Recognition and Reflection

The below journal entry was written in 2001 sometime after becoming mostly bedbound and unable to speak above a whisper. I had lost so much, and had no real means by which to communicate that loss. I was still living in my small apartment then, and at the time, could shower and heat up food on my own. However, doing so took every single tiny morsel of energy I had and rendered me otherwise bedridden. I had no real computer access, as I could not read or sit up at the computer long enough to write mail (I did not have a laptop or portable email device yet). I couldn't talk on the phone or carry a conversation. I had not yet met my fiance. While my friends and family did what they could, geography and my own limitations in communication often left them at a distance. I was essentially alone. It was then that I started to keep a journal.

Journal writing had its own difficulties, however, as I could only hand write a few sentences at a time. Typing with one's eyes closed is one thing, attempting to write by hand with your eyes even partially closed is another. In fact, writing proved so difficult that some of my old journal entries are completely illegible.

I thought I'd share one of my first (and more decipherable) entries with you today, as it expresses some of the loss, isolation and self-reflection that severe, chronic illness so often imposes on us. It also speaks to the undying, inner spirit within, and of the deep desire to have a witness to our experiences.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

June 2001

On most days, being virtually bedridden, I often lay for hours with nothing to keep my company but my own thoughts. I have an incredible need, at times, to make sure I get these thoughts on paper. Not because I feel they are noteworthy insights at all -- in fact, usually they are fairly simple observations. It is more that getting my thoughts on paper seems to legitimate my existence somehow. It makes me feel that my time here locked up in my bedroom for months on end is not entirely wasted, and that, someday when I am well, I will be able to look back and see what was going through my mind while I spent week after week in solitary confinement. Perhaps someday I will read this journal, written in the darkest time of my life, and remember never to take anything for granted again. Perhaps, too, it will serve as a reminder that, even in the worst of times, hope can still endure and there is always something for which to be grateful.

I think, of course, that I also need some form of communication... some way to tell my story, to explain my experience, and to process it all so as to better understand myself and what is happening to me. Having virtually no contact with the outside world, this journal is now my only real outlet.

Cut off from others, I also feel that others are cut off from me. No one knows my daily thoughts, my current hopes and dreams, my joys and sorrows of each day. No one knows the enormous amount of strength and determination it takes for me to get through each moment of this illness. Thus, in this way, I feel twice made invisible, not just by the decline of the body itself, but by the subsequent inability to express myself.

In What Her Body Thought: A Journey Into the Shadows, ME/CFS survivor Susan Griffin describes this need for expression well when she says:

The hope is not just for the healing of the body, but for an emphatic understanding. To be seen. To be known. ...Shaken, left without any way to articulate the nightmare, and therefore isolated not only by bodily trauma, but by its incommunicability, I have felt an overriding desire for recognition.

In my case, I think I'm searching for recognition not just from others, but from myself as well. I think it is impossible to suffer a serious illness without seeking deeper meaning and trying to understand who you truly are, and why you are here.

Despite the multitude of limitations this illness has thrust upon me, I do feel the core of me still remains. Having been stripped of almost all attachments and all the things I once thought defined me, I am often struck by that indestructible sense of "being-ness" inside me that I still recognize as myself. In fact, I see it with more clarity than I ever did before. In losing the healthy body I had always depended upon, the center within me seems to want to emerge more profoundly than ever before. I have such respect for that part of myself, and that part in all others as well, that shines from within.

I am reminded of a short story I read in college called Pale Horse, Pale Rider by Katherine Anne Porter. The story, set at the time of the 1918 flu epidemic, is a semi- autobiographical account of the author's own experience with illness and that precarious edge between life and death. As the main character, Miranda, falls deeper and deeper into sickness, Porter writes:

....There remained of her only a minute fiercely burning particle of being that knew itself alone, that relied upon nothing beyond itself for its strength; not susceptible to any appeal or inducement, being itself composed entirely of one single motive, the stubborn will to live. This fiery motionless particle set itself unaided to resist destruction, to survive and to be in its own madness of being, motiveless and planless beyond that one essential end. "Trust me," the hard unwinking angry point of light said. "Trust me. I stay."

What that inner light, that will, or that undying and untouchable sense of "me-ness" actually is, I don't know. But I silently thank God every single day for its presence.

