Random Babble-0-tron

So, for those of you that have spouses on the road, be warned. My husband works out on oil rigs, and apparently he's exposed to influenza strains that are not Strain of the Year in the flu shots. Cough. Hack. Wheeze. Whimper.

Despite the cold, my dog is out in the backyard trying to herd squirrels. You can't tell a Corgi that squirrels aren't herdable. She just won't listen.

First thunderstorm of the year last night, so spring in Tornado Alley looks to be a real doozy. Felimid is usually oblivious to thunder, but last night, he crawled up into my arms and whimpered. It was LOUD.

The new kitten is fitting in well -- perhaps too well. Last night, he even had my anti-social Siamese playing tag with him around the house. When all four of the boys got going, I considered locking myself in the bathroom. That's a LOT of feline weight for them to throw around, since Oz is a huge huge cat, and Felimid is Jabba the Butt. Everyone but the crotchety "Scrappy Squirrel" Manx plays with him -- and she hates everybody. Cranky old girl.

I know, I know, another post from me without pictures? I'll fix that.


Tag swap at Scrapbook.com. The collar tags on the central cats are done in shrink plastic (and have a cat face on them, natch). The additional faces added are cut from a large cat collage stamp, and attached with foam strips.

More tag swap stuff. I need to get pictures of the last two sets.

Any "No Reservations" fans out there? I adore Anthony Bourdain (perhaps it could be called an obsession, after all, I own all his books, including the Mafia fiction), and he's way too entertaining on TV.

Last night, however, the show was rather emotional. Tony visited New Orleans, discussing the aftermath of Katrina. The only other show that had been this tense before was the Beirut episode. Even seeing Tony finally sit down to talk to Emeril, who has been the butt of SO many of Tony's jokes, wasn't as entertainingly fun as expected. Very serious show, but worth a watch.

Wubba wubba wubba -- what?

DG is off and running to a rig again. While the timing wasn't great for kid reasons, we need the money desperately, so it's copacetic. Of course, he got the phone call while he was cooking dinner, and was told to leave Now. They gave him an hour to finish up and get repacked.

Thing 1 just turned 15 this Monday. Who's feeling old? Yes, yes, that's me (and probably a dozen or so folks that knew her when she was a baby). Today was Goblin Day at her school, and thus full costumes were allowed (barring the usual Bible Belt rules of no cross-play (no guys dressing as girls -- but of course, if a girl dressed as a male character, they wouldn't say a bloody thing -- UGH), had to stay in school dress code, if you wanted to wear a hat or partial mask you had to pay for the privilege, etc. Those of you with weak hearts don't want to see the pics when I get them posted. Trust me.

I have little skin left on my fingers from finishing her wings. At least now they're definitely asbestos-skinned towards heat. I so love a good glue gun. Or even a crappy one. Mmm, adhesive!!

And the dd with her wings for her Halloween costume.

My computer is definitely temporarily D-E-D. Half Life 2 was not its friend, and the video card has gone kaboom. Unless anyone out there has a spare PCI-E video card they aren't using and don't mind sending along, I'm stuck without a machine for quite a while.

The fridge, which had croaked, I managed to kick (and had the bruise to show for it) back into something resembling function, but not function that I would trust. However, our doctor neighbor that has saved my butt a few times on weekends with meds is moving (and this makes me not happy) and was getting rid of everything she could. Networking is your friend. So I asked about the side-by-side fridge in their garage.

It's now sitting in my garage, waiting for some muscle to help me switch them out. Free. Frankly, it's much nicer than ours EVER was. Free.

I also managed to get bunk beds from them, and while they don't have mattresses, there's at least one set of box springs, and they're old sturdy hardwood bunk beds that can be assembled separately. Both Things have decided they no longer want to sleep on futons, so this was good timing. Just have to figure out a sleeping surface before we put them in their rooms.

The weather has been nice, finally. 50s or so at night. I finally needed something other than just a sheet last night for the first time, and the AC wasn't even on. About time, considering our electric bills. It's actually 60* out there right now, at 11 am. Shiny. Of course, this led to DG leaving windows open, which led to me and tubby cat not being able to breathe. This fresh air stuff, clearly, it's not good for you.

