Poetry 8-27-2026

Sometimes, whilst one is going through the previous year’s poetry to put it all together, one finds something written by a kinder heart. I wrote this with a kinder heart. A heart that (erroneously, okay) started to open in the presence of gentleness. It’s a trip, knowing this feeling existed once, inside my chest. I guess that poetry is good for being the time capsule that reminds you, occasionally, that love was almost. I guess it is also, sometimes, good for reminding you that you were right to have put rocky ground between you and others.

Photo by Image Hunter on Pexels.com

Rocky Ground

the path to my heart

is unjustly perilous

even for me

the travesty of sharp drop offs

make it nearly impossible

to find to enter to heal

this hermit atop high summit

has banished herself there

a strong fortress

to defend against love

and all the ways it has

failed and fooled and lied to her

better the quiet solitude

and steep loneliness

better than to be drug down

the mountain ever again

I made the trail to my heart

impossible

but your steps are soft

respecting the land

the danger and beauty

of it,

just as it is

ever onward, every upward

to gently knock on

the spiked door

shrouded in thorns

and ask

I am still at home

am I here?

You’re here

want to come out?

the sunlight is beautiful

and I brought you

an apricot

to share

its only me

its only love

I exist,

I’m here,

even if you don’t

open the door

I’ll wait

Word(s) of the Month: Lacrimae Rerum

In a slight deviation from last month, I’m looking through a different book by Robin Devoe. “Dictionary of the Rare, Creative, and Beautiful” is a book with strange and beautiful words but also “cool-sounding names from history, poetry et alia“. There are some fascinating and funny examples in this book (take for example: Brandolini’s Law or the BS asymmetry principle which states that the amount of energy needed to refute bullshit is an order of magnitude bigger than that needed to produce it. AKA every day of Trump Administration en toto.)

Today though, we’re going to talk about lacrimae rerum which at first sounded like some kind of yarn art that you do over and over… ha. hahahahahaa… See my past post on malapropisms if you have a hard time understanding what my weird little brain does. But no. This is not a rerun of macramé. This is something much sadder.

Lacrimae rerum is latin for: the inherent tragedy or sadness of human existence; literally: tears of things.

The inherent sadness of our existence. The undeniable knowledge that is taught to us by almost every world religion, and made concrete with every scientific revelation. We are impermanent. And most of the the little time we have in our conscious, physical existence is plagued with suffering. Not just physical suffering of a body that springs up in painful-bone growth ways, but also begins to decay and hurt as we age. Add to that the inevitable pain of wanting things and people (to stay the same, to have, to love, to pay attention to etc.) and not ever really having them. Suffering is caused by wanting, desiring, and never being able to have in perpetuity. Because there is also the universality of change. Everything will always change. So we can never really hold on to anything.

Along with that, there is a certain sadness in knowing our own mortality. While it can be a great driving force to experience and live our lives more fully, it can also leave us feeling regretful that we don’t have more time or perhaps have ‘squandered’ said time on ‘unworthy’ pursuits. It has yet to be proven or disproven whether any other animal on Earth has consciousness of it’s own death, and what that means in terms of its very existence being snuffed out. We do know that some animals practice rituals around death, and even grieve. But do they see in themselves, the ending of it all? Do they wonder if there’s something afterwards? What a horrible price to pay for such big and beautiful brains, am I right?

When we think of inherent anything, I feel like it’s short sighted to believe that there is only one inherent emotion. I have seen too many humans with inherent joy at their existence, to think that it’s all just sadness. Perhaps when the phrase was coined, it came about to explain the great tragedies of the time and of the stage. Perhaps it was to bring us all back down a notch and remember our sadness. Hey, you kids! Stop eating, drinking, and being merry! Have you forgotten tomorrow we die? Focus on worthy pursuits so your one wild life is not lived in vain! Or some such nonsensical mashup of ancient Greece and Mary Oliver.