I have so many more thoughts I'd like to express right now, but so little energy to say it. And yet, such is how it is. I have no choice but to do what I can with what I have. It's all anyone can do.

______________________________________________________________________

Edited August 2011

Recognition and Reflection was originally published in Life Skills Magazine, 5th edition (June 2010). It is being reposted here with permission of LSM. If you would like to receive a free copy of Life Skills Magazine, you can sign up here. Please also check out Discovering Purpose, a blog about creating a purpose-driven life.

Small Moments of Grace

Not much happens in my world. The days come and go, the sun rises and then falls again, the seasons repeatedly turn and the traffic outside my window zooms by. As I remain here, sick and essentially motionless, I watch as everyone else hurries to work, to dinner, to a friend's house, or to some event or adventure I cannot partake in.

I long to re-enter the world of the living; to wake up one morning free from all bodily constraints, able to jump away from this bed and the disease which has taken so much from me.

In the meantime, I continue to try to remind myself that my life, with all its physical pain, sickness and struggle, is not without its own quiet moments of activity, beauty and purpose.

A couple years ago, a friend of mine from back east (who also happens to be a former boss, and one of the sweetest people you could ever know) sent me an amaryllis plant for Christmas. I watched in wonderment as it slowly transformed from a tiny bulb to six individual, colorful blossoms.

This spring the plant bloomed for a second time, going from this:

to this:

It's an interesting thing, watching a flowering plant bloom. There's a serenity to it; a sense of wisdom, elegance and quiet patience. I could do well to learn to possess such virtues.

Ironically, I've never been one who was good at resting, nor at being still. Even confined to this bed, I want always to be doing, to be accomplishing something, to know I am somehow still making a difference in the world. I struggle to just be. I appreciate nature's silent and gentle reminders that sometimes there can be beauty in merely being present to what is; to existing, breathing and hoping.

As I struggle with my forced solitude, I am happy to have a new bunny living outside my window, keeping me company. I seem to have a new rabbit living in the front yard with the arrival of every new spring and summer season. So far this particular bunny has been rather quiet, preferring only to be seen in the early morning hours or just before sunset.

Fortunately, the bunny apparently found a safe hiding place when this coyote showed up in hopes of a tasty breakfast.

Even though he probably would have had little interest in me, I was still glad there was a wall to safely separate us. :)

One morning I had the privilege of seeing this beautiful deer strolling the yard. She took my breath away.

I've had my share of the usual window nature sightings as well: a variety of squirrels, gophers, lizards, birds, birds and more birds. Here are a few of said creatures:

I'm told this is an antelope squirrel (not a chipmunk),
but I'm not convinced

Gecko (not to be confused with Geico)

Finch and Cardinal Hang Out

A pretty goldfinch

Hummingbird

Cooper's Hawk

I mentioned in a previous post that, on "good days," my parents sometimes wheel me to their bedroom where I get to have a much nicer view of the mountains, sky and landscape. While those jail breaks have been less frequent than I would prefer, I am grateful for every one of them. It is on those days that I get to see views like this:

The view is even more beautiful in spring and summer when the trees are all in bloom. This photo was taken in winter, and that white stuff you see on top of the mountains (look real close) is snow!

Earlier this spring, my brother, sister-in-law, niece and nephew came to visit, and I got to see them for the first time in two years. Visits are always hard on me, and it broke my heart that I could only spend a few short minutes with them each morning. However, I was so grateful even for that time, as it was such a joy to see their smiling faces every day.

My niece and nephew had grown so much, and I absolutely adore them both. I wanted so much to play with them, to go on adventures with them, to interact and talk and catch up and just get to really know them. I wanted to tell them what a fantastic and super cool aunt I would be if my circumstances were just a little bit different. But, my circumstances ar what they are, and we all made the best of it. I hope I was somehow able to convey how much they mean to me through my silent expressions of joy upon seeing them, and my little whispers and words of affection.

Here's a small collage of photos showing some of their various adventures while they were visiting (all photos courtesy of my brother):

While I was unable to participate, I loved hearing the stories and knowing they were having a good time.

In the last few months, I also became a godmother twice-over. I am already the proud godmother to my nephew, and I am now also godmother to the youngest daughter of my best friend from college. I wasn't able to go to the ceremony, of course, but I was there in spirit, and am privileged and honored to hold the title to such a sweet little baby girl.

