S4E406 - Transcript
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Living Inside “I Don't Know”: When Answers are as Rare as the Cancer
CODY: [SPONSOR MESSAGE] Dying to Tell You is supported by the Iliff School of Theology's Death Care Collective. We'll share more about them and their educational offerings later in the episode.
COURTNEY: It really hasn't been until the last year or two that there's been any actual data about my specific disease. It's been so rare there haven't been any statistics. I remember asking them straight up: "Am I going to die?" And they said, "I don't know."
CODY: At the end of 2021, Courtney, my guest this week, was feeling a little off. She'd been working out, trying hard to get in shape, and she was losing weight, which motivated her and gave her energy to keep going. But outside of that, she felt exhausted. Then she started noticing pain in her upper back — not constant, but often, and severe.
She recognized, of course, that people get back pain from slouching or sitting at a desk all day, so she dismissed it and coped with it. Then one night in January of 2022, she woke up to a loud bang inside her head and realized half of her face felt numb. She fell back asleep, woke up, and went to work as normal — but she works alongside medical providers, and several of them told her she looked like she'd had a stroke.
So they made her go to the emergency room. She was eventually diagnosed with a complex migraine and a panic attack, and sent home. Courtney has a history of migraines, so she believed that diagnosis — but she also believed it was more than that. She believed the complex migraine was foreshadowing what was coming: a sign that something bigger was going on, and that her body had started reacting differently than it ever had before.
After that hospital visit, things started to change quickly. Symptoms worsened and multiplied — severe nasal drainage, hearing loss, chest pain. Looking back, Courtney recognizes all of it as a red flag. But like most of us would, she chalked it up to ordinary aches and a minor cold, and reasonably assumed the doctors had already ruled out anything serious.
About six weeks later, she was on a trip to Mexico with her family. Her first morning there, she woke up with significant swelling in her neck. She spent the week Googling it, growing more concerned by the day. When she got home, she went to urgent care — and that sent her down a path she never could have imagined.
This is Dying to Tell You.
COURTNEY: She said, "You have a large mass in your chest." I said, "What about my neck?"
CODY: Right.
COURTNEY: She hadn't mentioned my neck at all. She said, "You have a large mass in your chest, you have to go to the hospital right away to be admitted." That was Saturday night. I went to the hospital, they admitted me, and I had emergency surgery the next day to remove the mass in my neck. That's when I found out I had lymphoma.
CODY: So the mass in your chest was what was causing your chest pain, and I assume the back pain too.
COURTNEY: Yep.
CODY: And the mass in your neck was also part of the lymphoma.
COURTNEY: Yes. I ended up with thirty-plus enlarged, conglomerated lymph nodes — probably more than that, but thirty measurable areas throughout my body. The one in my neck was about four by six centimeters, and it was pressing on my brachiocephalic vein, so when I'd lie down it would cut off circulation and pressure to my ear — and I'm assuming my sinuses too. The mass in my chest was eleven by seven.
CODY: That's big.
COURTNEY: Yeah. It's validating to hear you say that, honestly — it took me a while to understand how big that really is. They weren't singular masses either. They'd formed into these huge chunks, all across here, all the way down.
CODY: So you had emergency surgery to remove the mass in your neck, and then found out after the surgery that you had lymphoma.
COURTNEY: Actually, they told me before the surgery. They told me I had "the good kind." Literally said those words. Turns out I have one of the rarest, worst kinds of lymphoma you can get.
CODY: He told you it was lymphoma, the good kind — how was that to hear? I can imagine it landing a few different ways.
COURTNEY: I said, "What is lymphoma?" When they first called and said I had a mass in my chest, I didn't even know what a mass was. And then when they said lymphoma, I asked what that was too — I had no idea they were telling me, all day long, that I had cancer. I was freaking out. Panicking. Why am I here, why is this happening?
Eventually he had to spell it out: "You have cancer. But it's the good kind — we think it's the good kind. You meet criteria for X, Y, and Z, it's curable, you'll probably do great." And it turned out to be about a one-in-eleven-million chance of getting this incurable, super rare, aggressive disease instead.