But perhaps being aware (all this goddamn awareness) of our inherent sadness…our bone-deep tragedy of loss, of disappointment, of death, is the ocean we must build seawalls against in order to actually live. Don’t get me wrong, we all deserve a good ‘woe-is-me’ fainting on the couch moment. And I’m a huge proponent of painfully hard, cathartic crying once in a blue moon, but what if we can build a sturdy wall to stand on amidst it all. A rampart against the pounding waves, and ever rising and falling tides, to watch the swells from? If our hearts and brains (those stupid, beautiful, big brains) were meant to be awash in tragedy, then I believe we were also built to notice, accept, and eventually find beauty in the tears of all our things. We grieve because we love. We fight against losing, because we love. We miss, we pine, we ache, because we love. So maybe the great sadness of things is really our funny little human hearts constantly saying; ‘this is beautiful to feel this sadness. This is beautiful because it means I care. This hurt is beautiful because I would not and do not cry over what I do not care for. This is beautiful because a lifetime of loss comes from a lifetime of loving. Of being in love with the inherent act of living. Of knowing it is short. Of knowing we will lose. Of still wanting to love despite it all.

So…as you go about your day, and you find yourself down from some unavoidable loss, or tearing up over something tragic, and you start to think of the great lacrimal sea of sadness inside of you, I hope that you find the purpose in it all to still smile. Life is a beautiful, tragic, heartbreaking, enigmatic ride that no one prepares you for, and no one can tell you how to do properly. Except to love it. In all its joy. And especially in all its sadness.

Poetry July 23, 2026

I’m not sure what to say about these.

Both about two different people…two different souls. And I’m always in wonder at how my heart can hold so much, and how much it is constantly asked to let go of. And how defiantly (and dumbly) it doesn’t. I guess that’s why poetry exists, n’est-ce pas? To have a convenient shelf to set our hearts on when we can’t bear to walk around with their contents sloshing unevenly in our chests? Anyway. Here’s poetry.

tender ache

weren't you just
the subtle pine rising
from penitent footfalls
along quiet trails

weren't you just
the romantic glide
of a train across forested peaks
the anticipation of journeys
towards something better

weren't you just
the late summer glow
of sun kissed honey
dripping into the waiting cup
of succulent apricot flesh

weren't you just...

weren't you just

the hard turn left
that slammed
my heart's momentum
into a concrete pylon

weren't you just
the biting words
tearing away at
delicate seams
of newly grown flesh

weren't you just
the coldness
of an unexpected glacier
cleaving through my underbelly
sinking me into the dark

weren't you just

weren't you just

the tender ache
that would not heal
living respite

You would think,
that laughter among friends
would dull the incessant ache
of missing you

but somehow
in any joy
I miss you more

daydreaming, apart from crowds,
that you sit across my table
eyes crinkling with the absurd
infectiousness of silly mirth
like bird wings in my heart
and shoulder shrugs of
isn't this life terrible?
beautifully terrible?
but when your eyes meet mine
it feels

only beautiful

knowing you exist
is like a breath added
to the dying embers
of hope

you're still the only thing that helps me sleep

I imagine you slide into bed beside me
curl warm length into my cold lonely
chin tucked into my neck,
arms like blankets
hold me close
and push out the rest

I'm so glad to finally be here
you say

like the day was long without me

I'm so glad.
Photo by Ron Lach on Pexels.com

On Letting Go and Holding On

Approximately three days ago, my daughter Madelyn was a boisterous and fancy-dress-loving two year old. She would wore through not one but two (in growing sizes) Tigger costumes, bringing light and bounciness to her preschool, the grocery store, the library story hour, and daily walks. She would sing and dance (usually in her underwear and draped in all the scarves she could find in my drawers), splash in puddles, cuddle up to me for hours a day, and she taught me everything I know about patience and the importance of staying present in the moment you’re in.

Today we’re getting the keys to her apartment, in Leeds, UK, where she’ll be attending University. Thousands of miles away from home.

Away from me.

And I knew this day would eventually come. I just didn’t think it would seem like three days worth of time, squished into 18 years. Getting to be next to her as she grew up through her boisterous youth, to her unsure and difficult middle school era, to the renaissance of her bloom where she came into her own thoughts, and opinions, and power in the last few years has been, hands down, the best adventure of my life.

Honestly, I don’t know how I managed to steer her little boat down this great big life river to where we’re at today. She’s such a sturdy and reliable vessel, that I often wonder if someone else raised her. Because on this day, and for the past few months really, I’ve been a wreck of a dingy.

