jennethink

COMPANIONS

Will I see her grow into a woman?
Will she remember me with laughter?
Or remember that time I made her feel small?
Is what I fear gone or just hiding?
Is what I hate hidden or destroyed?
Will I leave behind a mountain? or a molehill?
Will I leave behind anything at all?
Will a mother bury her child?
Will a child find her father?
Did I go though this for a personal lesson?
And did I get it?
Or is it just random?
A crap shoot.
Can it all be sorted into its proper place?
Again?
Will others learn from me?
Will I pass it along?
Is this lump above my collarbone and to the left of my windpipe new?
Is it bigger?
Is it getting bigger?
Will I have anything significant to say?
Even if I do, will anyone listen?
Can I give someone this gift without giving them this burden?
Will I sleep tonight?
Will I rest?
Will I know what to say when it is time to say it?
Will he turn inward if left alone?
Will he remember what’s good about being heard?
Will he find ways to connect?
Will the basement ever be clean?
Will I ever be calm?
Will the Christmas tree by the curb ever get picked up?
Will I see her grow into a woman?

AND THEY ASK ME WHY I HAVE A BLOG ...

Well, well.  Next time I feel ugly I’m going to run right to my computer and post.  Even though I didn’t open the comments yesterday many of you were worried enough about me to send me an email.  And I appreciate it.  A lot.  I can’t really say more than that because well, it’s hard to know what to say.  You should know I felt completely vulnerable and exposed in that elevator and in some ways, even more exposed by sharing that experience with my world here but I so wanted you to know.  I wanted you to understand yet another aspect – no matter how minor – of all of this.  I grieved and groaned over posting.  I metronomed back and forth 60 times a minute and almost erased the whole thing but I promised you (and me) at the beginning of all of this that I would share what I could. 

Your emails about your own Flop moments in life touched me.  Your responses to that <insert colorful language here> lady and that <insert more colorful language here> dentist made me laugh and your soft words of validation made me well-up.  Your letters were seen, heard and understood.  Copy.  Roger that.  Over.

So today I did what any red-blooded American woman would do when rebounding from indirectly being told she’s ugly.

I went shopping and to the salon.

The shopping was a huge bust (so to speak) but the salon was a roaring success.  I know you may not be able to believe this, may not quite be able to get your big encouraging arms around this but …

I ACTUALLY NEEDED A HAIRCUT!

Could I have gone without one?  Of course.  I mean I wasn’t Crystal Gayleing over my hair or anything and truth be told I still have the shortest hair in the house (that includes the dogs)  but I did notice it was getting kind of funky around the collar.  And also it was starting to feather on the sides and, as a girl who lived through the 80s, I’m determined to never let my hair do that again.  At least not if I can do something about it.  So I did it.  I made an appointment and I proudly walked in to get my precious new hairs cut.

It was quite an experience.  I felt like a proud mama at her baby’s first trim.  Except I was both the mom and the baby.  Emphasis on baby as I actually teared up at the first snip.  There was a time, not that long ago, that I believed I’d never get to do this again. The shampooing, the combing, the cutting, it was awesome.  I said 7 times, “I’m so excited!” and every time Edi – my stylist - said, “Well, it is exciting!”    At the end of the haircut I pulled out my camera to snap a pic to commemorate the event.  Edi grabbed the pomade and slapped half a handful in my hair and half in his.  When we were both ready, we snapped this shot.

Take that elevator people!

KEEPING UP APPEARANCES

I don’t often get my feelings hurt.  I’m not saying it never happens, it does, but it takes a lot.  That’s not to say I’m not sensitive – even fragile at times.  But I have spent a good amount of the past 10 years or so arranging my life so I’m surrounded by people who like me.  I’ve also spent a good amount of time making sure my view of myself isn’t dependent on what other people think about me.  And generally, when people do or say hurtful things, I think they fall into one of two categories, either A) they meant it and should be ignored or B) they didn’t mean it and should be pitied.  In either case, me getting my feelings hurt doesn’t really help.  And besides, it usually takes just too much effort to be hurt by others.   Do peoples’ opinions matter to me?  Some.  But all in all, for the most part, I’m okay with me.

In fact, before Saturday if you'd asked me when the last time was I really got my feelings hurt it would've been hard for me to pinpoint it. 