CODY: Right. But in that moment, somebody finally says, "you have cancer" —
COURTNEY: Yeah, I broke down. I go back and read my medical notes sometimes — it's comforting, in a strange way. And the note from that night says "near panic." I remember thinking, this is when you could've written full-blown panic. I was hyperventilating. I asked for anxiety medication, and the doctor left for the night without ordering it. I told the nurse, "Call him. Get the order." I was in a full panic, and it took a while before anyone addressed it.
CODY: I know a state like that means you're not really thinking clearly at all — but do you remember what the panic was actually about? Was it "I'm going to die," or something else?
COURTNEY: I think everybody's conditioned to believe cancer is a death sentence — that's just what the media and the world tell you. And honestly, it should have been for me. It really should have been, and for whatever reason it wasn't. But in the moment, all I could think was: I just got home from vacation. I saw my kids for twelve hours and now I'm in the hospital. I just want to go home. A lot of it's a blur now, but there were a lot of nightmares, a lot of panic attacks.
CODY: You said it should have been a death sentence for you. What do you mean by that?
COURTNEY: My whole body was covered in cancer. I think the only reason I'm here is my age — this disease usually shows up in elderly people. I have grade 3B follicular lymphoma, the rarest and most aggressive form of follicular lymphoma, and it's treated like a high-grade B-cell lymphoma — those spread fast. On top of that, I have triple-hit lymphoma, which means every one of the relevant genes is abnormal, all telling the cells to keep growing, don't stop.
I think back to the scan I had that first Saturday versus the PET scan I had less than a week later — it showed substantial growth in that time. I didn't actually register that detail until a couple of years later, but it really drove home how quickly things were spreading, and how lucky I was.
CODY: You've described showing up in Mexico, finding this thing, spending a week Googling it, getting home, and then it all just cascades — urgent care to hospital to emergency surgery. There's a runaway-train feeling just in the way you're telling it. What happened after the surgery — was it more of that same momentum, straight into chemo?
COURTNEY: I didn't go back to work like I'd planned, which honestly bummed me out a little. I started chemo within twelve days of my initial diagnosis. In that window I had what I started calling my "Cancer 101" — going to the cancer center for the echo, the PET scan, the bone marrow biopsy, the port placement.
I still have the journal I was keeping that month — it was basically my calendar. Mexico. Urgent care. Surgery. Cancer center, cancer center, echo, PET scan, bone marrow biopsy, port, chemo.
CODY: That's very fast.
COURTNEY: Yeah — the bone marrow biopsy and the port went in the day before I started chemo.
CODY: How was the chemo itself?
COURTNEY: It was cumulative. The day of infusion is fine — I had R-CHOP, five chemo drugs plus steroids. It's about five days later that it hits — white blood cells drop to zero, you need the shot, you're just down. The first round was okay. The second was worse. The third was worse still. By the fourth round they told me, "not today" — my counts were too low. I'd been trying to keep working in between rounds, and by then I just couldn't do it anymore.
CODY: That's something we haven't touched on — you weren't just going through this alone. You had kids, a job. How was it, telling your kids or not telling them?
COURTNEY: My kids were young — three and five — which I think actually helped, because they didn't fully understand what was happening. If anything, I got to spend more time home with them. We just kept talking about it openly the whole way through, so it became part of normal life, because this is going to be normal life forever. I didn't want to hide it and then have some big reveal moment down the road.
CODY: Right — "by the way..."
COURTNEY: Exactly. It sucks that they'll never really know me without this, but they've handled it well. We joke about it, even. It's not taboo in our house.
CODY: [SPONSOR MESSAGE] Are you feeling called to care for people nearing the end of their lives? Providing informed, competent care matters — that's why Dying to Tell You has partnered with the Iliff School of Theology's Death Care Collective. Whether you're a seasoned professional or just beginning to explore death care, you'll find programs to help you develop the skills to offer excellent spiritual and emotional support to people approaching the end of life. Several DTTY listeners have taken courses through the Death Care Collective, and the feedback has been overwhelmingly positive. If you're feeling called to this work, visit iliffdeathcare.com.
CODY: You mentioned this is something you'll have forever. How long did it take you to really understand that?
