LOST LOVE

Nothing is the same since you’re gone. I have no idea where you are, or why you completely disappeared from my life. The first time we met will be forever one of my fondest memories. One look at you and I knew that I had to have you; no matter what the cost. This was so unlike me, to stray from my sense of right and wrong, to do something I might regret. When we touched, I knew that we would be spending that very night together. You were “to die for,” and you made me feel beautiful every time we were together.

When I spoke to you in a soft whisper – you would always comply. Did I neglect you in some way? My life is now incomplete, my nights are spent lying awake wondering where you are and yearning to feel us locked in that most comfortable embrace. We fit like a hand in a glove. Has someone stolen you from me? It kills me not knowing.

I never stood taller or walked more proudly than when we were together. I keep your photo hidden in my closet for my eyes only. Please come back to me; you cannot be replaced.

I write this in my journal that I keep hidden from those who would not understand our special relationship. My husband must never know how I feel. He is such a wonderful and understanding person – but this, I can never share with him. This he would not understand.

This kind of love is forbidden; I know that. Some may consider it twisted or demented, but that matters not to me. I don’t expect others to understand, since my feelings must never be shared. I will today again try to make it through the day without you; my night will be as bare as each foot I try to put in front of the other. You are gone, I must accept it. As I go about my tasks today, there is little to do but try to occupy my mind with other things.

I will muster the strength to clean my guest room closet and put my mind as far away from you as possible. I will today begin the spring cleaning that I never finished, and ache from my loss.

I open the closet and begin sorting through items long forgotten, and begin to feel a rush of emotion. There, in the corner you sit all alone with nothing but a soft cloth as cover. I am in disbelief that you were this close to me all along. How did you get here? My heart begins to pound so loudly that I am afraid my neighbors will hear. All this time, I thought you were gone forever, yet you never really left me…I am giddy with sheer joy!


I reach out and touch you, stroke you and hold you in my arms. You are without a doubt, the most incredible, most beautiful 3 ½ inch peep-toe black pumps I have ever slid into. Welcome home, I will never let you out of my sight again.

A MOTHER OF SUBSTANCE: A Legacy of Courage

Last Segment

So that I could always be reached, the nursing home would call my cell phone. They would have no idea where I was, and once called me from the nursing home when I was with my mother at the nursing home. She had a small private room that I redecorated on a regular basis so she wouldn’t get bored with her immediate surroundings. I must say, that nursing homes tend get a bad rap. This wasn’t Xanadu, but it was homey and my mother, over time felt at home there. This is when it all started to come together for me. My early experiences of believing that God just can’t wait for you to screw up so He can smite you and that you “white-knuckle” your way around here and make sure you get to Heaven, etc. was not at all the way my mother utilized her faith. Her faith is what made her life here the best she could make it. Going to Heaven was a bonus. I long ago rendered the notion of my early religious teachings, but my mother showed me how to properly embrace my spirituality. We choose to either be miserable, or we can choose to look beyond ourselves and pull from another place of serenity. What you believe is your reality. Toward the end of my mom’s life, she became more at peace with regard to the eternal destination of her mother’s soul. She was never more aware that her God’s mercy trumped His judgment.

In the spring of 2009, Mother received a diagnosis she most assuredly had for a number of years, Congestive Heart Failure or CHF. She had been once again correct about her heart. The doctors surely knew, but refused to tell her. They never did. As I had promised her, if I knew something, she would be told. Upon receiving the information, she was calm, resolved, and decided, after talking with her doctor, that she wanted to call in hospice. It was comforting that her hospice nurse was [long ago] a young girl from church who my mom had mentored for God. This “young girl” from long ago was now a wife and mother, and her life as a hospice nurse was her ministry. She was delighted to “give back” to my mother. Fate can be a wonderful thing. With this additional care, Mom seemed to be getting better. During one of my visits on a spring day as we chatted about all sorts of things it was decided I would begin the search for just the right outfit for her burial. I know it sounds morbid, but it really wasn’t, I shopped for her regularly and it was for the [hopefully] somewhat distant future. It was just to have, to hang in the closet and that “business” would be out of the way.