The Hub and I were in Chicago Saturday.  It was supposed to be a quick trip up and back the same day. However, because of weather, we ended up spending Saturday night in the windy (and icy) city.  We decided to make the best of it and got a great room at the Hyatt and immediately upon entering the room left it to go to dinner.  Because when you don’t have any luggage or toiletries it hardly takes any time to get ready to go out.  And even less time to leave the room.  It sort of goes like this:

“Are you ready?”
“Um, yeah”
“Is that what you’re wearing?”
“I don’t have much choice.  It’s either this or naked.”
“That’s not true.  You could wear the bathmat.”
“Well, I was planning on wearing that tomorrow.”

It was so quick and easy to get ready, that I actually could, in that moment, see the advantage to only owning one pair of shoes.  It was only in that moment however.  In that very moment and the moment is now gone so forget I said anything.

We left the room and consulted the map of the hotel to figure out where we were going.  We hit the elevator button and waited patiently for it.  We laughed about our predicament.  Stuck in Chicago!  Can’t get home!  Awesome!  We were in a good mood.  We were having a great time. 

When the elevator doors opened for us to get on, two men started to get off then did the oops-turn-around-we’re-not-at-our-floor-yet dance.  We all chuckled because 1) it was funny and 2) they were drunk.  We shared awkward little stories for a floor or two about how hard it is, yuk yuk, to figure out the numbers on the elevator pad, yuk yuk, and man haven’t we ALL done THAT a hundred times! I immediately liked these two fellows because 1) they were drunk and 2) they both had cockney accents.  Accents of any sort are big in my book. In fact once, a long time ago, I spent a fair amount of time making out with a bloke from um, somewhere where they talked funny.  I’m calling him a bloke and not by his real name because 1) I want to protect his privacy and 2) I never quite got his name. And that, my friends, is why when The Kid comes and asks if she can go on spring break with her friends the answer will be “you can go anywhere within arms length of me, your father, or a large pile of dog poop.”   Because I think a large pile of dog poop could deter anyone from making out with a stranger.  Even me.

I’m not the only one in the family with a propensity toward liking accents.  You know that English Nanny on TV?  The Hub is in love with her. When she’s on, he listens intently to every word she says.  He nods. He brings it up later.   He’s even schemed to try to get her to come to our house.  “You know,” he’s said, “we really aren’t THAT good at parenting.”  And this, I put up with.  Thought it was kind of cute, actually, that he had a crush on the SuperNanny.  It wasn’t until he asked me the other day if I could speak with “an accent like JoJo” that I realized things may be getting out of hand. 

So as The Hub and I were floating on a sea of dropped H’s and misplaced diphthongs the elevator door dinged and 3 more men got on.  They were not drunk and seemed to be going somewhere.  Dressed nicely.  I surmised they were part of the large convention of dentists that were in town. They did not have accents and they looked like dentists.  I quietly tucked my lips around my teeth because I didn’t want them to know we’d left the room WITHOUT FLOSSING.  Two more floors down and with a ding the doors open and a family starts to get on.  Husband, wife and little kid.  There was a little bit of hubbub as we all moved around.  I stepped back against The Hub to make room.  Someone asked if we had space enough and someone answered yes and the family gets on and that’s when it happened.

The wife, the one who just got on, glances around quickly and says,

“Well! I certainly feel outnumbered!”

My mind went spinning.  Outnumbered?  By what?  What did the rest of us in the elevator have in common?  I looked around.  Were we all wearing hats?  Black coats?  Did we all smell funny?  I apparently wasn’t the only one who wondered.  One of the dentists asked, “How come?”  and the next part, if filmed, would have been played in slow motion.

She smiles brightly
She lifts her hand and gestures to all of us
She opens her big pink mouth and says,

“I’m the only woman!”

And I thought the little pellets of ice slamming into my face as we walked to the hotel stung.  Okay. Now.  I’ve never been a person who needed to be seen as “girly.”  I don’t do that.  In fact, I don’t really even need to be seen as “feminine” but I’ve always thought I was AT LEAST seen as female.  I immediately went into recovery mode.  My mind started racing, she just didn’t see you! I told myself.  It’s okay, she only saw your short, short hair!  It’s okay!  Don’t worry!  It’s a mistake!  And I had almost recovered when I took one right in the gut.

“Well, one thing’s for sure, you’re the prettiest one in here!” 