Still out of ridiculous amounts of medication, which isn't good for me either. At least I still have some Lidoderm patches, and my seizure meds, and my bp drugs finally, but everything else -- newp. And of course none of the ones I need are on WalMart's $4 formulary. Figures, huh?

Ah, the familiar sounds of annoyed barking in the backyard. Zoe's after the squirrels again. She LOOOOOVES chasing squirrels. The squirrels? Not so much love. We tried to tell her about the mob of Russian squirrels mauling that other dog, but she didn't seem to care too much. The dog is also much happier now that the weather is cooler, and no longer minds going outside. She's like me, she hates heat. It's odd, because it's not like she has long fur to deal with -- she's got the sleek Heeler coat, on that Corgi body -- but even the idea of going outside when it was 100* made her whimper and try to refuse. Now, she'll stay outside for hours, just to get to chase the squirrels as they race back and forth above her head.

48 Hours

Just hit 48 hours with No Nicotene At All. No cigarettes for a while -- heck, I couldn't breathe to begin with, much less if I tried to smoke. Bleh!

Not even the patches. None. Nada. Zip. No Nicotene. Of course, no patches is because we can't afford em.

No one is dead ... yet.

I'm still feeling the twitches and wanting a cigarette, but it's pretty much all psychological now, and not physical craving. My brain wants a cigarette. Habit wants a cigarette. Body doesn't NEED one, so this is progress.

.... still waiting for the "you'll feel SO much better once you quit" part, though. Clearly, the cigarettes had nothing to do with my being unable to regularly breathe through my nose -- ah, I love ragweed. With the pleurisy, I'm still hacking and wheezing, in fact worse than I did when I was smoking normally and not sick.

And worst of all, my nose, which is horribly over-sensitive, now REALLY works. I can smell things from blocks away. This is not good when a cat does something foul in a litter box. And food ... oh man, eating is difficult with the nose. ANY smell that isn't Totally Perfect, and I can't eat it. Seafood is now totally out, because even normal fishy smells are too strong for my nose to handle.

I'd forgotten how sensitive my nose was, and forgot that was part of WHY smoking was "good" -- the honker didn't sniff as much.

Heck, I gagged opening my ink box today. All the chemical-y smells of the ink, in an enclosed plastic box ... yep, almost hurled.

It DOES get better ... right???

I <3 my pain clinic!

SO, as a few of you know, the pain levels have been kicking my butt lately. I noticed that the nasty brain spikes started returning the day after I took my last prednisone and antibiotic, and wondered if it was related.

The pain doc said: "Absolutely." With a dental abcess, and my occipital neuralgia, the pain from the abcess, and the stress of infection and the prednisone, it aggravated the occipital nerve to the point that my last block wore off about a month or two too soon.

I'm scheduled to have needles shoved into my brain yet again on the 7th of September. That was the earliest they could get me in, and they APOLOGIZED for that. COOL!

I asked my pain doc about getting something to take at night, something that would last longer than 2-3 hours, because I'm sick of waking up and having to take more drugs. He did offer a stronger version of my current pain med, but darnit, I'm sick of pills. I have to take way too many on a daily basis as it is. So I asked about patches.

He said the Duralgesis patches aren't any good for acute pain, and they actually have to build up in your system. Then he stopped, and asked if I'd tried the Lidoderm patches. Why, no, no I hadn't.

..... Oh. My. God.

First off, they're huge, so I have to cut them down (which also means I get more usage out of each scrip), since I don't exactly have a big neck. I worried a bit, because I have some adhesive allergies, but the adhesive on these is really, really mild (in fact, it barely wants to stick on the back of my neck, darn hair).

.... And. They. WORK.

Not only do they work, they work directly on the area that HURTS, and doesn't affect the rest of the body. I can still take other pain meds without a problem at the same time. More importantly, they don't screw around with my brain or perception, so I don't feel all drugged up.

AND -- I can use them when my RSD sets off a joint or severe muscular pain elsewhere on my body, with direct to the pain relief.

My husband called earlier to check in after my appointment, and he said I sounded a hundred times better than I did yesterday.

Well, yeah, of course -- I can move my head without whimpering now, and my neck muscles are even loosening up a bit because they aren't clenching over the pain.

Wheeee!

Why I am Not Currently a Useful Pooka

I've been feeling awful lately. Constantly exhausted and fatigued, everything aches, I'm shaky, my head hurts ...