My husband and I went to Jackson Hole, WY to a conference for the July 4th weekend, 2009. When we arrived home the week after the 4th, instead of getting busy with all the new contacts I had made, I felt compelled to go shopping for my mother. I spent two days shopping for burial outfits for her to choose from, and for new clothing for her to wear in the fall. As I checked in my hotel room [no internet service at my father’s + he’s old and keeps the house at 85 degrees year round], I spoke with my mom for approximately 20 minutes. She had finished dinner, and was about to get into her pajamas. We decided that we would tackle the huge arm-loads of clothes in the morning. The last thing she said before hanging up was “get a good night’s sleep tonight, sweetheart, I love you.” My response, “I love you too Mom.”

The next morning at 6:25 AM my cell phone rang. It was my mother’s nurse. She said, “Miss Joy, your Mom is unresponsive, we are trying to resuscitate her, the ambulance is on the way to take her to the hospital.” I asked her, “has my mom passed away?” She just repeated what she had just told me. I told her that I was in town and would be there right away. As I was putting on clothing, I went into “drill” mode; although I had a feeling it wasn’t a drill. I called my aunt, she told me she would get my father, and my uncle would meet me at the hospital. My next call was to my husband, who was over 2 hours away. As I sped to the hospital, I told him that this call felt different than any previous calls. I had a really bad feeling about this one. He agreed. He was on his way. I got to the hospital before the ambulance, although the nursing home is a mere 5 minute walk from the ER doors. My uncle was right behind me. As I started to leave to go to the nursing home, the ER nurse said, “Honey, why don’t you just wait here?” I walked out of the ER door and the ambulance was coming down the hill toward the hospital. I stayed in the driveway, and as they opened the back doors of the ambulance, I noticed the look on the faces of the EMT and the hospice nurse. My heart sank.

My aunt had told my father that my mom wasn’t doing well and was being taken to the hospital. She told him she would drive. When they told us “we did all we could…” I felt my knees weaken; I walked over to my father who seemed dazed and confused, took his hand and told him that Mother was gone. He turned pale and sat down. A nurse checked his blood pressure. I felt dazed myself. I held back my tears, stood up as straight as I could and asked if I could see her. Her brother went with me, my father stayed in the chair, mostly staring at the floor. As I walked in and saw my mother, pale, but not yet cold, there was something that struck me in a metaphoric sense. In the years, since her first major stroke, [in two weeks would have been 12 years] her right arm had drawn up and had begun to atrophy. Now, I understand medically why what happened, happened – but it was cathartic for me that her arm was completely straight. As I rubbed her now relaxed, once again straight arm, I felt a sense of peace and well-being. My mother was no longer paralyzed, no longer crippled by her body that had failed her in so many ways. It was 7:05 AM on Thursday, July 16, 2009.

It never entered my mind that I would be the one to notify my brothers and sisters of our mother’s death. As I walked outside to make the calls, I felt numb. I called them in random order, and somehow held myself together to get the job done. Something else I got from my mother, either through DNA or by example, is how to get through a difficult situation and maintain my composure. After my brief conversations with my siblings, I walked back into the hospital where a nurse approached me with some paperwork to release her body, and to hand me a ring that was on my mother’s finger. It was a ring I had given her as a gift some years ago. My mother didn’t usually sleep with jewelry. Part of her evening ritual was removing all of her jewelry before going to bed. In the morning, she would decide what jewelry to wear that day. I have no idea why she was wearing that ring. I treasure it now.

We were told that at 3:30 on that morning Mom had asked for something for leg pain. She also asked to go to the bathroom. She then went back to bed; it is assumed that she then went to sleep and never woke up. If she had held on for another hour, I would have been arriving with the bundles of hanging bags of new clothes for her to look through and try on. I would have found her. She wouldn’t have wanted that.
What I didn’t know was that in the days preceding her passing, she had spoken with some of her nurses in a very candid way of how she knew she wasn’t going to be here much longer and how much she had appreciated their friendship and the care they had given her. What I also didn’t know was that the previous day, Mom had told my father where she had hidden money at their home. Information she had held tightly, and knew she would only share when she felt her time was very limited. Did she tell me the night before to get a good night’s sleep that Wednesday night because she sensed I would need it? She told me on a couple of occasions that she prayed that when her “time” was imminent that she would know. She didn’t want any unfinished business. It was now time for me to get on with my “duties” for the day. My father did not want to linger at the hospital and see the hearse take my mom away. My uncle took my father with him for a while, my aunt left, and I stayed. I couldn’t leave until my mother did. I waited for the hearse to arrive, watched as the kind man put my mother’s body in the vehicle- then watched them drive away.