Her resilience and perseverance are the only reasons I didn’t lock her in her room and tell her she could pick a nice online program to attend instead. For someone who has worked so hard to be self sufficient, patient, kind, hard working, and just in an unjust world…it would be a grave disservice to not let her spread her wings into this world that so desperately needs her. As my grandparents and parents have always said. We don’t raise them to stay at home and need us. We raise them to go out into the world and be good humans. So I’m learning to let go, I am leaning into embracing this time of her. Because it is. It’s her time now. And how amazing that she gets to spend it, invest in it, experience it, with me still as her mom?

There will be, inevitably, a lot of letting go and holding on in our lives. Family, jobs, relationships, loved ones, hopes, dreams…change and flow with the actions and inactions of the world. Learning when to loosen your grip and when to hold tighter is a difficult dance and the choreography is always changing. So this week I encourage you, as a writer, a human, and a soul…to think about what you’re holding on to. And ask you if it serves you…If not, why are your fingers so tight? What would happen, if you let go of something meant to fly? Not everything is ours to keep, after all.

For me, and Madelyn, letting go is an act of love that tells her I trust her, and I believe in her. It tells her that I’m excited for her life and for what she’ll do out there in the world. It tells her that I know she has brighter (and probably darker) days ahead and that both with teach her about life and finding her purpose. It tells her that I know she’s got this. But it also tells her that I am here and I will hold on to her in my heart, where she’ll always have a home. A big old oak tree to sit beneath when the world gets too loud and too busy. My roots will be there to sit within. My branches always here to give shelter. I will hold on to the bright memories and the endless giggles and curiosities, to remind myself that we are all borne as stardust into this universe and we are all born knowing. We are all, always, undeniably connected. Only the world makes us doubt these undeniable truths. I will hold onto this knowledge for her, in case the world makes her doubt it.

Hug your kiddos, hug your loved ones, hug yourself. (I’d caution against hugging strangers…best not to unless invited and both consenting) Remember you are stardust, glowing and bright. And that means, in terms of the vastness of the universe, that we’re never, really, very far away from each other even when we’re miles away.

Poetry 7-31-2025

Hey there. Last week was a series of battles between work, life, and a newsletter. It was a growing time, a time of transition and time to try and wrap my head around the growing responsibilities in my life and what that means for my writing. It was also a time of softness. Moments of respite, and fostering some connections that felt good and expansive to my heart. Life is a wobbling balance act, and lately I’ve felt more wobbling than balance. So here’s some poetry, from both ends of the spectrum.

Meditation on Old Wounds

See how turbulent winds
blow sweet words away
sand on black top
sand on black top
clouds in blue sky
the blue sky where nothing good sticks
where every promise comes with
an emergency life vest,
and when I get scared,
I can pull the cord
explode the meaning
dismiss it for a lie
another half-truth
sugar sweetness to
worm their way in
and nothing is true
but the stink of my rejection and
love is a dark cloud
I must constantly clear away
clear away
to empty blue skies
lest I be caught in the storm
once again battered
sand on black top
why do I continue reaching
for the chance to be seen
to be known
in all my stormy dark
when I am unknowable
I will wiggle my way out of any noose
of supposed love
it only hurts
it only hurts
it only hurts

except
when
it doesn't


Reawaken

Feel this ancient rumbling
shake and tremble
below what was once
barren ground
the river springs to life
from the soft and patient rains
bubbling up from
the forgotten cradle
soaking the ground
feeding the forest
until it overflows
warm and crashing
over banks
mountainous peaks above
hardened in cold breaths
and warmed
with praise, of god-like hands
and the land settles
into its rhythm
of pulsing
electric
joy

Poetry 7-3-25

Travel leads to thoughts. Interesting new connections and inspirations do too… Travel also leads to not a lot of time getting to sit down and make up blog posts. So I hope you’ll forgive me for posting two poems in a row. This is an older one, not in my current headspace, but always, somehow, tattooed beneath my skin.





Remember Your Lines

What does depression feel like?

Like I want to sleep forever

but every time I fall into that

blissful unconsciousness,

I hope I never come back out

that it’s just a peaceful send off

So long…have a good flight

Don’t call when you get there.