It was one of the dentists.

When I was 8 I did a belly flop off the diving board at the Carmel City Pool.  All my friends were watching.  I knew on the way down it was going to hurt.  I knew when I hit the water that it was a flop to end all flops.  But as I came up, a peculiar thing happened, the embarrassment out weighed the pain.  As I broke through the surface I heard a round of OOOWWWWss and laughter. As much as it hurt, it suddenly became important to me to play it off, act big, like it didn’t hurt at all.  Like I meant to do it.  Like it was no big deal.   “I’m okay!” I called and laughed laughed laughed from the middle of the deep end,  The sting was building in my tummy.  The fronts of both legs too.  Like needles.  “I’m going to go get a snack!” I called and started swimming toward the snack bar.  I had to get away from them as fast as possible because if I stayed, they’d know I was hurt.  And I didn’t want to be hurt.  So I swam away and every couple of feet I’d duck underwater to get rid of the tears.

Without a pool of water to jump into I stood in the back of that elevator in Chicago completely lost.  I quickly put my head down.  I saw a few of the guys glance over at me. I had nothing to say.  I fidgeted with the front of my hair.  I stared at my shoes.

I stared at my shoes. 

Had something like this happened 8 or 10 months ago, I would have been fine.  I would have just said something.  I would have piped up and said, “How about a re-vote?”  or “Wow! Don’t expect ME to buy YOU a drink!” or something witty and fun and it would have totally been okay.  But this time, it was the belly flop all over again.  Face first.

Ding.  The elevator opened up and we all spilled out into the lobby.  I bumped by them.  My head down.  I was trying to get away as fast as I could.  Find the snack bar.  Go underwater.  Anything.   

I kept hearing it over and over,

“I’m the only woman.”  “Well you’re the prettiest for sure!”
“The prettiest.”
“You’re the prettiest.”

Flop
Flop
Flop

We were down an escalator and around a corner before I practically burst into tears.

I don’t know if you can understand why it hurt so much.  It may seem shallow to you for me to worry about how I look or if I’m pretty or can compete with the big-mouthed whore in the elevator and in a way, I agree.  But I’m telling you this because it has been one of the silent struggles of the last 8 months.  Cancer doesn’t just affect your interior, your outlook, your outcome.  It affects your exterior, look, appearance. Chemo has changed me.  My appearance is changed. And it isn’t just the change in my hair.  My skin is different – it’s a different color and texture.  My eyes have dark circles now – those weren’t there before. I’m puffy.  I don’t know that I was ever the prettiest woman in the elevator.  But I know I wasn’t so un-pretty that I didn’t count at all.  It is painful to look in the mirror and expect to see me and see instead a woman I don’t know.  I look at the picture on my driver’s license that was taken right before chemo started and I just marvel.  I look so young.  So healthy.  So much like me. And now … now I look like an age-progression rendering of me.  I look like I smoked a carton of Marlboros a minute for the past 8 months.  I look dried up. 

And I know this.  And I struggle because I don’t want it to matter.

It takes a lot to hurt my feelings.  But it can be done. 
 

"THE WHOLE LIFE OF MAN IS BUT A POINT OF TIME; LET US ENJOY IT." – PLUTARCH

For the past 7 months I’ve sat in rooms filled with people who are dying.  People who have no chance.  People on their way out.  And I’m not talking about the chemo room.  I’m talking about offices and movie theaters and restaurants.  Because we’re all dying.  Every one of us.  I know we don’t like to think about it but last I checked the survival rate of life was pretty low.

I taught a class last week about time management.  It was my first time teaching time management since my diagnosis and treatment for Hodgkin’s lymphoma.  It was awesome. You might say my perspective about time has changed.  Then again, I’ve never taught this class in the traditional way.  I always teach it differently.  Which makes it sort of sound like I teach it while pulling my own teeth or standing on a sawhorse or something.  And I don’t.  Although a couple weeks ago The Hub and I attended a Cirque du Soleil performance and for at least 4 hours afterwards I was convinced all my classes would be so much better if I spent the first half of each class balancing a bmx bike on top of someone who’s Chinese.  Or boneless.  Also, a tangent to this tangent, while there I spotted Michael Moloney  who was also figuring out how to work a contortionist into his job as a designer on Extreme Home Makeover.  When he was leaving we locked eyes for a moment.  I smiled and said “Hey.” because, you know, I always can come up with the perfect thing to say in moments like those.  And he said “How are you doing?”  and I said “Good.”  So you can see, we’ve clearly started a beautiful friendship there.