I immediately made the short drive to my mother’s room at the nursing home. It was just as the emergency personnel left it. I maneuvered around the “crash cart” and all other items discarded on and around her bed, retrieved my mother’s purse, her checkbook, and a jewelry pouch. Then, I walked out, went back to my hotel room and while I waited for my husband to arrive from Birmingham; from the core of my being – I wept.

My father is 87 years old, lives alone and is doing pretty well, considering. I think he was glad to have the opportunity to “give back” to my mother as she approached the end of her life. I think with some regrets he may have from earlier in their marriage, he was able to be someone on whom she relied – and he came through for her. He was in a sense able to redeem himself. Redemption – something my mother could appreciate.

This will be my first Mother’s Day without my mother. I am so fortunate to have been her daughter. I miss her desperately, but I am at peace in the sense that my mother’s soul lives on – through her children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren – and into the great beyond. I am now convinced that what you believe is your reality. It is yours to choose.

When people say to me, “I’m sorry you lost your mother” I have a sense of knowing that she is not lost – I believe I know where she is.

A TRIBUTE TO MOTHER: Her Greatest Gift

Part 4

Over time, as the staff at the nursing home got to know her, a number of the nurses sought her wisdom and direction in their personal and spiritual lives. It was in this place that she would spend the remainder of her life. She knew that. However, she would go to rehab and continue to work hard to be the best she could be. She loved playing bingo, and even after multiple strokes, and her other physical debilitations, she was the domino champion. No, we never “let” her win; she was a fierce competitor and would beat you fair and square.

The drive south to visit my mom [and my dad] is about a four hour round-trip. It was great to have my father close by to tend to Mom’s personal daily needs/desires. I say this because some days Mom would have Dad bring all three meals for the day. She didn’t have much desire to eat and if the food wasn’t really good, she wouldn’t eat at all. My father would bring items from home and make a stop or two along the way for possible nourishment, or better yet, chocolate. He also did her laundry daily. My mom had to have enjoyed this part. After years of tending to so many children, as well as my father, I think she might have had him run an errand or two – just because. I never intended to canonize my mother, she was human, and could be a “pistol” as we say in the south. She had a silly side which could seem to come out of nowhere, but was wickedly funny.



The camera never seemed to capture her beauty. I love this photo of her.

All of us [her children] took part in her care at one point or another, but in the end, I would receive the 411 and 911 calls from her medical providers. My brothers and sisters live all across the country, so being the closest geographically that was logical. One morning I received an emotional call from Mother’s nurse that Mom had been taken by ambulance to the hospital, was unresponsive, and was thought to have had a heart attack. She had. The staff knew to never call my father with any news of this sort. Although he was only 10 minutes away, he is elderly and now lived alone. My mother’s brother and his wife live across the street from my dad, so the “drill” was that I would call them, they would drive him and I would be on my way south within minutes. [Mom had told her doctors for years that she felt there was a problem with her heart.] I’d kept a bag packed and by my closet door, I never knew when the call would come.

My husband and I enjoyed our visits with Mom. My mother felt as though I’d won the prize in the husband department, and they shared a bond that was special to them both. I know my mother enjoyed our many visits alone as well [maybe not as well, she was pretty keen on my hubby]. When we embraced, I would breathe in her incredible aroma. All of my life, I remember how wonderful she always smelled. She didn’t really need perfume, although she enjoyed it greatly. She would have to look me over, usually tell me how “cute” I looked, [or not, anybody with a mother understands this] “darling haircut” she’d sometimes say, and “shoes, please”, then I would show her what shoes I was wearing. The shoes were almost always a home run. She enjoyed me wearing the pretty shoes she could no longer wear.

Just before Thanksgiving of 2008, her brother John had to bring her news that shocked and saddened her. Their youngest brother, Billy had died. He was only a few months older than my oldest sister. No one had told my mother about his cancer because he was doing so well, and it was thought he would recover. After a follow-up surgical procedure, he developed a blood clot and he was gone. Mom somehow managed to make the 4+ hour round-trip to her brother’s memorial service. She was heartbroken.