Because…that would be weird

And freak everyone out…

It feels like…

I can’t feel

sunshine, or joy, or pride, or hope

I’m a slab of granite,

wavering on two crumbling pillars of sandstone

stuck in quicksand and sinking

and I don’t care if I go under

in fact, I welcome it and hope

it suffocates me

with calm commands,

breathe in…breath out…and hold

like an MRI of your final moment

but it never tells you

to breath in again

Depression feels like

I have no energy in my synapses

and even if I did, nothing I could do with it

would be worth anything to anyone

least of all myself

Depression is a gray, weighted blanket

only not for comfort, it’s for the unsurmountable load

that life gives you to carry

and you just can’t find a good enough reason

to carry it anymore;

but you can’t find your way out

from underneath it either

Depression is seeing through eyes

that are a movie screen

to an audience that lost its will to care

lacks empathy, doesn’t recognize

Art

or love

or fleeting time

or beauty

Depression is a cage that I shout meaningless words out of,

fake platitudes

in hopes no one else falls into the cage next to me

I’m fine!

You’re fine,

you’re fine, baby girl

you’re fine…

I love you

it’ll be okay

It’ll be okay is tattooed beneath my skin

so that I don’t forget these

lines to a play that I rehearse and repeat,

back to the world that asks

Are you?

Okay?

I look down to the scars I once cut

but can’t cut again; they’ll see

Children learn from watching

so I don’t show,

I tell…

I tell lines

I tell them the lines I need to tell

I tell them,

Though the world is burning around us

and women will never be safe

and human lives don’t matter

cattle for the breeding grounds or

simply to slaughter to the gods of capitalism

Stop!

don’t say that…

don’t project the hopeless…

Read the line

Read the provided line

not the truthful line

of scars….

It’ll be okay

I’m

Okay

You’ll be…

… will you be?

Okay?

Depression is lying to loved ones

so you never have to worry that you’ll be

their downward spiral,

the same scythe of your mother’s loss

that cut you down

Cause we’re all Ok

we just need to…

I just need to

Remember my lines

Poetry 5-22-25

I’m in a weird mood today. This is the season of transitions, of pressures and demands, and I feel like I’m shutting down in the face of so much of it. Here’s a weird poem to align the inner workings of my mind to the outer life, relentlessly attacking.

Sweater

I put your memory on
like an old sweater
in all the little winters
of my despair

Here the arms pull through
to hide the stinging cuts
Here, ribbed neck fraying
to protect from the noose of loss

Here the cabled warmth
falling over my eviscerated belly
Here your memory tucks my vital pieces
back together, safe and warm

The woolen comfort of words
I will never hear again
from nights you probably don't remember
a softness in the dark, held briefly

I am a lint fuzz on your shoulder
but you are my favorite sweater
the one I cannot sleep without
the only thing that offers relief

Purpose and hope exist
in the scratchy bulk
of a garment I once borrowed
but was never mine to wear

I put your memory on
like my favorite sweater
in all these winters
of self-imposed despair.

I saved an earthworm…

To be exact, they were what I would deem a “nightcrawler”. On my rainy walk, with my rescue dog River, and her distaste for the wet (I think it’s the pit bull in her mix) we encountered the large under-dweller, struggling against the asphalt. I watched for a moment. Remembering, that as a child growing up in a dry state (Wyoming), we rarely saw worms that size. If ever you did, was a good omen to gardeners and those were the ones you never took fishing. I bent down lower than my 45 year old knees liked and gently picked up its twisting body, and placed them gently in my palm where it squirmed for freedom, even from a small safety. The rain poured down around us and I let myself feel all of the tickling, wriggling, slightly slimy motion of a life in peril. I took them tenderly towards the grass and out of the space where tomorrow’s sun on the blacktop would bake them, and set them down.

“There you go buddy, good luck.” I said and a woman walking her dog on the sidewalk, moved carefully away from me.

Why don’t we care for things anymore? When did we become so crass? How is it we have become too busy to save even the smallest of consciousnesses? I’ve been thinking a great deal about ‘modern’ life these days, and how less like actual life it feels. “Life” is suddenly something we are fed, by those who control the information. Life is on screens, and filtered to be pretty, it’s reductive, or ridiculous. Competitive and unrealistic. It’s shallow and degrading. When was the last time you held something in your hand that was real? A worm? Your child’s hand? Dirt from your garden? A pen? An apple? Someone you loved (known or in secret) arms wrapped tight and trying to stop time, just for a minute? When did you notice last, a being in struggle? Did you stop? Did you help?

