Hope Springs Eternal


One good thing about doing anything for three decades or longer is that you get to see cycles and repeated events, things that fail and things that work. I hope that over the last thirty years of learning about psychiatry and mental health ( and yes, I am still learning and hope to acquire that one last little piece of knowledge on my deathbed) that I have paid attention to the things that matter and have become inured to the things that don’t.

I have read many books and articles, and I have listened to great lecturers and attendings pass their knowledge on to others who come after them. I’ve been the lucky recipient of some really good training and have watched some very compassionate people, trying to emulate them as I make my own way through the medical landscape that is my working world.

My best teachers, hands down?

My patients.

She was a handsome but world-weary middle-aged woman, short bright red hair and sparkly glasses distracting the onlooker, part of her not-so-conscious attempt to keep any outsider from seeing the darkness in her soul. She sat partially slumped in the chair across from me, a nondescript sweater and well-worn jeans hinting at the casual comfort that she did not feel. When she tried wanly to smile, the corners of her mouth didn’t rise as much as the rest of her face fell to meet them.

Like so many of my patients, young and old, rich and poor, educated and not, she had been horribly, unspeakably abused throughout her life. Speak about it we did, though, and I found myself in one of those office consultations that are so horrific that nothing but excellent training can help maintain composure. Some of the stories are just too painful. Too raw. Too excruciatingly real to be true. A compassionate doctor wants to forego the promise to do no harm and hunt down the perpetrators and make them pay.

She was no better today. Well, not entirely true, because she had come back to see me, after all. My potions and elixirs had helped her imperceptibly if at all. Like many of my patients, she did not want to hurt my feelings by telling me that I had not helped her yet. Can you imagine that? A horribly scarred woman, contemplating suicide, depressed, feeling as worthless as she’d ever felt, wanting to protect her doctor’s feelings? Some things are hard to understand.

We talked.

I talked mostly, feeling impotent, trying desperately to find the rabbit in the silk hat that I could pull out and hold up triumphantly to her and say,”See! See! There is some magic left in the world!”

Alas, there was no hat, no rabbit, no magic. She was in pain, and I was in pain, for like it or not, if you love this job as much as I do, you hurt right along with your patients. Don’t let the blank-slate, silent treatment, sit behind you and never show any emotion shrinks convince you otherwise. If you’re a good doctor, you don’t rest until you’ve fixed it. It’s in your DNA. Some of us just don’t ever want you to know how hard this job really is.

We did the easy parts, the side effect inventories, the dosage reviews, the checklist of symptoms. I decided on the course of action I was going to recommend to her and put it out there. Was it going to make her better? I didn’t honestly know, but I was going to do my best.

She got up. I got up. Our time was over.

I said something that I’m sure was lame at best. I would get her back to check on her soon, and I would be optimistic that this depressive episode had reached its high water mark and would now mercifully recede.

She went through the door, started up the hall.

She turned to glance back at me.

“Thank you for seeing me today. I still have hope.”

It is springtime in my town. We are recovering from the most devastating ice storm in the last decade. In spite of the destruction all around us, trees are budding joyfully, grass is greening, and flowers are dotting the landscape with vibrant color.

It is springtime.

If we can do nothing else in this season of rebirth, we can certainly dispense hope.


Weight, Weight, Don’t Tell Me

As a psychiatrist, I was trained to begin the mental status examination and overall assessment of my patient as soon as I greeted them in the waiting room. Even now, three decades after finishing medical school, I follow almost the same sequence of actions in my day-to-day interactions with my patients that I did as a resident in training. Granted, there are now electronic medical records and I rarely come in contact with a paper chart any more, temperatures are recorded with digital thermometers and blood pressures with self pumping cuffs, but a large part of the basic interaction between psychiatrist and patient has changed little since the days of Freud. 

I greet my patient in the waiting areas of the clinics I work in, usually offering a handshake unless it is obvious to me that the person is painfully shy, obviously paranoid, or just has their hands jammed down into their pockets with no intention of bringing them out. I walk ahead of the patient at first, since I have to swipe a card to let us into the next hallway via an electronic door. After that, I usually offer to let the patient go first so that I may assess station, gait, arm swing, clothing, personal hygiene, balance, coordination, response to directions and a myriad other things that one can assess just by direct observation. It has always been interesting to me just how much I can know about a person before we even enter my office and sit down, before the first questions are even asked. 