Early in 2009 Mother once again developed pneumonia, and since she had been diagnosed with COPD this was not uncommon. She also started to need blood every few months. Something I need to note is that it annoyed her that medical personnel would speak to us about her, in front of her. She would say, “Excuse me, but I am in the room, would you please talk to me?” Mother rarely missed an opportunity for a teaching moment.

A TRIBUTE TO MY MOTHER: I Was Really Paying Attention

Part 3

After moving to Texas from Alabama in the mid 1980s, my mom continued to work full time, and was a property manager for many years, even past her 65th birthday. She loved people, and loved to stay busy. My father did not make the move to Texas, he was retired and the hunting and fishing was not up to his standards there. Although they spoke on the phone daily, and he made extended visits, they lived apart for many years. They even traveled together from time-to-time.

She enjoyed her job and her family, and even though she attended church regularly in Texas, was not serving in multiple leadership roles as she had in her younger years. She had a little “spare” time at this point and was able to travel a bit, and enjoy her life in a less hectic manner. She seemed the happiest she had been in her life.

On the morning of July 29, 1997 my telephone rang with the news from my sister who also lived in Texas, that our mother had suffered a major stroke. It had only been two days since I’d had a couple of cervical discs repaired, and I was home recuperating from surgery. The news stunned me, but I didn’t feel it could be that bad because my mother was larger-than-life and nothing could keep her down for long. My neurosurgeon gave me the okay to travel [with that stupid collar] so I prepared to go to Texas.

My mom was in the rehab center when I arrived and both of my sisters were there, as was my older brother. My younger brother was in the U.S. Navy and was getting special permission for emergency family “leave”. There were rehabilitation sessions in another building, and Mom rode in a van to receive treatment. A pivotal moment occurred in my life was while waiting for the van to return to the main rehab center. I looked inside the van, parked just outside of the automatic doors, and I saw my mother. She was sitting alone and helpless, waiting for the attendant to help her get up and into a wheelchair. I will never forget that moment as long as I live. The world tilted on its axis for me. There was my mother, all but helpless. In my mind the impossible had happened.

Mother’s speech was slurred and her right [dominant] arm was completely paralyzed. The stoke had all but crippled her right leg as well. It had been only a few days since her stroke, and I watched as she signed her own medical papers using her left hand. It was then, I knew she would fight – and fight she did.

Mom continued to live alone, next door to my brother and my sister-in-law. It seems strange to refer to her as an “in-law”. My mother loved her as a daughter and in my mind she is our sister. Mary is her name. It was a struggle, but Mom insisted on having her independence as long as possible. Mary and my brother, [mostly Mary since my brother traveled with his work] helped Mom with the day-to-day things such as helping her get dressed, buying groceries, driving her to church, etc. This continued for 9 years. During this time, my mom had a several minor strokes, but continued to rebound and her speech was remarkable. In 2006 Mom decided to move back to Alabama. She enjoyed being around what family was still in the small town, including the many old friends from long ago, many with whom she had kept in contact over the years.

In January, 2008 Mom was hospitalized with pneumonia, and with a forceful cough, shattered a vertebra. She was rushed by ambulance to UAB Medical Center to receive the best treatment possible. [As a footnote, as we were preparing to leave the small hospital, the nurse came in with paperwork to be signed. With the EMTs waiting at her bedside, the nurse handed the clipboard to me to sign the necessary paperwork. This nurse did not know my mother very well. I told her that my mother signs her own forms, and gave the pen to my mother. As blood ran down her hand, and dripped onto the form [they had just removed her IV]; my mother, using her only “good” hand, signed herself out of the hospital]. The repair to her spine was done, but unfortunately Mom never could completely recover from the damage that shattered vertebra had caused her. Over the next several months she came to realize that she needed 24-7 care. She asked to leave Birmingham and return to her home town to check in to the nursing facility where she had visited others over the years, a place she had never wanted to reside.

As a vivacious woman, I remember my mom saying how she did not want things to go if she became ill in her elder years. Most of her worse “fears” came true for her…. with exception of losing her mental capabilities intact – she had that until the end. It was, however, remarkable to me that she was never angry with God, or blamed God for her plight. She certainly was a believer that God was almighty and powerful, yet she took full responsibility for her debilitating stroke in 1997, and the cascading health issues that followed. There were certainly times I would question or be angry with God. Why my mother? She had devoted all of her adult life to Him and in doing earthly duties on His behalf. Mom would tell me that it wasn’t God’s fault that she didn’t monitor her blood pressure as she should have; it wasn’t God’s fault that she didn’t go to the doctor when she should have, etc. She took full responsibility for her plight. For me, this is when things got interesting, spiritually speaking.