Jim and I are still doing very well in terms of our relationship (not so much in terms of our health). I am in continued awe and gratitude to be blessed with such an amazing man as my fiance. I only wish we were healthier, and we could see each other more often.

This past spring made 8 years since we've been writing each other every day. For our anniversary, Jim printed out all our email correspondences from the first month we began writing (back in 2003), and placed them all in a beautiful album for me. It was such a sweet and thoughtful gift, and one I will always cherish.

Speaking of my health, things have been very difficult. Sometimes I prefer not to go into the details because I simply don't want to relive the physical pain of it all over again. This illness is so brutal and so utterly pervasive; there is not a single second of any day that it doesn't dominate or alter in some way. That's why these little moments of escape are so lovely, and so necessary. And that's why I am so grateful every day for their brief but welcomed grace.

The Magnitude of Time

My window is open and I can hear the birds singing as a warm breeze brushes against my face. I watch a squirrel sprint up a freshly budded mesquite tree in search of nourishment. My amaryllis plant, sitting by my window, has burst into a bold and colorful blossom with soft swirls of white and pink, as though in some sort of unspoken celebration. Spring has arrived once more.

It's been 10 years now (14 years ill) that I have watched the seasons come and go beyond my bedroom window. Ten springs have turned into summer, and ten autumns have slowly given way to winter. Ten years of passing seasons that could have been filled with work, children, travel and adventure have slipped away from me, never to be retrieved. Ten birthdays of each and every one of my friends and family members have passed by without my presence. There have been many hundreds of unexplored weekends, thousands of missed opportunities and adventures, and millions of small everyday moments, never experienced, forever lost.

As I watch the various budding leaves and cactus flowers bloom into another season, I wonder how to measure so much loss of time. A full decade has gone by as I lay on the sidelines -- forced to spend each day in this tired and lonely room, quiet and immobile. While time escapes me, the magnitude of that time does not.

What would my life had been had I not gotten sick? What would the lives of 17 million others afflicted with this disease have been?

Today is International ME/CFS Awareness Day. For the millions who are sick, for the millions who have lost years of their lives, and for the millions more who will later become afflicted, please take a moment from your day to reflect and remember. If you know someone with ME/CFS, take the time to write them a quick note and let them know you care, and you have not forgotten them. Take time to learn more about this devastating disease and help spread the word to increase awareness. Take the precious time and the blessing of good health that so many ME/CFS patients have lost, and savor it. Savor it not just for yourself, but for them. For all of those who have lost so much, and who so desperately want their lives back.

The Remaining Sunlight

When I first started this blog, I wanted to find a way to tell my story and speak its harsh reality while still being sure to maintain a sense of hope and optimism. My primary focus, of course, was to raise awareness about how devastating and all-consuming ME/CFS can be, and to show that, though the name may be trivial, the disease most certainly is not.

However, I also wanted to emphasize that we are in no way defined by our illness. ME/CFS may ruthlessly prevent us from fulfilling many of our dreams, but it has clearly not taken away the dreams themselves. People with ME/CFS were once healthy, often extremely active individuals. We were going about our lives like everyone else when we just happened to fall ill -- typically quite suddenly from a viral infection, and certainly through no fault of our own. We desperately want to get well in order to have the privilege of once again living our lives to the fullest.

With these ideas as part of my focus, sometimes (particularly when I'm experiencing an acute crash) I wonder if I may give the impression I handle my illness and my circumstances with greater ease than I actually do.

ME/CFS is brutal. It defies description because it is so far beyond any normal experience of exhaustion or sickness. When faced with such a severe level of illness on a regular basis -- day after day, year after year -- one has no choice but to find a means through which to cope. Over time, I've learned to do this by focusing on the positive, maintaining my sense of humor, and looking within to seek out the small moments of grace. I resolved early on in this battle that I would not let ME/CFS destroy my spirit in the same way it had destroyed my body. And on most days, I do this quite well. My spirits remain strong, determined and hopeful.

However, as anyone would, I have a harder time during a setback. As I have previously stated, it can be quite a challenge to remain consistently optimistic when you feel so sick you can barely move. Not impossible, of course, but difficult.

I recently suffered another long-standing crash. This is my life in the last 14 years, and the nature of this unrelenting disease. Just when I feel like things are improving, I make one wrong move or reach too far, and I am back down again. It's like continuously taking a step forward and then falling a hundred steps back.