Now, I could bore you with a blow by blow of the next thirty minutes of a psychiatric appointment, but I won’t do that. What I do want to tell you about is one of the most fascinating parts of history taking in the psychiatric consultant’s room, something I have begun to pay much more attention to in the last few years. 

“Mrs. Jones, let’s get you up on the scales so I can get your weight today before we sit down.”

Yes, the simple act of my patient stepping on the scales that are prominently positioned in my office before we do anything else is a treasure trove of information. 

Now, watch and listen closely, because after I make that statement (and it is a statement, not a question), information about my patient starts to fly. I try to capture it all, either on paper (the actual height and weight themselves) or in my head (the hesitancy or willingness to get up there in the first place, for example). 

“Should I take my boots off? These are steel-toed boots, and they weigh at least fifteen pounds.”

“Do you want me to take my clothes off?”

“I just weighed myself at home and I weighed…”

“Well, you know I just had a big lunch.”

“Well yeah, I know that’s ten pounds more than last time, but I always weigh myself naked at home first thing in the morning, so…”

“I’m big boned.”

“Aw, man, do I have to?” 

“The nurse just weighed me last year.”

“I think this medication makes me sleep-eat.”

“I will if you will.”

“Wow, this is like going to a real doctor’s office!”

“Can’t you remember to weigh me before the Christmas holidays this year, instead of after?”

And of course, even as these statements are coming, there is the Sacrament of the Emptying of the Pockets, a ritual that virtually everyone I’ve ever weighed must religiously practice. It is second only to The Removal of the Heavy Shoes. What have I seen come out of the pockets of six year old children, adults in their thirties, and octogenarians? 

Money, baseball cards, combs, Gummy Bears, marbles, pills, knives, a gun (once, and that was enough), condoms (that was the octogenarian, by the way), paper, rocks, scissors, cell phones of every size and variety, iPad Minis, paperback books, CD players, bugs (usually in bottles for safe keeping), baseball caps, sunglasses, Tums, aspirin, Motrin, Tylenol, cough syrup, cigarettes, cigars, and chewing tobacco. Once, there was even a brick. Another story for another day. 

Okay, we’re almost on the scales. Can you believe it? Now can you see how much I already know about you? We haven’t even started the formal interview yet!

Yes, there’s more.

If you are the kind of person who wants to show me how good you’ve been with your diet and exercise regimen, you don’t wait for me. You reach up and confidently push the little weights across the bars until they settle at the points you are sure they will settle at, since you weigh yourself five times a day at home. You are happy to show me how much you don’t weigh today. 

If you are grossly overweight, you know it, I know it, and you know I know it, you also reach up and manipulate the mechanism. However, knowing that you weigh over three hundred pounds, you push the bottom marker to 200, and then you inch inch inch inch the top one along until it gets all the way to the end of the beam, hopeful that in the time it took us to reach my office from the waiting room, a metabolic miracle has occurred. The Immaculate Reduction is what you are praying for as you ascend the platform. Only then do you accept the fact that the lower marker must now go to 250, then we inch inch, inch…yeah. Denial is not just a river in Egypt. 

Finally, if you just can’t stand it when I act like a real doctor and demand these ridiculous vital signs of you when I should just stick to being a psychiatrist, after all, you get up on the Perch of Shame, but you face outwards, towards me. This accomplishes two things. First, you may glare at me for putting you through this. Secondly, you don’t want to know. You don’t want to watch. You don’t want me to tell you. 

“Well, Mrs. Jones, it looks like today you weigh…”

“Wait, wait, don’t tell me!” you exclaim, dreading the verdict. 

“Okay, okay,” I say, as I pause mid-scribble, writing the figure on my note sheet for the visit. 

“I forgot to take my keys out of my pocket!”

You drop a set of keys that looks like it could open every locked door in the state hospital plus gain access to a few dozen vehicles for good measure. 

“Yeah, I should take off at least a pound for those,” I say, dryly. 

A beaming smile lights up your face.

Our work is cut out for us, but we’ll make progress today, if we both pull our weight. 

“Have a seat. Now, how have you been since I last saw you?”








Wait for it…



We’re all waiting for something.