Growing up, the main message I got out of going to church was that you wanted to make sure you didn’t die and go to Hell. To do this, you must do God’s will and follow His commandments. By doing that, you could most likely avoid an earthly “smiting” that God could throw your way at any time. You followed the rules so that when you die, you go to Heaven. What I realized was that my mother seemed to take her “plight” in stride for the most part. As she continued to socialize with one usable arm and with her main mode of transportation, a wheelchair, she would laugh, joke around and continue to mentor others. After she became a “resident” in the nursing home, I could tell she was at yet another crossroad in her life. She was a bit antsy at first, but shortly after she knew this nursing home was her new home, and I could see that she had reached another level of peace. She made the decision to be happy there. It was not what she had planned for herself, nor what I thought the God I believed in would allow for her, but she decided to make it her home. She, even though physically limited, would get in her wheelchair and visit other residents. She was involved in her very small community, and everybody loved her. She was an inspiration to others all of her life, and now would be no exception.

A TRIBUTE TO MY MOTHER:I Really Was Paying Attention;

Part 2

I was the youngest of four until my little brother came along in 1961. It was a “gravy train” for me as the baby for seven years. The years between my younger brother and me, was the longest time between children for my mom, so I probably got the best deal as a small child. Some of my earliest memories, which start at about two years of age, are of being in church. I know I was small because I remember being passed around as people held me and had their faces close to mine. Church would be a huge part of our lives until we were grown, and for some of us children continues to be.

As a child, I remember taking vacations with four children in the car – not a one of us wearing a seatbelt. For those of us old enough to remember, this was more the norm than the exception. It was the 1950s and we also had metal dashboards. As the youngest at the time, I would spend much of the trip lying in the back window of our sedan. What a wonderful view of the stars from that space - those were the days.


[The camera never did my mother justice; I think this is the best photo of me ever taken; seriously, I love this photo of Mom and me].

Even though we lived in a small town and to my recollection, never knew of anyone “uppity”, our mother taught us impeccable manners. She taught us to set a table “properly” and to use proper manners at the table, which fork to use, etc. although at the time, I couldn’t imagine that this would ever be any more useful than algebra. Thanks Mom.

My Mom never wavered in her church attendance, – nor did ours. In the earlier years I remember my father going to church with us, but that waned and then stopped. As I grew up my Mother wore many hats at church: Sunday school teacher, Choir Director, and Youth Director. It was a small church, but very active. As a teenager, I felt it was too active. Let me just say, there was a lot of church going on. It was still my mom’s foundation for everything in
her life; I had no idea at the time how this would serve her later.

Mother was an incredible cook, and I owe my ability in the kitchen to her. It was remarkable how she could make a delicious meal when someone with less ability, would think there was nothing to cook. When she was finally an “empty nester” she went back to school for pastry studies and cake decoration. She was a working mom for my last 10 or so years at home, and continued after we were all grown to work full time, and to be very active in church. One of her great loves was teaching the young about God and encouraging them to serve Him.

As outgoing as my mother was, she was an intensely private person. It was not that she had anything to hide; it was just that she would be the one to decide how much of herself she shared with you. I got that trait from my mother. She didn’t have a particularly easy life in many ways, and I don’t believe she ever rebounded emotionally from her parent’s divorce or her protective nature toward her siblings. Her mother passed away in 1976 and she sang a beautiful song with her mother’s coffin close by her. She managed to do this while wondering – even doubting that her mother ever acknowledged the existence of God. This was crushing to her. There were no public tears. My mother was a strong woman indeed.

A TRIBUTE TO MY MOTHER:I Really Was Paying Attention

PART 1

Today I feel some guilt remembering that at times I would feel a sense of dread when talking to my mother on the telephone with that annoying sound in the background. That sound was the large oxygen machine – one of those older ones that turn the air in the room into oxygen. In the last months of my mother’s life, it was helping keep her alive. Her voice had become much weaker in the last several months, and that background noise made it difficult to hear her, especially over a telephone. Our conversations face-to-face were easier. Her mind was intact, even if her vocal cords were weakened.