While my resolve holds firm, I have to be honest in saying this kind of life can test the extremes of one's endurance at times: the constant battle, the repeated setbacks despite your best intentions, the lack of answers, lack of treatment, the misunderstandings, and the countless downfalls from one wrong movement or one tiny misstep.

I once equated the experience of ME/CFS to what I imagine it would feel like, at least to some degree, to be in an abusive relationship.  However, I would presume that a child who gets brutally beaten every time he/she reaches for a cookie eventually learns to stop reaching for cookies, or to seek out other means so as to not get caught. But what if your abuser (ME/CFS) never, for even one second, leaves your side? And what if your cookie is washing your hair? What if you get beaten over and over again just for trying to get out of bed? For getting dressed? For speaking?

When punished so severely and repeatedly for such minor activity, I can't help but get discouraged. As my fellow ME/CFS blogging friend, Alexis, described in one of her recent posts, I too tend to go through stages. The first is anger and denial. After fourteen years and what has to be literally hundreds of setbacks, I am still shocked when it happens. Somehow, I continuously convince myself that each crash will be the last, and that things can only get better. And then I reach too far beyond that invisible line once more, and my health plummets yet again.

At its very worst, I have been barely able to move. I have had more days and nights that I care to recall where every breath felt agonizing; where I could feel the energy it takes just to swallow. The experience can be beyond brutal. "No," I think to myself when it first hits, "this is not happening to me again. I cannot face this yet again."

After awhile, I have no choice but to move into acceptance, and attempt to find new adjustments and changes to help lessen the severity and duration of the setback as best I can. Once the agony lifts even slightly, I am so relieved to be remotely functional again, to not be in almost intolerable physical distress all hours of the day, that I am able to find some grace in that, and thus return to a place of gratitude once more.

Things are thankfully a little better than when this crash first began, though I am still in the process of trying to bounce back. In light of the fluctuations in my health, as well as some possible upcoming activity that will no doubt require all my energy, I've decided to take a step back from blogging for a little while and try my best at taking my own advice and learning to be more patient with what is.

Blogging has been an amazing experience these last (almost two!) years, and I am so grateful for the improved cognition that has allowed me to participate in a bit more online activity. I feel especially blessed by all the amazing people I have met as a result, and the wonderful friendships I have been able to form. The many letters and comments I have received over the years have touched me deeply, and they inspire me to keep writing. However, at this time, I feel I need to focus more fully on my health. I will still be around here and there, just perhaps not as frequently for awhile.

For now, I will leave you with a few photos of some of my most recent bird visitors (click on the photos to enlarge them). No matter how bad things get for me in my small world, I am always so grateful for the song that exists in theirs. They remind me to keep singing even if my song must currently be silent, and to stay focused on what sunlight still remains to me.

Cooper's Hawk
(he was much bigger than he appears!)

Cooper's Hawk

Road Runner (beep beep)

Finch Singing

Finches Munching

Another Finch Munching

Mourning Dove and Goldfinches

House Finch Flying Above Goldfinches

Hummingbird

Desert Cardinal

Gilded Flicker Woodpecker

"Hey, isn't it my turn yet?"

Two Finches Kissing

Finch at sunrise

Birds sing after a storm; why shouldn't people feel as free

to delight in whatever sunlight remains to them?

--Rose Kennedy

Here's hoping there will soon be more sunlight for us all.

What Dreams May Come

As I've mentioned in previous posts, I fell ill with mononucleosis on New Year's Eve 1996. It was this infection that so suddenly initiated what ultimately grew into a diagnosis of ME/CFS. I can still vividly recall counting down the last few seconds of that year with as much hope and optimism as always, excited for what great things 1997 would bring me. I was young and successful; my whole life awaited me. I never anticipated I would wake up the next morning, my health rather abruptly stolen from me, with a continuous decline ahead that would last what has now been 14 long years.

This being the anniversary of my illness onset, the new year understandably brings with it a mix of emotions. While I remain stubbornly hopeful, that hope is now admittedly a bit more cautious in its enthusiasm. I have grown somewhat wiser over the years, and more keenly aware of life's uncertainties. While I continue every day to hope and strive for the possibility that this year finally brings some measure of recovery and/or a cure, I must also be prepared for the possibility that it will not. In this way, my day-to-day happiness is not as reliant on expectations. That is, whatever each day of the new year may bring, I am better able (at least theoretically) to be patient with what is, and at the same time, remain determined and hopeful for the future.