I no longer want to be part of an unreal world. I don’t have years to waste on anything not authentic. What is the point? If I only have so many days, why would I spend them sucked into an algorithm? I want to hear my friend’s voices. I want to read their handwriting. I want to see them across a table or next to me on a walk. I don’t want to be force fed advertising, and told that I need wrinkle cream. As though the natural progression of my body is not something to rejoice in and enjoy. I don’t want to be told in spiraling doom scroll what this world amounts to in the number of likes or angry faces it has. Watch the volley of hatred and hurtful ignorance between neighbors be slung around like poisoned arrows. See artists reduced to fodder for machines, and the brainwashing of it all being NECESSARY, take us over, as though we have no choice in the matter. How can we really justify, as artists, “needing” a platform that abuses and misuses our hard work? I can’t. I never had any big hopes of making it in the industry anyway, so I’m not going to keep buying into a system of false promises, while it robs me of my creativity and passion.

We haven’t always been this way. Don’t you remember?

I know I will miss out. Your faces, your lives, the beauty of your progression in the world. I will not see you. I won’t get to laugh at your memes or comfort you in times of loss. But I will think of you. Just because I’m not there, posting weird writing shit, or poetry, or my bastard of a cat…I am here, thinking about you. Whether we’ve been friends since the fourth grade, or you just joined my writing group, or you read my books, or you gave birth to me…I love you. You don’t need the algorithm to tell you that. You don’t need Facebook as a go-between to keep us connected. I’m here. Loving you. Hoping good things for you. Wishing you a day better than you thought it would be, every day. Each one of you. No likes necessary.

I feel a bit like Neo. Taking the pill. To wake back up to what is real. And it’s scary. And I don’t know if I’ll just be forgotten. Maybe I will. But I suppose the hearts that forget me, I never really had residence in to begin with. Today’s the last day and I’m a little scared. The connection it offered was wonderful, the addiction it’s brought me to and the worry it sustains, is not healthy. For any of us. Here’s where you can find me:

  • BlueSky: @sereichertauthor
  • SubStack: @sarahreichertauthor
  • Website: https://www.sarahreichertauthor.com
  • email: director@writingheights.com
  • Address (I love letters and will send you one if you provide a return address): NCW, 4128 Main St, #144, Timnath, Colorado 80547

I hope I see you in the real life. I hope you find the balance you need. I hope you don’t give in to the idea that you’re data points and not a living, breathing, squirming, fighting, good-omen of humanity. I won’t be there anymore, but I’ll be around.

Photo by Grafixart_photo Samir BELHAMRA on Pexels.com

Poetry 4-10-2025

The Other Half Lives

She breaks the silence
with the crack of a match strike
instant whirl of smoke
and snap
open jumps the flame

She’s Magic on dark nights
when I need reprieve
from myself
when I yearn
to slip into someone
else’s skin and be
the one my parents
warned me about

The kind who lives truth
through match strikes
and bared teeth and
hard, dirty alleys
rough brick scraping
backs of thighs
and halting breath
that never begs

Unleashed from boredom
She carries the burning ember of strife
at the end of her cigarette and
coaxes the glowing cinder with
deep inhalations
Blowing out sinuous tails
through lips
split by love

Back again for more?
Quirked eyebrow, pierced and dauntless

yes, again
pray unbroken lips
with underground currents
of tightly wound desire.

S.E. Reichert

One Month Away! Book Launch and Deals

Ya’ll, I haven’t been so excited about a book coming out since…well ever. I started this book a couple of years ago at a writing conference. It was a rare and beautiful madness, where the characters would regularly interrupt me on my morning commute to the kids’ camps, my Peloton rides, my hikes, in line at the grocery store, with little snippets of their life. Like I was a radio that would pass by their frequencies and catch conversations. Notes were drawn up on my phone, scraps of paper and notebooks. Eventually landing on my screen. Only I didn’t write it as one novel. This book started out as two separate novels, one from each perspective that I then had to go back and merge into the finished project. It was messy and strange, (and an absolute headache for my editor I’m sure) but through it all, I’ve never gotten to know two characters more intimately.

It’s safe to say, I’m in love with them both. I need a Charlie in my life. I think we all do. I think we all need a Meg too. Someone to remind us what’s worth living for. To kick us in the pants when we feel too sorry for ourselves. To be in our corner, no matter what.

