February 9, 1997

Three years ago Lucile Wilner, a friend and neighbor, died suddenly. Lucile was a lovely lady and we shared her family’s grief as our children had been friends for over thirty years. I cooked up a batch of Hungarian stew called Paprikas and a couple of other dishes and took them over for the family. Lucile and her husband Daniel had been married for a long time and I was certain that Daniel was headed for a tough time.

A couple of months later as Daniel likes to say jokingly.

“I returned the dishes and I never left.” This is not quite true but he did start to come around a bit and joined me on a trip to the Santa Monica Produce Market, we went for a walk at Greystone Park and had a cup of coffee at the Cafe Roma. Our conversation was comfortable and although I had known Daniel for a long time, I did not know him intimately. He had been a Professor of Public Health at UCLA and a distinguished author of many respected books and studies. I asked him intelligent questions like

“What is Public Health?” for example.

To this day that question has still not be answered.

We had many interests in common – among those -- our six children, four of his and two of mine, some of them old friends. If I thought Daniel was going to fall apart after the loss of his Lucile, I was wrong as he seemed to be holding up well and we talked about his life with Lucile with ease.

One evening we enjoyed the movie, ‘Babyfever’ and had dinner at Kate Mantalini’s on Wilshire Boulevard. At this point I started to suspect that there was more to this friendship than helping a neighbor working through his grief. I was not comfortable dating since I had not done it in years and had forgotten how to flirt. It is like riding the bicycle, it comes back to you. The truth is that I never liked dating but Daniel tried to make me feel comfortable.

“Why don’t we, you and I, go to Europe together?” Daniel asked me one day. I thought he had lost his mind and I told my sons about this. I swore I had no designs on him and as a matter of fact, the thought had not even crossed my mind. I was as innocent as a new born babe.

One thing led to another and we found ourselves involved in a romance right up to our ears. Our children all shook their heads in disbelief.

“Daniel and I aren’t planning on having any children, you know.” I said to my daughter-in-law, Lauren.

My grandson, Alex, overheard me and asked his mother with real concern.

“Are they going to have children?” Well, we have not decided yet...it is too early in the relationship. We were very up front about our romance – rather Daniel couldn’t wait to tell everybody about it.

I had a house exchange planned in Paris and Daniel made up his mind that he was going to be in Paris with me and never mind that I already had made plans with a friend.

He sure knew how to woo a woman, calling me every day in Paris and later on joining me for ten days. How I enjoyed showing him around! We visited the Muse D’Orsay, the Louvre, Pere Lachez where we came across the grave of Imre Nagy, the leader of the 1956 Hungarian Revolution. We went to the red light district to have dinner at Julien’s Bistro. Daniel said I ran his ass into the ground. My son Paul joined us for a few days, so it became a family affair.

After Paris, we went to London and settled in the ancient Hotel Russel, an experience never to be repeated. We went to the theater every night. Daniel obtained a library card to the British Museum. It took him half a day to accomplish this but professors like these kinds of things. We had dinner at the very British Rules Restaurant where I experienced Yorkshire pudding with rare roast beef for the first time. Since I was hosting the evening Daniel ate his way through the menu from top to bottom. We also traveled to Cambridge where Daniel had some professorial duties to discharge. He was going to write a book but that was before he found out what a high maintenance woman I am. After all, what is having a book published by Cambridge University Press compared to having a terrific woman like me? With the help of Alcoholics Anonymous a terrific woman is what I became.

Early in our relationship I asked Daniel to tell me a secret. I was so accustomed to hearing secrets in Alcoholics Anonymous, it was like a touch stone for me to see if he could open up.

Almost without hesitation he treated me to three walloping good ones! He said that he had suffered from congenital syphilis when he was ten years old and he was forced to undergo a course of injections which sounded horrific. I do not doubt his story--he is Wasserman positive--but it is hard to believe it looking at his four glorious children.

The second secret involved an indiscretion with a lady named Rosabelle. This was even harder to believe because I always thought Lucile’s and Daniel’s marriage to be perfect and I was jealous of their bliss and seemingly flawless parenting skills. I know my children preferred to hang out at their house rather than in ours.

His third secret was that Daniel had been a member of the PARTY for a bout five minutes and he carefully guarded this secret all through his distinguished career. Ultimately he refused to sign the Loyalty Oath and lived in fear of being found out for thirty or forty years. He even avoided applying for a passport.