But while my daily hopes have become more cautious, my dreams have not. My dreams run bright, limitless and free. Whether it is this year or next, I am steadfast in my belief that one year, one day, at least in some form, they will indeed come true.

Among many other things, today I find myself dreaming of...

Having the freedom to run barefoot in the grass

Or play in the rain

Going on a picnic

Or spending a day at the beach

...doing cartwheels

Getting my master's degree

And going back to work
Being able to take long, hot bubble baths

....and dance the night away with my fiance
Traveling to far away places

Hiking up mountains

Taking long bike rides
And long, leisurely road trips

Finally celebrating our wedding day...
and our honeymoon...

and having the chance to start a family

Most of all, today I'm dreaming of perfect health;
of breaking free

and shouting to the world with joy:

"Within your heart, keep one still, secret spot where dreams may go."

~ Louise Driscoll

"Dreams come true; without that possibility, nature would not incite us to have them."
~ John Updike

All photos from: weheartit.com

Without a Sprinkle of Doubt: Christmas and ME

The latest edition of Life Skills Magazine has a wonderful bumper edition intended to help raise awareness about myalgic encepahlomyelitis (ME). The special edition, Christmas and M.E., includes an article I wrote about my experiences with the disease and the increased challenges it presents during the holidays. It is entitled "Without a Sprinkle of Doubt."

There's also another special section which contains interviews of several bloggers (myself included!) who have contributed to the magazine in the last year.  I feel privileged to be a part of such wonderful project with writers and fellow ME friends I've long admired. Please check it out! The full edition of the magazine is located at the Discovering Purpose website.

*2016 Edit:  The magazine is no longer available online.  However, you can read a copy of my article pasted below.  Thank you!

Without a Sprinkle of Doubt
 
I remember waking in the early hours of Christmas morning when I was about five years old.  As my eyes opened to the night sky visible beyond my window, I could see the silvery light of the moon reflecting off newly fallen snow. A sense of magic seemed to fill the air.

Unable to wait another moment for the day to begin, I leaped out of bed and ran down the hall, hoping to discover that Santa had once again provided us with a plenitude of much anticipated gifts to open.  And of course, he did not disappoint.  Beautifully wrapped piles of presents lay in waiting, sparkling under the lights of our tree.  I squealed with joy, ran back down the hall and woke my brother.

"It's Christmas!" I exclaimed as I shook him from his dreams. "There are gifts under the tree! Santa was here!"

My brother followed me back to the living room where we stood and stared at the presents in wonderment. There were boxes wrapped in glittering gold, red and green, all bestowed with carefully placed ribbons and bright, curly bows. The urge to dive right in to them was incredibly hard for me to resist, but my brother -- older and thus also a bit more responsible -- reminded me that we had to wait for our parents.  "Let's go wake them up!" I eagerly suggested, to which he then reminded me it was only four o'clock in the morning. We needed to wait a bit longer.

Feeling only slightly defeated, I followed my brother back to his room, where we spoke excitedly about our hopes for what lay under the tree. Would we get what we'd been wishing for all these many months?  Would there be a big surprise we had not anticipated? 

In the midst of our excited chatter, we suddenly heard a very loud thud on the roof.  My brother and I both froze. "What was that?" I asked in a whisper. Could it actually be Santa? Was he still here on our roof?   

My brother agreed that such a sound could only be Santa's sleigh, and I was beside myself with the idea of actually catching a glimpse of St. Nick. I ran to the window and peered up at the night sky, where I saw nothing but snow-covered branches silhouetted by the light of the moon.

Suddenly, I remembered something my parents had always told me: Santa only brings children presents when they are sleeping.  Though he'd clearly already graciously granted us our gifts, I didn't want to take any chances. I ran back to my own room, quickly threw myself under the covers and closed my eyes, pretending to be asleep.

No doubt the loud thud we heard was just some heavy snow falling down on the roof from a nearby tree.  But I can still remember that moment so clearly, and how utterly certain I was that the sound I heard was that of Santa Claus, his sleigh and all his flying reindeer. I believed, fully and absolutely, without even a sprinkle of doubt.