What a treat for the both of us, our visits. Mother loved shoes, yet in her last years she couldn’t walk much at all, certainly not in stylish footwear. One of the first things about me she’d notice when I walked in her room was my shoes. Truth is, I bought shoes for myself that I was sure my mother would love to admire. That was my main criteria for shoe shopping…”Oh, Mom will love these” I would say to myself, usually aloud.





This is Mother and five of her siblings. She was expecting my oldest sister in this photo. Her youngest brother [not pictured] was an infant [circa 1946]

My mother was born the week of the Great Depression in 1929. She was the eldest of seven children and the age range between them substantial. At the time my mother married at age 16, [which was not unusual for the time] she had an infant brother and five other siblings. What was unusual for the time – at least compared to now, was her parents were divorced. Mother’s parents divorced in a time which divorce could be considered scandalous, and she felt protective of her brothers and sister. Mom was born in Alabama, but as a girl grew up [at least in part] in Brooklyn, New York. The move back to Alabama in her teens was quite a cultural clash. My mother was not racially prejudiced, and the Deep South in the 1940s was so different from where she had come. This is where is met my father.

My mother was beautiful - statuesque, with jet black hair, olive skin and hazel eyes. She had the body of a movie star. My father was a handsome man, and had done very well for himself, as they say. They married after a very brief courtship of two whole weeks, and were married for 63 years. It was rocky marriage, but there were also good times.

As she and my father started their own family, they did their share of parenting my mother’s brothers and sister. Most, if not all of, lived with us at one time or another. I just can’t imagine being 24 years old with four of your own children, and caring for as many of your siblings who required your care at any given time. She loved it, and she loved all of us.

Mother was not raised in a religious home; her parents were agnostic you might say. At the age of around 16, my mother became a Christian – and had found something solid for her, for the first time in her life. From then forward, she would seek the most her faith had to offer.

DON'T BLAME MOTHER NATURE

It has been affirmed [again] that we are not responsible for our own behavior. Most of us are aware of the recent incident in NYC of the man who was stabbed as he stepped in to help a woman who was being robbed. He fell onto the sidewalk and as he lay there dying from his injury, it is on video surveillance that at least 25 people walked past him, stepped over him, or ignored him. One man rolled him over a bit, at which time he most likely noticed the blood oozing from a wound, and then walked away. Another man used his cell phone to take a photo of the dying man. We have similar instances around the country in the past few years.

What is wrong with us? It seems that according to some psychologists [and other educated excuse-makers] that we are “Hard-Wired” to behave this way. You know, the “Crowd Mentality”, or “By-Stander Effect” that causes us to do what others do in a given situation. Most of us growing up [if you are over the age of 35] were asked, usually by an authority figure, when “the crowd” did something, “if they jumped off a cliff, would you do that too?” If only I had the information then that I have now to say, “of course, Dad I can’t help it, I’m hard-wired to follow the crowd.” If you are over the age of 35, you may have had what I had growing up, something called consequences. It wasn’t a matter of giving in to your “tendencies.”

A psychologist on NBC this morning stated that the reason people step over a dying man on the street, or I suppose, take a photo of him, is because: “We are motivated to fit into our social environment – we want to do what others do” so we mimic the behavior of others. He also stated that “the assumption is made that someone else is doing something to help.” We are basically not responsible for doing nothing, if we see others doing nothing. This means we are accountable for nothing, for not doing something. Got it? We aren’t responsible for anything anymore.
Nope. No accountability. We are told we cheat on our spouses because we are sex addicts; we overeat because we have a “fat gene”; we can’t control our impulses because we are ADD or ADHD and we accept this because we are full of C-R-A-P. You don’t even have to actually win anymore to get a trophy. Hey, I will hug a tree before the sun sets today, but I also believe in accountability.

What if these apathetic people were held accountable? Let’s say for criminal negligence? By definition; criminal negligence is one of 3 general classes of mens rea – Latin for “guilty mind”.

We no doubt have some wonderful stories of heroism that have been witnessed, but the questions I would ask are:

Are we virtually helpless creatures of our primal instincts? I think not.

Do we allow others to determine our behavior to choose apathy over compassion? No way.

How could a human being leave another in the street to die? I have no idea