Turns out my blood pressure meds aren't working. When I went in today to the doctor, I got the OMFGBBQ stare. My BP, ON meds, was 154/114. They did a blood draw to check kidney and liver function, and surprisingly, everything was Perfectly Normal. At least I'm not killing myself with all the pain meds. It's just everything else that's trying to kill me.

I get back from the doctor today, to find out that a dear friend has finally lost her battle with cancer.

There's other really unpleasant stresses going on that aren't helping with my miserable health.

Darnit, I need a hug. *SIGH*.

So, I finally DO get a new diagnosis -- not a surprise, considering that every time I see a doc, they tell me something else is wrong with me. This one, though, was a relief.

Vasovagal syncope. A new diagnosis for my lengthy list, but at least it means I'm not having regular mild heart attacks -- I'm just screwed up in another totally new way, yay me.

(Note: "Syncope is usually preceded by at least a few seconds of symptoms that may consist of visual disturbances, buzzing in the ears, lightheadedness, sweating, nausea, or other symptoms. Individuals who have had syncopal episodes usually have an excellent idea of what prodromal symptoms to expect. It is important to recognize these symptoms, because if you do, syncope can be averted virtually 100% of the time by lying down and elevating your legs. If instead, you choose to fight the episode, you're likely to pass out in the frozen foods section, and the store manager will insist (for well-founded legal reasons) on shipping you to the E.R. in an ambulance – where you'll be subjected to a battery of unnecessary tests and probably an overnight stay in the hospital." -- amen. At least I'm used to this happening, and know how to keep me from passing out in the middle of a place, like I almost did Sunday night when I had another attack. Sheesh.)

My BP meds were upped again, just to be sure as well. I go back in two weeks to check my BP with the new meds, and go through a whole fasting physical and some massive amounts of bloodwork to narrow down the list of why I'm constantly run into the ground.

I'm tired of this shit. Can I go home yet?

In Search of the Lost Chord

I'd like to know where the words went. If you find them, please send them home with a nice note pinned to their lapel so that I might properly recognize them. I haven't seen them for so long that they've become strangers to me.

Part of my brain told me very early on that I was going to be a writer. That subversive element was encouraged by a handful of family members, gently molded and warped and coaxed into growth by those that believed in me. It was a thing that wanted to become so very real to me, and I've clutched desperately at clinging tendrils of coherent thought for as long as I can remember.

That part of my brain didn't listen to the other bits that decided to develop a debilitating neurological condition that is slowly eating away at not only my ability to think clearly, but to remember.

The words are nowhere to be found.

Yes, the words filling this post are words, but they aren't The Words, the elusive ones that remind me what it was that I wanted to do with my life. They aren't the words I've been searching for, you don't need to see our identification, move along.

I fear that my condition is growing worse, a stealthy intruder that only steals away the bits and pieces that you think you won't miss until one day you're looking for them, only to realize that they've simply vanished. Teri had a brief bout with my hysterics over it one afternoon when we were discussing the glories of her new DSL, and I suddenly discovered ... that I didn't know anything anymore.

I couldn't tell her what we were using, if it was a switch, or a router. I didn't KNOW anymore. I eventually had to ask DG, King of the Luddites, because I couldn't wrap my brain around simple concepts that I SHOULD have known.

I'm living a Jackie Chan movie, where everything new I attempt to learn and everything old that I struggle to remember is peppered with a loud chiding, "Do you understand the words that are coming out of my mouth?"

No. I don't. And most of the time, I barely understand the words that are coming out of my own.

I'm not a particularly verbal person on an aural level. Conversation has never been particularly comfortable for me unless I'm surrounded by close friends. My stutter was beaten into submission years ago, but still chooses the worst possible times to reappear and torment me. The chemical reactions that link thought to word to speech don't connect properly, there's a short circuit in there that tangles even the clearest of thoughts until they come out jumbled and stammered. It isn't performance anxiety. I could make it through a script and belt out the lines without errors up on the stage. It's simple, normal, conversational speech that trips me up.

From thought to word to fingers, however, has generally remained constant. I type as swiftly as I can think up the words, my brain whipping along at violent speeds without my train of thought suddenly skipping over and taking Greyhound instead.

The words have left me. THE Words. In preparing a journal revue, I was horrified to discover so precious little of true substance to present. I could follow the slow seepage of coherent thought as I went through the years, seeing the words sliding away into some unknown place that I no longer seem to be able to access.

