in the book. Finally we were allowed to go. This time, I left the doctor with three prescriptions in hand. I finally had my answer. I was supposed to feel better right? Now I knew why I hurt. I was supposed to feel closure, have a new outlook, and make a new plan for how my life would be from now on. I now had a name for it. A label. I am labeled. Fibromyalgia. That damned F-word again.

As soon as we got in the car, I text my best friend. I wasn't really in the mood to be consoled. Other than my mother, my best friend Maggie would understand it better than anyone else. She too lives with an invisible, chronic disease. She’s strong and inspiring. She wouldn't pity me and make me feel like I’d just been diagnosed with a terminable illness. I had my brave face on and I was accepting the information like it was the score of a football game I had no interest in. 

“Just got done with the rheumatologist. She said Fibromyalgia,” I said shortly.

Almost immediately she text back.

           

          “That sucks, dude. I’m sorry. You ok?”

Not the response I was expecting. My brain was already in “no big deal” mode. Everything was cool. This piece of information was as important as the brand of cereal I ate this morning for breakfast. It didn’t even warrant a second thought, until she asked if I was ok. Maggie has a few ways of showing emotion: activism, dance, good old-fashioned soapbox ranting, and every once in a while, she gets serious. This was serious. It was exactly then that I realized my life was never going to be the same. But I kept my brave face on, and off we went to do tourist-y things and have fun. We were on vacation, after all.