I was fascinated hearing his secrets. I said to myself,

“Here is a man who has no problem with intimacy.” And I was right, he is my good friend and confidante and I can talk to him about everything.

This gift of closeness came to me late in life but by no means less appreciated. I have never been closer to a man and I trust him implicitly. Being retired helps a lot as we have time to play and get to know each other.

We took a couple of cruises and they were wonderful. We went up to Portland to visit Daniel’s daughter, Danna, and to San Francisco to spend time with George and Kim. We also spent a wonderful Christmas -- courtesy of Daniel’s son David -- in Kauai with some of our children and all of our grandchildren.

Daniel’s family met up with a terrible tragedy six years ago. Danna’s daughter, the beautiful and talented actress, Rebecca Schaeffer, was shot and killed by a demented fan. A family cannot overcome a catastrophe like this and my heart bleeds for them. Rebecca is as much a part of our talks as Lucile and the family I lost so long ago in the Holocaust.

Daniel is affectionate, intelligent, funny, has a wonderful disposition and is lavish with his compliments. I think he is laying it on a bit too thickly when he tells me that I am beautiful, capable, sexy, smart, a good cook, a great companion and a talented writer. All this praise was blinding at first but one can get used to it. He filled me with his love and for the first time in my life, I am starting to believe that I ‘am’ beautiful and good, capable and worthy of giving and receiving love.

Daniel is very supportive of my AA program and often joins me at the meetings. Yes, we do have fights but we don’t draw blood. My professor can be a little rough at times. If I criticize or try to instruct him about something, he is quick with his not-so-gentlemanly

“Get off me!” He sets his limits loud and clear and nobody can call him passive aggressive.

Daniel is the first important Jewish man in my life which affords us an even stronger bond. An occasional Yiddish word slipping into our conversation becomes a special treat symbolizing how well we understand each other. He is the mainstay support of my quest of exploring my heritage by reading books about the Holocaust, something he had yet to do.

I think I was gravitating towards non-Jewish men because I felt safer with them. I had survived the fearful persecution of the Holocaust and from that point on in my life, I have been ceaselessly searching for a safe place.

I feel much safer with Daniel than I felt with any other man simply because I trust his love and concern for me and feel truly cherished. Nobody can protect us against evil forces like the Nazis. My belief that I can find a man to keep me safe was false, but profoundly influencing my life and choices.

Today I am proud of my ancestors and still mournful for the family I lost to the genocide. Although I have chosen not to practice my religion, I have a strong sense that I belong among the Jews. I have earned my place.

After Irving died I asked Beulah, a lovely and high spirited lady, to be my sponsor. Beulah is very perceptive, a talented painter with a quarter of a century sobriety. I love her and she offers advice only when I ask her for it. We are friends and always there for each other. I have heard the following lore many times: Years ago a newcomer attended her first Alcoholics Anonymous meeting and at once made the announcement,

“I don’t even know if I am an alcoholic.” Beulah, sitting near her, chirped up.

“Oh, be one. It is so much fun! “

One time I was giving Beulah my standard complaining pitch, crying woe about Daniel, my children, my allergies, etc. etc. Beulah made all kinds of noises trying to calm me down or cheer me up, even offering possible solutions to my problems. Nothing had any effect on me.

Irv used to say “Beats picking cotton.’” I finally said. Beulah learned her lesson quickly and from that point on whenever I am complaining she trumps me with

“Beats picking cotton.” This has the desired effect; I stop whining.

In the meetings you can see Beulah and me sitting next to each other stitching away on our needle points, keeping our ears open. I have found a home in Alcoholics Anonymous, a home I truly love. I have changed so much. I am no longer the miserable, selfish, self-centered drunk I used to be. I have become a decent human being and have not had a drink in fifteen years!

Irving used to say that I looked like I had a sign on my chest declaring,

“Don’t Touch!”. I like to think that sign is not there any longer. I have softened a lot and I have opened my heart to many fellow alcoholics; Beulah, Anya, Shirley, Ann, Jennifer and many other members of the Roxbury group who constitute the best support system in the world. I love every woman there and I wish only good things for them.

My life was better than ever before. I was in love and enjoying my retirement, my family, my friends and living very comfortably and then the sky fell in on me.