COURTNEY: Honestly, I feel like they held back the full severity from me — probably as they should have, at the time. Or maybe I just don't remember, because everything was so stressful. I've ended up learning more about my own disease than anyone told me directly. I've connected with people who work in cancer research, and it really hasn't been until the last year or two that any real data has existed on my specific disease. It's been so rare there just weren't statistics. I remember asking straight up, "Am I going to die?" and being told, "I don't know — I need to look up some numbers," and then them calling me back because there weren't any. I don't even remember what the numbers ended up being. With AI now, it's changed the game for me — not exactly "doing my own research," but spending real time looking into my diagnosis. There have been promising new studies in just the last year, but it took a while, because I don't think anyone was ever fully honest with me early on.
CODY: Tell me what you know now that you wish someone had been honest about from the start.
COURTNEY: I found my actual diagnosis by reading my own biopsy and FISH report. It said: Grade 3B follicular lymphoma with impending transformation to DLBCL, positive for triple-hit lymphoma. At first I didn't even understand what that meant — I remember wondering if I had three separate cancers. For a long time I just sort of forgot about the "triple-hit" part, even though it's one of the most dangerous pieces of it. To this day, I don't think I've had an actual direct conversation with my oncologist about the triple-hit finding specifically — it makes me wonder if I should just ask whether they've even looked closely at the FISH results. Once I put it together myself, I realized how serious it is — my relapse risk is high, and if it comes back, it tends to come back worse, and more resistant to treatment. It's scary.
CODY: You started chemo quickly and went through — three cycles? Six?
COURTNEY: Six cycles. We're in 2026 now, so this was four years ago — obviously something worked. It was cycles of depression and anxiety, then coming out of it, over and over. The depression was the worst part — the mood swings, the thoughts that I was going to die. But I got through it, finished after six cycles, and had a complete response.
CODY: And that's remission?
COURTNEY: I think so — remission, no evidence of disease, I honestly don't fully know the technical difference. But it's held since 2022.
CODY: How often were you going in for scans?
COURTNEY: Every three months at first, then it got stretched to six months, and then — as of my last appointment — to yearly. Which is hard. I've had to really work at accepting that.
CODY: I've talked with a lot of people lately in a similar spot — good response to treatment, but living with the knowledge that it could come back. If it were me, I'd want scans every week just to be sure. Three months sounds reasonable to me, in theory. Do you ever get to a place where you actually trust that things are stable?
COURTNEY: I'm actually in the middle of something like that right now. It had been six months since I'd seen my oncologist — I didn't call, didn't message, I was proud of myself for not reaching out. Then the Friday before my appointment, I looked down at my arm and found a lump.
Before I did anything, I told myself I've been known to be hyper-attuned to changes in my body — which, how could you not be, after everything?
CODY: You're vigilant.
COURTNEY: Right, but I knew — this is a lump, it wasn't there before, it doesn't match my other arm. I brought it up at my appointment that Monday and my oncologist agreed it was concerning. And it's been an absolute nightmare ever since. I've noticed that once you reach a certain point — I don't want to say you become less important, but your perceived risk goes down. You're treated differently, even with real symptoms. I don't think that should be the case, but I'm struggling right now because I've lost almost complete function in my arm. I burned my finger and didn't feel it. My hand is constantly numb, my arm is swollen, I can't sleep on it. It took fifty days just to get an MRI — the order was wrong, then it took forever to get corrected — when normally that would happen same-day.
CODY: I spent a long time in the medical field, and I understand how that happens — it's routine for us, so it's easy to forget how much weight it carries for the person going through it. For us, this is happening to almost everyone we see. For you, it's only happening to you. I think there's an intuitive urgency when someone's freshly diagnosed — we want to be extra careful, extra present. I'm not making excuses, but I understand how that gap opens up. I've told residents I've worked with: I know you see this constantly, but everything happening in that room is the most important thing that's ever happened to this person.
COURTNEY: I totally get it.
CODY: And that urgency the patient or family feels — it's often just not matched on the other side. It must feel infuriating and helpless, to have your oncologist agree something's concerning and then run into fifty days of nothing.