As kids, we waited for the time that we could do it ourselves, go it alone, tie our own shoelaces, order our own food off the menu, take our baths by ourselves, and walk up and down the street or around the mall without parental supervision. We were kids. We didn’t yet have enough life experience or enough insight to realize that the time we occupied, as kids, was some of the most precious we would ever have. The most free. The most unstructured. The most creative. The happiest.

How could we know? We didn’t need to know. And yet, we waited, impatiently, to grow up, to be big kids, to be teenagers, to be (gasp) adults. We couldn’t wait. Each day was a year long. Each year a lifetime. 

As teens and shortly thereafter young adults, we waited to break that last little tether to parents, that last lifeline that kept us focused and responsible and fed and clothed and safe and warm by default. We knew by that time that we needed it, but we fought with every ounce of our being to prove that we didn’t.

We took the checks, the tuition, the allowances, the car payments, the insurance that we could not afford ourselves just yet. We grudgingly took the advice, secretly welcoming the injection of adult wisdom into our still chaotic inner worlds. We still felt ourselves adult, responsible, large and in charge, but we knew we were not, just yet.

We waited for that magic moment that would define us as adults. That moment, that landmark, that signpost that would let us know that we had arrived in a new country, a new world of freedoms and joys and control like none we had ever visited before. We waited to grow up and prove ourselves. 

As adults, we entered the world of responsibility. We got our first real job, our first real paycheck, and maybe experienced real love for the first time. We moved up the ladder. We got married. We had our first child. We bought out first house. We picked out the first car that we had ever owned ourselves. We felt that sweet and heavy burden of making all the decisions and living with the consequences. We made friends just like us, and through birthday parties and football games and pizza dinners and six packs of beer, we slowly learned what it meant to live life. To be a family. To have and to hold. 

Even as adults, we were waiting. We were often too busy to realize it. The feeling would creep up on us every once in a while, in the stillness of a summer evening on the porch swing or during a long walk around the neighborhood peeking into the Christmas light-lit front rooms of our neighbors and friends. We were still waiting, as we had been since childhood.

We were waiting for wisdom.

We hoped it would come on its own, somehow, with no effort on our part, sort of that rite of passage that receding hairlines and crow’s feet and a third child and the loss of a parent much too soon tend to bring us. Wisdom disguised as excruciating pain and bereavement and ecstatic joy and fear for the life of a sick child had not entered into the equation for us, at least not consciously. We did not want to work for wisdom. No one does. We did not want to lose part of ourselves to become wise. But you know, dear readers, that it is only by knowing real pain that we can later experience real joy, and by losing part of ourselves that we can ever really be whole. 

And now we grow older, you and I. We have come through the breech, not once but many times. We have stories to tell, and my, don’t you know how much I love to tell stories. You have many of your own. What are we waiting for now? Is there anything left to anticipate, to long for, to work for, to reach out to?

May I speak plainly?

Some of us, my friends, are waiting to die. We see nothing else to live for. We have given up. We are resigned to the illness that will kill us, the marriage that will cage us, the job that will grind us down, or the depression that will never let us feel happiness again. I am sad for that, but I am hopeful that we will get the help we need to get un-stuck and live life again.

Some of us are waiting for “it”. When it comes, we will be happy. When it happens, we will be fulfilled. When it is reached, we will have arrived. I have a newsflash for you. There is no magic “it”. “It” is what you make of it. Figure out what you need and make it happen There are no shortcuts. There is no magic. 

Some of us are waiting for rescue. We see ourselves as victims. If only the prince will ride up on the white horse and whisk us away. If only the government will bail us out. If only the church will absolve us of our sins and wrongdoings. If only. We need to be rescued, saved, absolved, washed clean. Another very harsh newsflash for you in this new age. The cavalry is not coming. It’s underfunded. Any rescue operation is going to be conceived, planned, and executed by, guess who? That’s right. 

Some of us are waiting for the next life. We have given up on this one. It is just too hard, too ambiguous, too dirty, too unstructured, too difficult. The next life will be one of sunshine and gold and unicorns and puppies and endless celebration. Now, this blog is not and never shall be a religious one, and I mean no disrespect to any of my readers who have a faith-based perspective on the world and its problems. However, once again, no matter your feelings on the afterlife, this life is the one you are living now. Your waiting for nirvana is not going to get the trash taken out this evening. It’s not going to get dinner made. It’s not going to help you communicate with your coworkers. 