From my journal: April 14, 1996

“ I have not written much lately, these days I don’t have much to complain about. I am happy living in retirement, my health is good, I enjoy my home, my friends, my books. My sons and grandchildren are doing well, Alex turned twelve yesterday. Almost a teenager!

The cornerstone of my good life and happiness is Daniel who continues to be adoring, attentive and enthusiastic about us. It’s been almost two years since he won my heart. I love him and enjoy his company. I hope we will have each other for a long time. Sometimes I worry that these good days are going to come to an end. I must trust my Higher Power to take care of me.

All the rancor went out of my poor mother and my last visits with her were rather sweet. Will it ever fade from my memory how demanding, angry and sarcastic she was for so many years? One of my family members asked me recently:

“Do you think she was ‘evil’? I think she meant harm.” No, I don’t think she was ‘evil’, only a miserable human being. Now she is harmless having lost her mental faculties, she is counting in Hungarian, singing and taking off her clothes all day long.

Enough of this. I am looking forward to our trip to London. Isn’t it funny that the good times came to me at the end of my life?

With three years worth of mammography results in hand, I went to see my doctor. I was complaining that something was wrong with my left breast. I felt tiny shooting pains and there was a thickening of scar tissue where I had a biopsy many years before and now there was a thumbprint-like dent which was not there before. Both of my breasts were enlarged and my left breast had changed it’s contours.

After a cursory examination my internist reassured me that he could not feel anything and there were no apparent changes showing on my mammographs. On that note, he sent me on my way. A couple of months later I went to see a gynecologist, she could not feel anything either but she advised me to have my breast biopsied. After this I went to see a plastic surgeon who counseled the same. Finally a general surgeon took two needle biopsies and the results that came back from the laboratory were suspicious of cancer.

Two weeks later I had a cut biopsy which confirmed breast cancer. After consulting with a plastic surgeon I decided on a double mastectomy. I was afraid that years down the road the cancer would show up in the other breast and, just like this time and I will miss the an early diagnosis. I also wanted to reduce my breast size which was out of proportion with my small body and causing me backaches.

I had a bilateral mastectomy and breast reconstruction at the same time. The left breast had a three centimeter wide lobular carcinoma, metastasized to stage two (out of three) with five lymph nodes involved. The right breast had pre-cancerous cells. Not a great prognosis.

From my Journal: May 15, 1996 - 12:45 AM

“I am writing this the night before my bilateral mastectomy and reconstruction.

Dear God, please be with me today of all days. I am powerless over my cancer and my life became unmanageable. I turn my life and my will over to you, your will be done. I am a slow learner, but I understand how little power I have. I am amazed at the inner strength I have, how calmly I am going through this ordeal. I haven’t even cried yet.

Please give me the courage, good health and a pair of beautiful boobs, size B if possible. Please take away my physical pain and let me bear what I must with patience and dignity and as little mind altering drugs as possible. Help me to understand the lessons I am learning and show me how I can use them to help others.

Please help me to be gracious and loving to Daniel. He is giving me a gift by being willing to stay with me and to take care of me after the surgery. I want to be very tolerant of his housekeeping skills please help me to be on my best behavior.

Please take care of my sons Peter and Paul. Please motivate Peter to lose weight I worry about him. Please help Paul to find a good mate. Take care of my wonderful grandchildren Alex and Katie bless my daughter-in-law, Lauren.

Please help me to be a loving sister to George and Kim and bless my nieces Gaby and Susie. I wish them the best. Please look out for my poor, demented mother and help me to be more loving to her. Help me to forget what she used to be like and let me remember the good things about her -- how she nursed me when I was a baby and how she took care of me, how she used to make dresses for me, baby-sat my children, and took care of me when I was sick.

Help me to give up all resentments and bless all I had any kind of bad feelings against. Let me be cancer free tonight so I can enjoy a few more years now when I appreciate this world and its beauty and blessings with more awareness than I had until now. Now that I like myself and I am able to love, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, give me the courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to tell the difference.

Please help me to be patient with the hospital staff and to appreciate them. I am at peace and sleep is taking me over. Amen.”

I always had trouble praying but here I think I wrote a prayer.