COURTNEY: It wasn't nothing exactly — it was a series of really unfortunate events. An ultrasound that showed nothing. A CT scan that covered my neck, chest, abdomen, and pelvis, but never actually scanned my arm. Urgent care, an X-ray — "your bones look fine." Another ultrasound to rule out a blood clot — none found. My primary care doctor, who I love, told me she thought it was just part of my anatomy. I got scheduled with an orthopedist, then that got canceled because it was the wrong type of orthopedist. Finally got back in front of my primary care doctor — a big emotional appointment — and that night I went in for the MRI, and they told me it was the wrong order, for my forearm instead of my elbow. I was sobbing. Eventually they corrected it, and I finally got the MRI this past Thursday. I'm supposed to see a new orthopedist this week.
CODY: Any results yet?
COURTNEY: Not yet.
CODY: So you're just sitting here with me, wondering what's going on with your arm.
COURTNEY: Honestly, I think it'll come back as nothing — that's just been my pattern. But I also know something is going on. I'm not making this up. And the more people tell me it's "probably anxiety," the more certain I am that it isn't. I have a master's degree in clinical psychology — I know anxiety, I live with anxiety, I work in anxiety. But I also know the difference between a somatic complaint and a real one. Trust me, I wouldn't be here if I just thought I was anxious.
CODY: Anxiety is powerful, but I don't think anyone's ever been anxious enough to stop feeling their own hand when they burn it.
COURTNEY: Right — I actually took a needle and tested it myself. Nothing. No feeling at all. It hasn't changed since.
CODY: What has this diagnosis, and living with it, taught you about yourself?
COURTNEY: Honestly — that I like myself. It's brought me closer to who I am. It's forced me to learn a lot about myself, especially in the hardest moments, when it's just me and I have to pull it together, because this is going to be my life for however long that is. I don't want to dislike myself for the rest of this journey. It's taken real healing over the last several years to get here — to a place where I actually like who I am. And that's helped me advocate for myself, and trust that when something feels wrong, it is, without needing anyone else to validate or invalidate it, because I'm confident enough in myself and my body. It's taken a long time to get here, and it hasn't been all sunshine — but I do think I'm stronger and more resilient than I ever thought I was. Those things are just easier once you trust yourself.
CODY: I don't know if that's cliché, but it's true. I've encountered a lot of sick people, and in conversations with other medical caregivers, I hear things like "I don't know how they find the strength to keep going." In my experience, people are more resilient than they realize — when faced with something incredibly difficult, they just do the next thing. I think that's a good lesson for everyone: almost all of us have the capacity to get through hard things, even if we haven't been tested yet. That's genuinely encouraging to me.
CODY: I also wanted to ask about something — it's actually what first made me want to reach out to you. It seems like you've had people put their faith onto you in ways that weren't exactly welcome.
COURTNEY: The biggest thing people say when something big is happening in your life — medical or otherwise — is "I'll pray for you." I used to just take that with a grain of salt: "Okay, thank you." I'm not a religious person now — I was when I was younger, and I have some religious trauma from that — but I've grown away from it over the years. I was fine with people saying it, until one day I came home to find mail addressed to me from an unknown sender — no return address, nothing. I still have it.
Inside was a little Bible study booklet that asked, "Have you been saved?" And I remember thinking — this is really scary, and inappropriate. As a matter of fact, I haven't been saved — my parents forgot to baptize me. They baptized my sister, just not me, for whatever reason. It felt icky. I kept thinking, how could you do this?
CODY: What did that feel like, exactly? I imagine violating — you're assuming someone saw you on TikTok, looked up your address, and sent this.
COURTNEY: Exactly that. It felt like my personal space had been violated. I showed it to a few people and got two kinds of reactions: some thought it was sweet, that someone was thinking of me. Others thought it was genuinely creepy. I kept coming back to — if it was well-intentioned, why no return address? If it wasn't something they felt needed to be hidden, why be afraid to say who they were? It made me really uncomfortable.
It also made me resentful, for a while, toward people who constantly say "I'll pray for you." I never asked for that. The things I actually ask for, people often don't follow through on — but "I'll pray for you" costs nothing to say. It can feel like an easy way out of doing the actual thing that was asked. I don't know what it's supposed to accomplish. Only one person has ever actually asked me first — "Is it okay if I pray for you?" — and I really appreciated that. I know you can't ask everyone individually, but I don't know why more people don't.