Finally, some of us are waiting for enlightenment. If we can only read one more book or take one more class or reach one more transcendent state, we will understand what it all means and what part we play in it. We will have figured it all out. As one of my friends likes to say about herself, I was trained primarily as a scientist. I like to understand things, figure them out, and bring things to a reasonable conclusion that makes sense within my own world view. We’re all like that, I think, and why not. It gives us some level of peace and comfort. The truth? We will never know exactly what it all means. We will never be one hundred per cent sure. One of my priests always said the same, simple thing every time a parishioner died. “Well, now he knows.” For now, we can only make educated guesses.

My dear readers, we will be waiting for something until the day we die. It’s the natural state of things for man. Is that all this post is about? The futility of waiting? You know me better than that.

What will you do while you wait? 

How will you make your life better now, in spite of the cancer or the divorce or the loss of your job or the death of your child? 

How can you make your life, and the lives of those around you, better?

I would be glad to give you the definitive answer, but I see that our time is up.

I guess you’ll have to wait for it.

Or better yet, find it for yourself. 


Sign Felled. A Post About Nothing.

This has been a killer week.

I have lost count of how many patients I’ve seen in two clinics and in EDs around the state of South Carolina for Telepsychiatry. There have been children out of control, threats to shoot, stab, hit, bite, run, rape, murder and commit suicide.

There have been too many notes to type, too many prescriptions to call in, too many records to review.

There have been justifications for drug abuse and justifications for abusing your wife. There have been people so psychotic that they didn’t even believe that they had a mental illness, in spite of overwhelming evidence to the contrary.

There have been scammers and sweet talkers and threateners. There have been people I met for the first time and people I saw again for the first time in a decade. There have been people who professed love for me and people who couldn’t wait to get away from me.

There have been gratitude, happiness, sadness, regret, fear, irritability, guilt, anger, jealousy, worry, concern, disbelief, joy, anticipation, longing, love, hate, impatience, inquisitiveness, impulsivity, plodding, planning, perusing, predicting, fantasizing, and calculating.

I have used my brain, my iPhone, my fingers, my iPad, my hands, my MacBook Air, my feet, my scanner, my eyes, my camera, my ears, my earphones, a notebook, a pencil, a pen, paper, tape, boxes, folders, file cabinets, hard drives and flash drives.

I have driven a car. I have walked. I have flopped down flat, so tired that I thought I should set two separate alarms just to be sure. I have sat under a blanket. I have become intimate with the markings…markings…markings…markings on the belt of a treadmill. I have smelled the leather of the recliner and wondered why I don’t spend more time in that wonderful chair. I have ventured out on the porch, saying hello to the tiny feathered couple who occupy the nest above my rocker.

I have listened to music and podcasts, read a book, perused a paper publication, downloaded and read a PDF, held a real newspaper in my hands and smiled at the little known fact that ink smudges are still seen in the wild.

I have created.

I have destroyed.

I’m happy about the one, but not about the other. I’ll let you guess which is which.

I have felt-viscerally.

I have spoken-harshly.

I have cried-softly.

I have laughed-often.

I have remembered the past through songs and stories and pictures.

I have envisioned the future through day dreams and night dreams and plotting and planning and scheming and hoping and yes, even praying.


Things are never tidy. Things are never neat. Things are never orderly.

Actually, things are just things.

Feelings are just feelings.

There will be more of all of it.

There will be less of some of it.

I’ll be here.

Maybe the next post will be about something.

When it writes itself, I’ll share it with you.


Photo taken February 15, 2014, on the South Rim Trail of Tallulah Gorge State Park, Tallulah Falls, GA, USA, with an iPhone 5s.


Today was a day of smells.

If you’ve ever been anywhere near the South Carolina Lowcountry, you know that she seduces you first through your nostrils, even before you see her. You are intoxicated by her perfume, and no matter how long it’s been since you’ve seen her, you fall in love with her all over again. You nestle into the hollow of her neck, you breath deeply, and you know you are home.

Riding down the highway, getting off the interstate and getting through the new roundabouts and finding the causeways that take you toward Beaufort and Port Royal all feel the same. Get past the Whale Branch River, over a gently rising bridge, the school of the same name off to your left, and it hits you. The smell of the marsh, that pungent, sweetly assaulting odor that Pat Conroy seems to write about and get out of the way long before the first chapter of each of his many books has ended.