So, I hope that you’ll preorder it. Preordered sales count in the total number and it can really help an author to be seen in some of the bigger markets. Its not so much me that wants to be seen. It’s Charlie and Meg. I want the world to know them. So pre-order if you can! But if you want a little something more, I’m running a special book package for No Words.

If you chose to buy the book this way, you’ll be sent a signed copy of the book and some goodies, hand selected by me. The price will include the shipping cost. More details will be released in a couple of weeks, but if you’re interested now (I like to start making my list) shoot me an email (with the subject line No Words Special) or DM me on my socials.

I will also be crowing about the book launch and book signings that are currently getting hashed out, so please stay tuned for those and if you’re in the area, stop on by! I’d love to talk books and writing with you, and sign some copies. Dates and places to be announced soon.

Here’s a little excerpt:

Charlie asks me to meet for coffee the morning after Bradley’s departure. I, of course, comply. Coffee with Charlie always breaks me out of my mood. If there’s anyone crabbier at the world than me, it’s him. Plus, I love to hear him talk. About anything and nothing. I love the way he sits back and listens, discerning brows pulled together, as though he’s contemplating my words. As if I matter. I’m curious as to why he asked me and didn’t mention Gina coming along. Her birthday is coming up soon, and I’m sure Charlie, in his old-school romantic way, has devised a plan he needs help with.
What a man to find, I think as I put on my worn red boots to navigate the slush-deep sidewalks. It’s ten blocks but I don’t have enough for fare today. When I arrive, Charlie is there, already seated, readers on and mouthing answers to the crossword. I watch his lips count through the window. The spaces, the letters, making it all fit. He looks up, a graying curl on his forehead. He waves me in.
He looks pale. Paler than I’ve seen him in a long while and his bright blue eyes pop against his skin. His mouth is downturned, like he doesn’t want to talk first. He rarely does.
“Hey!” I puff out and the breath feels hot on my cheeks.
“Did you walk all the way?” he scowls.
“It’s a lovely fall day.”
“It’s twenty degrees out, Meg.”
I shrug and take off my coat, I settle in, nod for coffee and don’t allow even a moment before I dive into the dramatic end scene of Bradley. Charlie remains a statue as I recount the far-too familiar episode.
“And that’s how I ended up with all the rent and none of the sex.”
Charlie’s scowl deepens. “Well, thank God. The guy was a grade-A moron.”
“He got into Cats.” I say over the menu.
Charlie rolls his bright eyes over his readers and levels them on me.
“He couldn’t get into a bag of chips with scissors. The man was a talentless hack and you shouldn’t have paid his rent as long as you did.”
“You’re just saying that to be sweet.” I sip my coffee and looked out over the busy city street outside. The cloudy morning spits gray flakes against people’s faces as they walk by. I set aside the menu. I can’t afford toast, let alone breakfast.
“When have you ever known me to be sweet? Go to hell.” Charlie studies his puzzle again. I watch him from across the table. I love looking at Charlie. His wild and curly hair, unkempt and disrespectful. His face a map of a million laughs, handsome but in total, unrefined.
“Thanks,” I whisper. For the moment of stability, for reaffirming my faith in men. He reaches out, without looking up from his puzzle, and places his warm hand over mine with a squeeze.
“How is Gina?”
Charlie pauses, and with him, my heart. He never pauses when talking about Gina, he’s over the moon in love with her. There is always some news, some show, some smash hit that she’s working on mastering, filling up their brownstone with repeated notes and lines, and the sparkle that is Gina. There is no pause to a life so full. Charlie clears his throat.
“It’s back.”
The words are like a double hit to my chest. I don’t have to ask what ‘it’ is. It’s only be five years since it took root in her the first time. Now it takes root in me, with the kind of despair that steals words.
“Charlie, no.”
“Yes… It’s bad, Meg.”
I ache with anger. I want to throw my fist into something, but I’m stupid and weepy instead, so I take his warm hand in mine.
“What can I do?”
“Be here,” he says.
I sniff and look up to staunch the deluge. My crying doesn’t help any of us, and he certainly doesn’t need to feel worse for my tears.
“Ok. How is she?”
“Tired,” he shakes his head, tucking the paper beneath his plate. I watch him take off the readers and rub his eyes. “This time is already worse.”
I’m at a loss. What the hell do you say to that? I’m a fuck up, not a doctor. I have nothing to give him, even after they’ve given me so much. My heart aches and I’m desperate to do something.