Most of the time during this period of investigation and serious decision making about the treatment of my breast cancer I behaved in my usual fashion. I arranged house repairs, ordered theater tickets, took my computer instructions, bought birthday presents and attended my Alcoholics Anonymous meetings.

On the day we received my diagnosis Daniel took me out to dinner. In the restaurant he followed my eyes glancing at somebody’s drink at the next table.

“Do you wish you could have a drink?” he asked sympathetically.

“A drink is the farthest thing from my mind.” I answered. It was true and I remembered the lesson the priest had taught me many years ago:

“For a good fight you need a clear head.” I knew I had a big fight ahead of me.

Only my journal reveals the tremendous emotional turmoil I was going through. The “tapes” --silent for many years--were going in my head:

“I have cancer. I am not going to have breasts. I thought I was “bulletproof”. My Higher Power is supposed to take care of me. Sixty-five is not young. There is this pain in my shoulder blades, is it possible that the cancer has spread there, do I have bone cancer?”

I was glad that my mother was “out of it” -- at least this is what I said, yet one day when I was driving to visit her my eyes suddenly flooded with tears. I wanted to be able to tell my mother that I had breast cancer. I needed her concern and I wanted her to be devastated on my account as I knew she would be.

At times I isolated not answering the phone and curled up on my bed in the fetal position pondering over the questions:

“Have I done anything to bring the cancer upon myself?” I did not think so. I thought my cancer was a random genetic accident. I read it in the Journal of the American Medical Association that the accident of Ductal Carcinoma went up two hundred percent between 1983-1993, and the highest increase is among women fifty years of age and older.

But the tapes running in my head were relentless:

“Should I do some put my will in order? I wonder how Peter and Paul are faring with this? Am I subject to talk among my friends about having cancer and I do not like it. It was a bad omen to pay for my burial by the Neptune Society.” I recounted all the people whom I knew and had cancer and made a list of those who died and those who survived. The ratio was about fifty-fifty. I wanted Bill Glasser, my old shrink, back in my life but I did not make a move to try to see him.

I am afraid my staunchest supporter Daniel had to take the brunt of my bad temper when anxiety and fear erupted. Of course I was always penitent later, asking for his forgiveness. I thought about my father dying before he was forty years old and I was talking to myself.

“I should be grateful, I outlived him by twenty-five years.” I visualized my guardian angels gathering to protect me: my father, grandparents, uncles, my sponsor, Irving, friends I have lost. Finally I was able to talk about my cancer and the fears I had at a large women’s meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous and I received a lot of affectionate support and prayers.

I went to visit my Mother a week after my surgery. She was beyond recognizing me but she said a weird thing.

“We have to take care of Agi.”

Is it possible that on some deep level she sensed that I was in trouble?

My friends were wonderful as they helped me through the shock, fear and the pain. They called, they sent me cards and they stopped by to visit. Kathy, Eva, Anya and Edith brought me delicious food. Beulah is such a great sponsor that she had even modeled breast cancer for me several years earlier. Calls came from women who had breast cancer fifteen, ten, five years ago and lived to tell the tale. But in the long run, I was forced to place my fate into my Higher power, get down on my knees and ask for help. The first thought I had every morning was

“I have cancer.”

I received a telephone call from Lee, a friend of a friend who had breast cancer and treatment two years ago. She was very kind and spent a long time talking with me and telling me about her experience. Lee had a rough time, while she was fighting breast cancer her husband divorced her, friends became scarce and she lost her hair twice during chemo-therapy. She threw up thirty-two times after her first treatment and had to be hospitalized. She sincerely wanted to help but only managed to scare the daylights out of me.

My experience was very different. Daniel was like the rock of Gibraltar. He made being with me his first priority and was available day or night.

All my friends were there for me, felt loved and cared for. Many women from my AA meetings called extending heartfelt good wishes, offered their prayers, shared their experiences with me and were willing to drive me to the doctors or run errands for me.

Because I was taking the drug Kytril nausea was not a problem. I was certain that I was going to throw up (perhaps thirty-two times) and I was reluctant to go even around the block for days after my chemo. I was expecting to be sick and it never happened.