Anyway.  Time management class.  I started by asking them to picture a timeline of their life.  I put my left hand up in the air and said “this hand represents the start of you and your life.”  they nodded, “and,” I put up my right hand, “this one represents the end of your life.”  They nodded again, they knew what a timeline was.  They were smart, this class of business people. Then I asked them to mentally place an X on the time line to represent where they were in their life.  “Where’s your x?” I asked.  Almost in unison, they answered “In the middle.”

Which I think is where most of us place our Xs.  In the middle.  Some may place it a little closer to the left hand and some a little closer to the right hand.  But pretty much, we all put our X’s in the middle.

Is that accurate?  Maybe.  The thing is, no matter where we place our X, we have no control of the right hand.

Take a moment if this is the first time you’ve realized that.

Ever since the nice doctor in the ER screamed CANCER up and down the hospital hallways, I’ve been living life like my right hand was right on top of my X.  You might think that’s a great way to live.  It isn’t.  I understand why people say “live day-to-day” but day-to-day can really suck.  After all, goals are fun.  Planning is exciting.  Dreaming, hoping, wondering about the future is motivating.   How can I make progress on the bigger goals if I live as if each day were my last?  I can’t.

And, of course, I can’t really live like my right hand extends to forever.  Like the end is never coming.  Because we all know it is.  I know it because I have read articles about long-term survival rates of Hodgkin’s patients and you know it because I’m telling you so.

So even though they don’t have a circus for it, this is the real trick of life - managing your behavior, not your time.  Pretty tough.  But easier than swinging through the air in tight white pants, I think.

A COMPLETE LIST OF ALL THE THINGS I MISS ABOUT CHEMOTHERAPY

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It was sorta nice to not have to shave my pits.

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ONE-HIT WONDER?

Years ago my mom was at this retreat of some sort.  She met a woman there – she met many women there – but one in particular stuck out.  It was easy for her to stick out because she talked.  A lot.  And she was negative.  A bunch.  She was a real Negative Nellie.  But my mom, being the gracious woman that she is, gave this other woman, we’ll call her uh, Nellie, a lot of slack.  The reason?  Nellie was angry.  Nellie was hurt.  Nellie was having a tough time.  My mom knew Nellie was angry, hurt and having a tough time because that’s what Nellie talked about.  Nellie’s anger and difficulty centered around her divorce and her ex-husband.  Sure.  That makes sense.  Divorces are hard.  And Nellie’s was apparently a diamond.  She had a lot to talk about.  She talked about how awful her divorce was.  She talked about how bad her marriage was. She talked about her ex’s weaknesses.  She talked about how he treated her (badly), and the things he said, and the things he did, and the things he didn’t say and the things he didn’t do and amazingly, almost every story everyone else told somehow, miraculous reminded Nellie of her ex.  And what he did.  Or didn’t do. 

Every.

Story.

After a weekend of this, of being exposed to this raw, unhealed hurt and anger, my mother turned to Nellie and asked, “How long has it been since your divorce, Nellie?”

And Nellie said, “Oh, it’s been 20 years.”

Twenty years.  IT HAD BEEN TWENTY YEARS AND SHE WAS STILL TALKING ABOUT IT.  After that, my mom stopped listening.

I tell you this story because I’m wondering, how much longer do you think I can talk about cancer before we all stop listening?

EVENTUALLY THEY ALL WANT TO BE LIKE JENNE

story

EXAMPLE 1,345,522 OF HOW WE ARE DIFFERENT

Before The Hub left the house this morning he let me know he made a “quick list” of “a few things”.  He made it clear that this was a list of things that needed to be done, not a list of things for ME to do.  Which was nice, but unnecessary.  I’m not offended by a list.  I have a certain comfort level with lists.  I’m no stranger to them.  I grew up coming home to a list every day after school.  I make my own lists daily.  Things to be done.  Things to think about.  Things to look up on the internet.  I like lists.