Where do the words go when they're cold? When they're lonely and scared, do they hide beneath the desk as I did when I was a child, with a blanket pinned down by books, reading in the near-dark by flashlight as I tried to ignore my parents screaming over the topic of the evening (usually "Where did we go wrong with that girl?" "It's all YOUR fault, you didn't ....")? Hiding in the sheets among the nest of pillows that only provide comfort and not protection from the harsh voices? Are they timid, like me?

Do they hunt for the sunshine like cats, languishing in puddles of light and waiting for someone to come along and stroke them? Are they out in the garden, drifting between the flowers and leaves and kissing the butterflies that pass them by? Have they sought the candlelight, dancing in the flames?

Where are the words? They're not in bottles of alcohol, or hiding under cigarette butts in the ashtray. They aren't littering the floorboards of the car, or hiding in the dirty dishes crowding the sink. I've looked there, I know.

Yes, these are words. But they are not THE Words.

I am searching for them, while my mind is still able to wrap around them, to caress and know them intimately, while I am still able to reach out and touch them and mold them into the shape that my thoughts desire.

If you find The Words, I beg you: Send them home.

Penny the Poked Purple Pooka

Why did the orange stop in the middle of the road?

He ran out of juice.

Ah, Laffy Taffy. Inane, and yet so accurate. Welcome to my day.

Neurologist appointment, check. Note on check-in that I had lost another 3 or 4 pounds, groovy.

Poked, prodded, stuck, forked, reflexed, pushed, pulled, teetered, wobbled, and generally abused in every basic diagnostic way. Tuning forks are fun on the side that works, marching fire ants on the bad one. Wee me. Nasty little pokesy things to test sensation SUCK. Or stick. Whatever.

RSD diagnosis fully confirmed, forehead to fingertips, forehead to knee on my right side.

Fibro ... is actually an Iffy now.

Immediately ruled out my medications as being a cause. One more scratched off the list.

Doc does a few tests, takes a look at my meds, has kittens over the amount of Neurontin. We're not doubling it. We're not tripling it (well, we are ... for a week). He ranted and muttered a bit about my low dosage. I'm now looking at a daily total of 1800 once we reach that point. Maybe I'll stop falling down all the time now. The muscle seizures long ago surpassed spasms.

Said that for my condition, muscle strength was good, once I could force my body to resist the pushing and pulling. Of course, I have no coordination or balance whatsoever. They just won't listen to what my brain is telling muscles and nerves to do.

Multiple referrals and appointments made.

Tentative initial diagnosis on top of the usual, Peripheral Neuropathy. Just consider that just a generic "We don't know what's wrong yet," but he agreed that something was very wrong with my nervous system. Noted the "to rule out MS" scribbled next to name on sign-in info.

I had blood drawn today for 9 different tests.

Next Friday, I have an MRI and full dye-injection contrast MRI of my skull.
That next Monday, full dye-injection contrast of my entire spine.
That Wednesday, nerve enduction and possible EMG.

I'm not a Pooka, I'm a medical guinea pig.

Fall down, go boom

My bad leg stopped working in mid-step. Just quit. Threw me sideways into the corner of the Things' doorway. Side of head and my right arm took the full impact.

Last thing I remember is thinking "Fuck, that HURT!"

I don't know how long I was knocked out. But my right arm was caught under my head, and all of the blood on my hand was dry. I figure I was out cold for a good five minutes.

Woke up to Thing 1 crying and tapping me in the head. "Mama, do I need to call 911? Mommy, please wake up." Somehow she found my cellphone and the charger to call DG. I have no idea what woke her up. Instinct, maybe. Happened too fast for me to scream.

Haven't been this nauseous from an injury since I got thrown off a horse. Really dizzy. Shaky. Felt frozen for hours. Took every blanket on the bed and then some to stop the shivering.

Top to bottom.

Line from right temple to jaw. Top cartilege hole now big enough for 3 earrings. The one in it had to be cut off. Back to it is still missing. Stone fell out because the prongs were too busy cutting into my ear. Nurse Voodoo assisted the removal procedure. Ear is really swollen. Lobe enlarged and a small cut there.

He also held my hand while DG cleaned it. Ow.

Thank you, Will.