CODY: It sounds like "I'll pray for you" is doing the same work as "thoughts and prayers" after a shooting — a way of sounding compassionate without actually doing anything.
COURTNEY: Yeah.
CODY: And it's the easy stand-in for the harder, real compassionate act, which — like you said — often doesn't happen. It can end up being lip service. Though I know there are people who genuinely believe their prayer matters, who really do sit and think of you. That's a different thing. But "I'll pray for you" can also become a kind of weapon — "I have this answer and you don't, but I'll extend it to you anyway." It can be weaponized in a pretty ugly way. Your instinct — why not just ask — is exactly right.
COURTNEY: I've actually posed that question publicly a few times since then, and it's gotten mixed reactions. Some people got genuinely upset, took it as an attack on their faith. But I've also had some really good conversations with people who have a deep, sincere faith — not to downplay that at all. I don't know enough about religion these days to speak to it directly, but those conversations helped me understand more about why people default to saying it. It doesn't excuse it as a go-to phrase, but it helps me understand it. The people who've stuck around through those conversations get it. The ones who don't — that tells me something too, especially given everything happening in the world right now that makes me stop and question a lot of it. But I do think it's okay to believe in something that works for you. I've seen some genuinely beautiful things come out of real faith.
CODY: Like when someone dies and people say, "well, they're in a better place" — they mean well, but nobody actually wants to hear that. The better place is here, with me. Saying that to someone grieving isn't helpful, even if you firmly believe it's true. "I'll pray for you" can land the same way — and at the very least, it often means nothing.
COURTNEY: Someone told me, just the other day, essentially to stop crying — that the cancer was going to do what it needed to do, and if it took me out, I'd be in a better place with no more cancer.
CODY: What —
COURTNEY: That's where it gets weird for me.
CODY: Is that supposed to be helpful? Because I genuinely don't understand how.
COURTNEY: No — I'd rather keep fighting to be here.
CODY: It discounts everything in your life — your kids, your husband, everything you do. If you follow that logic all the way through, why would anyone get medical treatment at all? You'd just lie down. It doesn't make sense, and I doubt they meant it that way, but it's not helpful.
CODY: You're in a kind of limbo right now, waiting to hear about your arm — is it local, is it a recurrence, what happens next. I'm curious what you're hoping for.
COURTNEY: Just direction — one way or another. If it's this, I have a plan. If it's the worst case, I have a plan for that too. Because if it is a recurrence, I'd actually have a shot at CAR T therapy, which comes with better odds and longer-term survival. Right now I'm just waiting, waking up every day wondering, "is it today?" CAR T is the thing everyone with this kind of disease hopes for — but you can't access it until you've relapsed enough times. So it's just a waiting game.
CODY: Tell us what CAR T actually is.
COURTNEY: CAR T-cell therapy is kind of the miracle treatment right now for a lot of things, especially lymphomas. It's similar to a stem cell transplant, but instead of using someone else's donor cells, they take your own T cells, re-engineer them in a lab, and put them back into your body to go after the cancer cells directly. It's more effective, from what I understand, than a standard transplant. It's the treatment everyone hopes for — it's just strange to be in a place of almost wanting the chance to qualify for it.
CODY: I hope it's not a recurrence, and that you get more time either way — and if it does come to that, that this treatment works for you for a long time. I'm sorry you're in such a hard, uncertain place. There's not much I can do about it, but I'm sorry you're there. I know the waiting is hard.
CODY: In palliative care, we talk a lot about legacy work — there's something called an ethical will. It's a document where you write down the lessons you've learned, the things about yourself or about life you'd want to pass on to your kids, or grandkids. I didn't give you a heads-up on this one — but off the top of your head, is there anything you'd want to pass along, from everything you've learned living with this?
COURTNEY: Just — be kind. Getting diagnosed in the middle of COVID, and now living through 2026, has really taught me what it takes to be a good human being — and what it doesn't take. There are a lot of examples out there of what not being a good person looks like, and that scares me. My biggest fear is leaving my kids behind in a world full of people like that, without knowing how to be kind themselves. I've needed so many people to be kind and patient with me, to work with me as I've had to rebuild a new life — and it's taught me to be kinder myself. I think just being a good person is the whole goal.