After I got a bite to eat, I went searching for this list The Hub left.  Although I have my own list, both in my head and written, of things I’d like to accomplish today, I figured I’d cross a few things off of his list as well.  See how nice I am?  I found the list quickly.  Being familiar with the number of tasks that need to be done around the house, I was surprised to see it was only a few items long.  Then I looked closer.

¨ Clean Nena’s room
¨ Wash Nena’s bedding
¨ Clean Nena’s bathroom
¨ Wash guest room bedding
¨ Straighten up GR
¨ Straighten up house o/a
¨ Grocery shopping

Here's my question to you:

How in the world can “Straighten up house o/a” be ONE item?

Here is that same list, as I would have written it:
¨ Clean Nena’s room
¨ Vacuum Nena’s room
¨ Dust Nena’s room
¨ Strip Nena’s beds
¨ Remove bike parts from guest bed (don’t ask)
¨ Strip Guest room bed
¨ Wash bedding
¨ Remake Nena’s beds
¨ Remake guest room beds
¨ Fluff pillows
¨ Clean toilet – Nena’s bath
¨ Scrub tub – Nena’s bath
¨ Scrub sink – Nena’s bath
¨ Vacuum and dust guest room
¨ Clean off table in guest room
¨ Straighten living room
¨ Straighten dining room
¨ Straighten office
¨ Straighten bedroom
¨ Move scooters downstairs (again, don’t ask)
¨ Load dishwasher
¨ Unload dishwasher
¨ Wipe counters
¨ Shine sink
¨ Sweep and mop kitchen floor
¨ Vacuum and dust all rooms
¨ Clean bathroom sink
¨ Clean and scrub tub and toilet
¨ Make grocery list
¨ Go to store
¨ Put away groceries
¨ Take a nap

Mars and Venus, folks.  Mars and Venus.

WHY SHE'LL NEVER WORK FOR HALLMARK

Years ago my sister made a card for my father for Valentine’s day.  It read, simply,

Dear Dad,

Happy V.D.

Love,
Carrie

He burst into laughter.  He passed the card to my mom.  She joined in the chuckles.  Both Carrie and I begged to be let in on the joke. They refused.  “Take our word for it,” my father said “it’s funny.”  He then pointed his big index finger at me and said “Listen up, you, do NOT go around retelling this.”  Good thinking on his part.  Just because I didn’t understand what it meant didn’t mean I wouldn’t run around town wishing people a happy V.D.  After all, I once retold a joke I didn’t understand to my father in a crowded movie theater that gave the 75 year old sitting behind my parents a cardiac arrest.  Something about tulips and an organ.  Yes.  I really did that.

I promised my father I wouldn’t retell it.  I did NOT promise him I wouldn’t post it on a blog when I was 37.

Happy V.D., readers, happy V.D. indeed.

Love,
Jenné

“IT HAS LONG BEEN AN AXIOM OF MINE THAT THE LITTLE THINGS ARE INFINITELY THE MOST IMPORTANT.” SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

My mom has a mess of cousins.  I’ve grown up knowing them.  They live in different places, different states.  Occasionally, 2 or 3 or 12 of the cousins will get together.  When they do, the always tell The Stories.  Sometimes it happens early – like upon meeting up.  Sometimes it’s after a few drinks.  But it always happens.  Always.  The Telling of The Stories is a ritual.  I’ve yet to sit with extended family and NOT tell The Stories. I don’t know what I’d do if that happened.  It would be a sure sign to me that my family had been kidnapped by aliens and replaced by automatons.  Even if the Mother Automaton could tell me my birth weight and size of the episiotomy that went along with my entrance into this world, but didn’t begin to tell The Stories in the presence of Family, I would surely question her authenticity.  It would, in fact, be a dead give-away.

This weekend, my mom and two of her cousins got together.  I was lucky enough to be there too.  The Stories started after dinner.     My mother grew up in West Virginia in a small coal mining town in the mountains.  And if that’s not enough to fill the story box for years of get-togethers, add to it that her grandfather owned a lumber mill and her father was the town doctor.  Add to that an extended family of mine that includes a great uncle who lost his leg on the railroad and a great grandmother who graduated college, a great aunt who died at 17 and a second cousin who went into a set of bushes and came out engaged and you’ve got generations of anecdotes.  It’s more than folk lore.  It’s the stuff of legends.  I’ve heard all of The Stories before.  About Dick Palmer (yes, that’s his real name) and the condemned movie theaters he owned.  About Erma – the live in who helped raise the family – who was mean enough to my uncles that eventually they cracked and chased her with a broom until she agreed to lighten up. About my grandfather – the small town doctor who while stitching a man’s head asked him how he was injured.