Right arm. This is the bad one. I'm pretty sure it hit the wall first. Shoulder joint throbs and normal motion is not only painful, but nauseating. Swollen. Line of knife-edge pain down outside of arm along tricep. Possible cracked bone. Trying to wait it out in hopes of being able to move better. It is COLD here, and I can't move my arm to get dressed. Can't type with it either.

Right knee. Actually the best of the lot. I'm not sure what I hit with it. Skin is missing, like a rug burn. Hurts more than the impact bruise under it. Maybe it just kept folding and I landed on it. Puffy, but I can at least hobble with the cane.

Don't worry, Heidi. I'll get you pictures when the bruises finish blooming.

Ow. Ow.

Dear Santa

Dear Santa,

Please ignore my age and any past suspicions that you weren't real. No one else is listening, and I think I've moved beyond the hope that prayer is going to do any good.

I want my body to work again.

I hurt so bad, Santa. The last two weeks ... I'm sitting here crying, Santa. Every day the pain seems to get worse. I can't even control my own hands. I'm shaking and aching and nothing is making it better. I have bottles of meds that do little more than dull the increasing agony.

I'm tired, Santa.

I'm tired of hurting, tired of disappointing my children and my family. I'm tired of waking up in tears because the pain is too much for me to stay asleep. I'm tired of having one of my children ask me a question, and suddenly going completely blank. I'm tired of going 3 or 4 days with only a few hours sleep total. I'm tired of waking up feeling more exhausted than I did before passing out. I'm tired of the drugs, I'm tired of the doctors, and I'm tired of being tired.

There's a wheelchair on my Christmas list, not because I want it, but because I'm slowly losing the ability to walk. The cane doesn't do me any good when my arms won't work. I have a handicapped placard for my car, the one that is permanent.

I want my mind back.

I want the brain cells that have been short-circuited to wake up. I don't want the fogs and confusion and frustration. I want to be able to do a damn crossword puzzle without bursting into tears because I can no longer remember anything.

I want to be there for my family. I want to be able to stand up long enough to make dinner. I want to be able to make bread again, or even something as simple as a cake. I want to be able to go to school plays and open house and go roller skating with my kids at parties.

I want to remember what my husband told me five minutes earlier without him having to tell me again. And again. I want the look of frustration and the growl in his voice to vanish. I want to remember being me, and I can't even remember what it was like.

I want to help my kids with their homework. I want to splash in puddles with them and chalk up the sidewalk and go to the zoo. I want to hold them in my arms, I want to be hugged, I want to be touched by them without crying because the pain of contact is too great.

I don't want my children to be afraid anymore. I don't want to hear "Is Mommy going to die?" I don't want to hear "Mommy, I hope you get better." I don't want my children to have to pick up after me because I can't hold onto anything and can't bend over to get whatever I knocked over.

I want to make love to my husband again. I want to be touched. For it to not hurt. I don't want to be scared of it.

It all seems so very selfish, but Santa? For Christmas ....


.... can you give me back to my family?

Total Recall

How do you remember? What does it take for a moment to sear itself into your memory? Pain, joy, grief?

How clear is your recall?

I remember the day the Challenger exploded. I was in my computer math class, with the scary bug-eyed bleached blonde teacher. We had a TV on in the room while we worked. We couldn't believe what we saw. Surely ... The loudspeaker came on. The principal, a definite hard-ass, was crying.

I remember the day that DG proposed. I remember what I was wearing (and I still have the skirt, though it stopped fitting me years ago). I remember the car he was driving. I remember when he pulled over to the side of the narrow country road, and I gave him the "what the hell?" look as he stopped. Not a lot of passing room. He shushed me, got out of the car, picked a handful of wild flowers (including some black-eyed Susans), opened my door, got down on one knee, and asked me to marry him.

I remember the night that my paternal grandfather died. I was in bed, it was late. The phone rang. I heard my father start to sob. I've never heard him cry like that. My dread of late night phone calls started then. My father sounded broken.

I remember the day DG came home, with that hesitant little smile. I met him at the door, since he didn't come further inside. He took my hand, and slid the ring on my finger. A silver band of roses from James Avery. My engagement ring. So I would always have fresh roses, no matter the season. It all started with a rose, after all.