I had four treatments of chemotherapy. The dosage was composed of CAF which is cytoxan, adriamycin and 5 fluoroutacil. I felt weak but I suffered no other side effects. After the first treatment I felt very restless, hyper and anxiety ridden due to the decadron (an anti-nausea medication added to my mixture). They took out the decadron and the problem never arose again. My hair fell out and that was hard to take as I felt so unattractive. The image of the concentration camp victims with their bare heads haunted me. I got a couple of wigs and one of them was quite becoming but I seldom wore them, it was summer and they were too warm. I wore scarves and cotton hats. After I had Daniel’s barber buzz my head, I looked better completely bald. It was exotic and while it was not fun losing my hair, that was the least of my troubles.

My children and grandchildren were there for me and there was a long period of time when Paul called every day. Peter and his family visited frequently, but my love – Daniel -- was simply magnificent. He was available for me day and night. He took me to my doctor appointments and the hospitals and when I was frightened, he held me. The loss of my breasts and my bald head did not make any difference to him. He still loved me and I believed him.

Slowly, slowly, I regained my strength. It took five months and when my hair grew out again in tight salt and pepper curls, it looked so great and so sophisticated that I decided not to dye it. I am a grandmother after all and almost a grown-up. With what I learned from the program at Alcoholics Anonymous, with the help of my Higher power and with the help of my family and friends and my Main Man, Daniel, I walked through it.

I had serious and continual problems with my breasts reconstruction. The drains installed during the surgery came out. My system kept on manufacturing a fluid called serum and pretty soon I looked like a nursing mother, size forty-two. I was very uncomfortable.

Eventually the drains had to be reinstalled under anesthesia. This was my third time under in a very short time. When the temporary chest expanders were replaced with permanent implants, the same thing happened. My body manufactured fluid and the fluid tore up some of the inside stitches so the implants were sliding around.

The first corrective surgery (my fifth time under anesthesia in less than a year) failed. Now I have to decide if I want to pursue the matter or live with it. If I had known that reconstruction was going to be so troublesome, I might decide to forgo it and face life head on as a flat chested woman.

I joined a Breast Cancer Support Group offered by the American Cancer Society and run by Ronnie Kaye. It was very helpful, lots of sustenance, love, laughter and information is offered there.

My trusted Journal stood me in good stead. I dialoged with cancer, with death, with my Higher power, with my bald head, with my breasts which I felt had betrayed me. I worked like a demon to get well. The first therapist I went to see had a lot of useful information and could answer many of my questions. She herself was a survivor of breast cancer and knew what she was talking about. However during my second session when I spoke of my anxiety and fear of death, she took a sudden tack and offered me books on reincarnation. I read some of those books and although I could not explain some of the phenomena they presented, I could not embrace them either. I decided not to return to his therapist.

My second therapist, Ann, offered more supportive therapy and was teaching me self-hypnosis and visualization which I have found useful. After a couple of months I felt my depression lifted so I terminated therapy. I had a feeling my therapist was a little disappointed but I had put so much work into my journals and AA program I did not feel the need to comb through my life again looking for tender spots. I also took the antidepressant Zoloft for two months. It worked but I suffered a from the side effects and I felt it compromised my AA program. Two months later I have stopped taking it. Throughout my ordeal the idea of taking a drink never entered my head.

Through the fifteen years I have spent as a sober member of Alcoholics Anonymous, I underwent a transformation which armed me with the psychological and spiritual tools to cope with the breast cancer. I am a different person now from the selfish, miserable, emotionally bankrupt and angry woman I used to be. l I am living in a state of grace because most of the time I am free of fear and I am willing to take life at life’s term,

‘One Day at a Time’ as we say in AA.

Since leaving Hungary more than forty years ago, I have not done any writing other than my journals and I now have more than one hundred notebooks filled. I love to write but I always believed that the fact that I was born in Hungary and that I was twenty-five years old when I adopted English as my second language disqualified me from becoming a writer. Who said so? My not so crystal clear thinking and my low self-esteem said so. I just recently realized how painful this was for me, I missed writing. I still need those AA meetings to clear out the cobwebs.

The Buddhists say that when we are ready to learn, the teacher will appear. After I read Magda Denes’ book, ‘Castles Burning’ I had a great urge to write my life story. Almost at the same time, I called the “Survivor of the Shoah” Visual History Foundation project and offered to tape my experiences during the Holocaust for their archives.

When I told my friend, Georgia, that I decided to participate in the Shoah project, her first reaction was,

“but you were not in a concentration camp.”