Our old black lab Holly used to crane her neck and put her sensitive nose straight up into the air at right about that spot, straining and sniffing and one time trying to go right through the sunroof of my car as she made contact with the Lowcountry Lady. She loved the smells of the marsh, the beach, the straw at the high tide mark. It was a world that only dogs know at that level, and that we get a mere whiff of.

Today started with the vague smell of spitting rain, not quite wet but not quite mist, trying to fall but instead seeping out of the sky toward the ground and those of us moving about on it. Musty, vaguely and disorientingly fall-like or even spring-like on February first. It gave way to the smell of the gym for me, walking for a couple of hours, greeting an elliptical devotee, then another tread-miller beside me before I finished and went back to the room for another round of fresh, clean, shower and shampoo smells to get ready for the day.

On to the coffee shop attached to the hotel, and of course the wonderful smells of early morning fresh ground beans and newspapers and oatmeal and breakfast sandwiches and tea. There were conversations, a new friend found in a woman from the Northeast with an open Bible on the table in front of her and a notepad to the side, studying for her group later in the week. People talking and reading and starting the day, bleary eyes primed by caffeine and the rush of sticky bun-fueled blood sugar spikes.

I made my way out through the noncommittal rain to Hunting Island, a wonderful, primal, windswept, tree-lined stretch of beach with a tall lighthouse of black and white and a jungle as prehistoric as any you’ve ever seen in the movies. Driving through it to get to the sand you feel that long green snakes might lower themselves from Spanish moss covered-branches or that a small inquisitive dinosaur might still hide behind a dense patch of ferns ten yards off the road.

Getting out of the car there is to inhale the lushness of it all, the dripping air, the sea salt and seaweed smell of a beach that is not developed. One that is in fact eroding at an alarming rate, just one hundred thirty yards separating the high tide mark from the base of the lighthouse, already moved once in the 1800s and possibly needing to be moved again one day soon. The sand, salt, rain and wind melded into one continuous olfactory experience that cleared my head, my mind, and my spirit for a couple of hours, and let me be blissfully quiet for a time.

Back to town and a series of gustatory experiences with their associated smells tempting and satisfying. Chocolate, so much chocolate, milk and dark and filled and in sheets. Pralines and jelly beans and brittle and boxes being packed in the back, destined for parts unknown. The smell of chocolate made by people who love it, who love the making of it, who love that you love it.

Australian shiraz and bleu cheese and fish and pepper and cranberries and sweet-spicy dressing, followed by strong black coffee. Tastes, yes, but even before that, smells from the kitchen and at the hands of the servers as they pass by to the next table over.

Out to the river for a stroll in the fog which, as Sandberg told us, has crept in on little cat feet as I ate my dinner, causing the day to darken early and the landscape to go surreal. To my left front, there appears to be a Bridge to Nowhere across the Beaufort River, beautifully monochrome and still. Off to the right, a single boatman in a tiny silent skiff moves like a piece of melting ice on a sheet of glass, sliding and gliding out away from the promenade, the only thing on the river that is not completely still in the grayness.

I love this place. I love what it does to me. I love how it has become a part of me over the last quarter century.  I love how it simultaneously energizes me and makes me slow down. I love how it makes me notice that nature moves in her own time, in her own way.

I take it all in, these tastes and sights and sounds and lack of sounds, but mostly I take in the smells today.

I lay my head on a fluffy pillow, soft and sweet-smelling and clean, and I settle in for a night of sleep.

A night of dreams.

The Importance of Being Earnest

The Importance of Being Earnest, ATrivial Comedy for Serious People is a play by Oscar Wilde. First performed on 14 February 1895 at the St James’s Theatre in London, it is a farcical comedy in which the protagonists maintain fictitious personæ in order to escape burdensome social obligations. (Wikipedia)


I have a hard time relaxing.

(Okay, I’ll wait a sec while you all get back up off the floor, close your mouths and gather your wits about you again.)

Yes, it’s true. I love to work. I love my work persona.