Man:  Oh, I fell and hit my head on the ketrouck
Grandfather:  On the WHAT?
Man: The ketrouck.
Grandfather:  What the hell is a Ketrouck?
Man:  Oh you know doc, it’s a rock ……. sort of scooped out, ………we feed the cats out of it.

Dick Palmer, Erma, The Cat Rock, I’ve heard them all.  I never get tired of them.   I laugh each time like they are new.  I add details – even though I wasn’t there – when details are left out or forgotten by my elders.  I’ve retold The Stories myself.    They are now, in many ways, My Stories.  I’ve earned them.  They are a part of me.  Second nature. Like walking, breathing or putting on nail polish while driving – I don’t even think about it.

Somewhere along the way, each time The Stories are told, I am forgotten.  Not just me, anyone who wasn’t actually there, didn’t actually grow up living The Stories.  Through the years I’ve watched spouses Get Forgotten.  I’ve watched grandchildren Get Forgotten.  I’ve watched my sister, my cousins, current friends and young children all Get Forgotten.  It isn’t insulting.  It’s just reality.  They try, those who are telling The Stories, to include you.  They occasionally try to segue into your life as their laughter dies down, “So … when did you two meet?” or “You were in the marching band, growing up, weren’t you, honey?” or some such thing.  But quickly enough, the conversation turns back to Frog Morton or Second-Gear Hemry and well, once again, you Get Forgotten.

It was during one of these attempts to include me into the conversations this weekend that my mother’s cousin asked me where I was living now.  “Kansas City” I said, eager to get back to The Stories.  I couldn’t care less about Being Included.  I just want to laugh on the fringes.  “There’s a song about Kansas City, isn’t there?” said one cousin. And soon all the elders were trying to find the song.  What was the song?  A song about Kansas City.  They hummed a bit.  They squinted and hit the table with fists.  They looked up, at each other, back at the table.  Oh what is that song? They all cried.

“I can hear it in my head!” one of the cousins shouted out.  “I can HEAR IT!”

“Then SING it!” another shouted.  “Sing it and save us!”

“I can’t!  I can hear it in my head but I can’t sing it!”

“AGHHH” my mother shouted as she tried unsuccessfully to pry the song from her head.  “It’s right there!” she said while pointing to her head, “right there!”

I knew the frustration.  I’ve done that before.  Heard songs in my head and been unable to sing them.  As clear as they are inside my brain, the moment I try to produce them, it all falls apart – they are muddled and sound nothing like the symphony in my brain.  Unrecognizable.   I watched the cousins all try to sing the song.  They kept trying and laughing and trying again.  One would sing a word and then la la la and another would jump in but they couldn’t quite find the right melody.   

I knew the song.  I could’ve sung it. The song is “Goin to Kansas City.”

But I didn’t sing it.  I just sat there.  I know I should have sung it.  I should have set them free.  I should have hummed or whistled or belted out the tune.  But I didn’t.  Not because I wanted them to be frustrated but because I was stunned.  Stunned because I recognized something.  Something huge.  I couldn’t quite place it at first.  But there was something there.  Something about how they were skimming around a thought unable to pin it down.  Something about them having the knowledge bumping around in their heads but not being able to articulate it.  I just sat and watched.  Watched them fumble.  Become frustrated and fumble some more.

Eventually the cousins moved on.  Eventually the pull of The Stories was too great and they were back at it.  The song about Kansas City was forgotten.  But the moment stayed with me.  It wasn’t until I was on the plane last night flying home that it hit me.

I’ve forgotten my song.

For the past few weeks I’ve been trying to fit back into my life.  I’ve been trying to find my pace again, trying to remember who I am, who I was.  I know that person.  I know her so very well.  I know how she reacts and thinks.  I know what she loves and what she tolerates.  I know what makes her laugh. I know how easy it is for her to forgive and smile.  I know her desires.  I know what she needs.  What she gives.  I can hear her, in my head.  She’s so real to me.  She’s right there.  Right there.  And the moment I try to conjure her up, she’s gone.  Instead something else comes out.  Something garbled, different.

Unrecognizable.