There is something about Christmas day that feels different than any other: the stillness and silence of the morning before all are awake, the hope for dreams coming true, the joy of celebration and the love and unity of family. And there's something about Christmas day, especially in childhood, that makes you believe in magic, in miracles and in endless possibilities. 

As they often do, our holiday traditions changed a bit as my brother and I grew older. We instead began to open our gifts just after nightfall on Christmas Eve, surrounded by delicious food and beautiful holiday music. We would stay up late and attend midnight mass at our local church.  Christmas morning, we'd sleep in and have a big breakfast, spend much of the day enjoying our gifts and each other's company, then have a celebratory dinner later in the afternoon. I still think about and cherish those memories just as fondly as I do the ones from my early childhood. If I had known how few of those Christmases I had left at the time, I would have savored them all the more.

Unfortunately, my life took an unexpected turn after I fell suddenly ill with infectious mononucleosis when I was 24 years old. The infection never fully abated and I was eventually diagnosed with myalgic encephalomyelitis (ME) -- a serious, complex and often incredibly disabling neuro-immune disease.  While cases can vary in severity, those afflicted find themselves facing what can be life-altering and extremely debilitating symptoms on a daily basis.

Having always been rather stubborn and determined, I spent several years constantly attempting to defy my body’s signals and the insidious nature of the disease I wanted so badly to overcome.  However, the more I tried to ignore it, the more it made itself known to me. In the end, my defiance led to a sudden collapse that has basically left me bedridden for over a decade.

Clearly, having such a severe case of ME presents an enormous, ongoing challenge for me.  Once fiercely independent, I now require assistance with virtually all tasks of daily living. Unable to speak more than a few words above a whisper, I cannot engage in lively conversation with friends or family, nor express my thoughts vocally with any real fluidity.  Due to significant problems with sensory overload, I find it extremely difficult to watch TV.  Cognitive issues affect my ability to read and can also affect my ability to write. 

Adventurous and ambitious by nature, I grow increasingly restless as I am forced to spend my life immobile, watching time slowly pass by through my bedroom window.  Even after all these years, I am not accustomed to this kind of life, this stillness and complete lack of vitality.  I continuously find myself over-exerting in my desire to participate in life as much as I am able.  Yet, often even the smallest of activity or interaction seeps in to eviscerate any little morsel of energy I may have, and can set me back for days, weeks or even months.

As a result of these daily health challenges, I am no longer able to participate in many of the holiday festivities that I had for so long enjoyed, nor engage in all the many celebrations that make this time of year seem so uniquely magical. 

I miss the joy of decorating our Christmas tree as I find the perfect spot to place a long-beloved ornament.  I miss the messy fun of making gingerbread men, Rice Krispie treats and other holiday goodies as the sweet smell of freshly baked cookies fill the air with the warm aroma of the season.  I miss attending church to celebrate in song with my community, or visiting with friends as we exchange gifts, share stories and laugh about memories past. I yearn for the chance to see my niece and nephew experience that same wonderment I once had as a child, as they discover that Santa arrived overnight and granted them their many wishes.  I yearn to partake in long-held family traditions, to spend the holidays with my fiance and finally meet his family, and to each year create new memories to cherish.

However, despite what Christmas now lacks for me, Christmas itself is not lacking. No matter what limitations my illness imposes on me, there is no doubt that Christmas remains a day of wonder. Christmas is a day to fully acknowledge and celebrate those we love and hold dear, to unite and have faith in the goodness of others, and to recognize and take stock of our blessings and of the very gift of being alive. 

It's true I don't believe in Santa Claus anymore, of course. I know there is no well-fed, jolly old man who lives in the North Pole with elves and flying reindeer. There is no sleigh led by Rudolph to fly to the homes of billions of children in the span of one night.  But even though we all, at some point, lose that childhood belief in Santa, we don't lose the magic of Christmas.  The magic is in the true meaning of the holiday. It is in believing in miracles.

As I do every day, this Christmas I will be hoping for a body renewed. I will dream of answers to a long misunderstood illness, of new treatments that ultimately lead to a cure, and of a life, once impeded, finally restored. Much like that little girl so full of faith on Christmas morning all those many years ago, I will do my best to believe fully, with the highest of hopes and without even a sprinkle of doubt.