He’s a cross between an intelligent eccentric, a person who needs people, an introverted recluse, an arrogant sonofabitch, a great clinician, a mediocre boss (my minions might not even give me that much credit!), an insatiable learner, an organizer, a compassionate man who sometimes tears up at sappy songs and commercials and a sometimes accidental creative. He’s basically a nice guy, I think. He will never, ever retire. He will more than likely die at his desk. If not that, then at his laptop, or while using his Dick Tracy smart watch. Or maybe he will be so busy taking pictures with the Google Glass attached to his own spectacles that he will run headlong into a telephone pole and have a massive subdural. Hey, we all gotta go sometime.

Anyway, I have a hard time relaxing.

So, this weekend, I decided that I would force myself to get away. To practice what I’m always preaching to my dear patients (who I do like, sincerely, just don’t tell them that because it would counterbalance the arrogant sonofabitch part of me referenced above). I decided that to escape the burdensome aspects of my beloved work life, I would get myself the hell out of Dodge (read Aiken) and go south to another beloved place. I would take on another mantle, as it were. I would relax. I would have some fun.

(Don’t look at me that way. Writing blog posts is fun for me. You know that. I’m listening to soothing solo piano music while I write. Does that count for anything? Don’t make me come over there…)

So, tonight after a leisurely ride out of town and down to the Lowcountry, I checked into a very nice hotel downtown.  I went to dinner. A very nice dinner in a very nice place with a very solicitous and nice server named Lisa who did her best to make me happy. I had some good whiskey. I ate some scrumptious seafood. I had creme brûlée for dessert. I drank good, strong, dark coffee. I read some of The Accidental Creative by Todd Henry. (You thought I just made that part up, didn’t you?)

Tomorrow, I will go to the gym for a few hours. I’ll drink more coffee and read the New York Times. I’ll ride out to the Atlantic to Hunting Island, walk the five mile beach, take pictures and climb the lighthouse there for the umpteenth time (I love that lighthouse and the view that you’re always rewarded with when you get to the top). I’ll come back to town and have a late lunch/early dinner at one of my family’s favorite places. I’ll shop for some gifts for a few of the special people in my life. 

I might even take a nap.

May I be serious for a few minutes?

I have had a lot of losses this year. Some of you, dear readers, have too. We all deal, right? We deal. The best way we know how.

I’ve learned some things. May I share them with you, if you have just a few more moments to spare?

Loss, even if it results from your own conscious decision to let something or someone go, is very, very real. It’s not a game. It’s not a dream. You’re not going to wake up and find it gone. You cannot wish it away. You cannot pretend that it doesn’t exist. You cannot sweep it under the rug and hope it goes away on its own.

It will never go away. 

The sooner you recognize it for the ugly, hurtful, spiteful, angry, killing thing that it is, the sooner you can deal with it directly and move on. Because you know, we all must move on. What choice do we have. Hell, I’m not done yet. I’m gonna die at my desk. According to a very close friend of mine, that’s going to be when I’m ninety-six years old. I hope she’s right. 

No matter how many times you return to that place, that state of mind, that trigger, it will never, ever be the same for you again. This is another one of those hard lessons that I’m still trying to learn myself, and maybe you are too. I can drive back there, I can go there in my mind, I can try to recapture the magic, but it’s gone. GONE. It is never coming back in exactly the way I had it before. If I insist on getting it back exactly the way it used to be, I’m always going to be disappointed. It breaks my heart, but I must go forward and find some other way to get a similar feeling, to be in a similar place, to do a similar thing. And that’s okay. I must grieve. You must grieve. I tell my patents all the time how normal that is. I need to listen to my own interpretations. 

Finally, dear readers, I have learned one more thing.

There is joy in the world, and there is enough of it to go around. I can have my share. It’s okay. I deserve it. I need it. I want it. I crave it. 

I have felt small slivers of it in the last few months. Perhaps you have too. I have felt the pure exhilaration of holding my granddaughter, hours old and sleeping in my arms without a care in the world. I have seen the wondrous order and fascinating patterns of snowflakes and early morning frost on windows. I have pushed myself physically and felt the adrenaline flowing when I thought I couldn’t do any more, and did. I have felt love, coming at me from out of the blue and leaving me speechless and in awe. 

I have learned these things, or better to say that I am trying to better learn and understand them. 

There is a great importance in being earnest with the world around you, with those you care about and who care about you.

There is an even greater importance in being earnest with yourself. 

I’m going to climb a lighthouse tomorrow, look out at the Atlantic Ocean, and feel joy.

What are you going to do?