She was not alone in her opinion as several other people reacted to my news in a similar fashion. While it is true that I was not sent to a concentration camp, I still lived in terror of being killed, I was only thirteen years old, I survived the ordeal with emotional and psychological wounds which can never be healed.

For fifty years I have never thought of myself as a true and full-fledged member of the exclusive group of people referred to as “victims” and “survivors” of the Holocaust -- and this sense of not belonging has been harmful to me. There were one hundred and seven anti-Jewish laws existing in Hungary and every one of those laws endangered my civil rights, my human rights, my very survival. In April of 1944, I was ordered to wear the Star of David and a few months later I was ordered to leave my home. I was not allowed to walk freely through the streets of my city. I had lost my father, two grandparents, four uncles, two first cousins and many other relatives and friends in the concentration camps. A few of my relatives returned home from the camps but their spirits and their health were broken.

My young life was violated and changed forever by the horrors I witnessed and lived through. Since I never considered myself to be a genuine survivor of the Holocaust, I always pushed these experiences out of my consciousness instead of exposing and examining them for their meaning and implications. The big question was, what do I want to do with this unexamined past? I sincerely believe this “neglectful secrecy” caused me deep-seated psychological damage that irreparably effected my life and those of my family members.

I will never know why I became an alcoholic. It did not happen to me until I was well into my thirties and constantly depressed, anxiety-ridden and suicidal. I suspect I was suffering from survivor’s guilt and chose alcohol to alleviate some of the associated crippling symptoms. Perhaps without my Holocaust experiences, alcoholism might never have been a part of my life. I will never know.

Because I never thought of myself as a legitimate survivor of the Shoah, I never spoke about it and people treated me differently than they would have had I disclosed my full identity.

After the War I isolated myself from my childhood religion which was an integral part of my roots. I have no desire to return to the formal folds of the Jewish religion but by writing this book, I have managed to somewhat dissipate my anger towards the Jewish God. This is important to me because I am in the process of developing a spiritual life and my almost lifelong angst toward that ancient and punishing God is an obstacle in my path.

God, Higher power, Universe, The Force, or whatever one calls it, it is mysterious and always will be. To forge a relationship with this elusive entity is difficult -- yet this is what I aim to do. My life and it’s quality depends on it. To have a spiritual life is to view the world with awe and wonder. I have been fortunate to have had many moments when I was at peace with my Higher power and experienced her love, care and comfort. I think once I make friends with my God I will experience these glorious moments of grace (free gift) more frequently and for longer periods of time. I am satisfied with this and am grateful.

I experienced two major miracles in my life; I survived the Holocaust and I conquered my hopeless, devastating alcoholism. I hope conquering breast cancer is going to be my third miracle. As I was trying to find my spiritual course, I recalled something. As a teenager living in Budapest, whenever I was upset or depressed I would sit in the Basilica and find peace. The cool darkness, the smell of incense, the beauty of the stained glass calmed me. Unusual and guilt producing behavior from a Jewish girl. I think I had a spiritual hunger all my life and this was one of the ways I was trying to satisfy it.

When I was communing with nature I often felt a spiritual connection with the Universe. The sparkling night sky, leaves turning in the fall, snow capped mountain peaks, a roaring river, a reflective lake, an ocean filled me with peace and contentment. Poetry and music also can fill me with bliss. But how does this all connect with a Higher power? I have no idea.

I am sure having cancer had something to do with my desire to write my biography. There is a fifty percent chance that my cancer will reoccur. If this happens, I want my sons and grandchildren to know my story. At this moment in time I am truly not afraid as I realize that I never was put in charge of my life and death. The difference between now and a year ago, when as far as I knew, I was free of cancer, is awareness. Yes, the cancer might come back and I might die of it. On the other hand, I could die a dozen different ways today, not that I am planning on it. I am planning to go to London and with Daniel in six weeks time. We are finally taking the trip we were forced to postpone last year because of my breast cancer. We are going to have roast beef with Yorkshire pudding at Rules again!

The important thing is that I worked out my life. My journal teacher used to tell us,

“think of your life as your work of art and keep improving on it.” I look at my work of art and I like what I see. I enjoy looking at it and much of the pain is gone. I am grateful for the gift of life which I had been willing to throw away many times. I guess alcoholism and cancer are great teachers and I became teachable.