I remember the day we went to pick up my baby sister from the adoption agency. I was only 3 and a half at the time. I remember, because as we were getting back into the car, I cut my hand on something on the seat. A deep slice, between the webbing of my fingers.

I remember the phone call from Sabrina. I was getting ready for a date, Charlie was already at the house. She was crying, and as she tried to explain, the news show finished the story. We'd heard sirens maybe half an hour before. Two of our graduating seniors, two of the most popular and friendliest guys in the class, had an accident only a few blocks from our house. A drunk driver ran a light. One was killed instantly, thrown through the windshield. He wasn't wearing his seat belt. His passenger was critical for weeks, and suffered permanent brain damage. Graduation was only two weeks away. I always wear my seat belt, have from that moment on. And when we pass the cross erected where the accident occurs, I still tear up.

I still remember falling/jumping out of the persimmon tree that was in the field behind our house, knowing fully that my grandfather was there below. I knew that I would be safe, even if I couldn't fly.

I remember "falling" into the lake with my sister. "Don't get wet," my mother would scowl as we left with my grandfather. "Oh no, we won't," we'd tell her. And every time, we "accidentally" managed to fall in. And since we were already wet ....

Blackberries. I remember trip after trip with my grandfather, many times with me on his back. "No, THAT one, Poppie!" And he'd bend and pick that very one. We'd go out with bags and buckets, and every time we'd come back with only half full, and me stained utterly purple from lips to fingertips, scratches from brambles on us both. They never tasted so sweet. I had to pay for blackberries this year. It hurt. And they just weren't as good.

I remember seeing the look on DG's face the day Thing 1 was born, the day he thought he was going to lose us both. The day he almost did. I remember feeling like I was floating (blood loss isn't such a bad way to go), and my only worries were for DG, and for the baby that wasn't breathing.

I remember playing Danny's Game Boy (Tetris) while I was in labour with her, and the doctor coming in, scowling, and asking me if I knew I was having a contraction. I told him to hush, I was about to get a high score.

I remember Danny showing up right before visiting hours were over and after we'd both been dragged back from death, with food, with a huge chocolate milkshake. I hadn't eaten in two days before that. Milkshakes haven't tasted as good since then.

I remember ... GRRR ... that because Thing 1 was two weeks late, that DG and Roy used MY tickets to Jethro Tull and WENT WITHOUT ME to the concert while I sat in the hospital and sulked. Damn them! :P (Yes, I told them to go. We'd paid for the tickets anyway, no use in wasting them. The bastards.)

I remember getting the phone call saying that my great-grandmother was in the ER and that it didn't look good. We rushed to Tomball, and then SAT and sat, waiting. She had still been alive when we got there. By the time they talked to us, she was gone. They let us into the room to see her. She was still on the table in the triage room. I remember the towels over her throat to cover the emergency trach that failed. And I was Angry. Furious. I fled. Ran out of the room, out of the ER, down the halls ... I remember stopping when I couldn't breathe anymore. A nurse came over, gentle, with a clucking scold that I was bleeding on her floor. Somehow, in my flight, I'd ripped open the back of my hand.

I still have the scar.

I remember the absolute ROAR that Thing 2 gave out when she was born. The doctor and nurses were startled. No butt-spanking for this kid. She was out and ready to take over. I remember the words: "Oh, she has a birthmark" and utterly panicking. Imagination took over fast, but it turned out to be a relatively cute round brown "witchmark" under her right arm on the side. Talk about foreshadowing against the future.

I remember the utter shock at having my name called out after our UIL One-Act play performance for All-Star Cast. I remember my father, chasing me down after we were through to hand me an enormous bouquet of pink roses. I remember power-barfing in the bathroom AFTER we were done. I always let stress go afterwards. Before, I was the rock. I remember, in my shock at being named to All-Star, seeing an old boyfriend in the crowd that I hadn't seen in years. Jeff smiling, and giving me the thumbs up.

It is amazing how we remember, and the clarity that surrounds some moments and yet is absent from others. The human brain is an amazing thing, and it frightens me now that many of those pathways are being closed off or severed as my illness progresses.

Still, I think that, no matter what happens, there are some things that will never be forgotten. There is always paper, there is always my journal to record those moments that might slip away.

I will hold them to my heart forever. No matter how painful, or how full of joy they might be. It is my past, my history, my future, and they are parts of what has made me who I am.

just me, pretending to be