CODY: That's the most important thing. How do you teach that to your kids?
COURTNEY: Mostly just trying to model it. We don't talk a certain way in our house. If they tell me about something that happened at school, I'll ask, "did you do that, though?" — I want to make sure they're not the one being unkind. I try to build their confidence too — telling them I'm proud of them, that they should be proud of themselves — because I think confidence is what eventually gives you the ability to be kind. That's something I've had to work on in myself too, lately — learning to trust myself, after a long time of not being able to.
CODY: I think that's it exactly — it takes real confidence to be kind, and to not be a bully. A bully is often a scared person; that comes from a place of weakness. Kindness takes strength, and courage — maybe paradoxically, it's a really vulnerable way to be. It's easy to say, but hard to actually model, and hard to learn — especially now, when so much cruelty gets dressed up as strength, and nobody wants to look vulnerable. But it's the strong thing to do. Thank you for teaching that to your kids — I think that matters enormously.
CODY: Last couple of things. You mentioned you were religious in the past, though it sounds like the baptism never quite happened —
COURTNEY: (laughs)
CODY: — but you've moved away from that, and I imagine you've done some thinking about your own mortality these last few years. What do you think happens — the afterlife, or the lack of one?
COURTNEY: I don't know. I go back and forth — I sort of hold two separate thoughts at once. Someone once told me that if you see a penny face-up, it means someone in heaven is looking out for you, and I've adapted that into something that fits my own belief system. I don't know if I believe in heaven or hell, but do I think there's something? Yeah. Do I know what that something is? Absolutely not. And then other times I think — I'm just a floating space rock, and when that goes away, there's nothing. That's when I get into the existential spiral of "then what?" I don't know. I think about death a lot — just not usually about what comes after.
CODY: When you think about death, is it more about the process itself?
COURTNEY: I think I try to normalize it in myself, in preparation — but without letting myself dwell on it too much, because it scares me. I try to hold onto the fact that it almost happened, very quickly, once already — enough to remind myself I'm not more special or exempt than anyone else, but also that I do carry more risk than most people. Someone could walk outside and get hit by a car, sure — but my odds of dying from this cancer are significantly higher than most people's. That's a real, added weight I carry. I think about it enough to stay prepared, but I try not to let it go further than that.
CODY: I think that's a genuinely healthy practice — giving it some space, letting it sit with you a little, without letting it take over. That balance is hard to strike. I'm kind of with you on the afterlife question too — on my more hopeful days, I hope there's something after this, and that it's good. On other days, I think: realistically, there's probably nothing. The electrical activity in my brain stops, and that's it — the TV unplugs, and everyone else just keeps going. I don't know. I've never met anyone who's come back to tell me otherwise, so it's hard to really know. I don't know is a good answer. Last question I ask everyone: how do you want to be remembered?
COURTNEY: Just as someone who was kind, and who wanted to — I don't know quite how to put this — but even the hardest parts of my life have taught me about the injustices other people carry, ones I hadn't recognized before. Sometimes you don't know until you know. Being sick has taught me a lot — but also how much worse it is for other people, how broken the system really is, and that if I have to fight this hard, other people are fighting ten times harder. It's not just about me — it's about a whole group of people. Connecting with people on TikTok has helped me see outside of myself, and honestly, it's been healing for me too, selfishly, especially during a genuinely hard stretch for the world. I just want to be remembered as someone who was kind, and who cared about other people.
CODY: I love that. Let me reflect back what I heard, to make sure I've got it right — it sounds like living through something this difficult has made you more aware of all the other difficult things people are carrying. Is that right?
COURTNEY: Yeah, yeah.
CODY: I love that. It's good.
CODY: If people want to find you and follow along — see what's going on with your arm — where should they look?
COURTNEY: My TikTok handle is Cancer Courtney. Funny backstory — one of my best friends has a sister also named Courtney, so it kept getting confusing which Courtney she meant. She started saying, "no, I mean Cancer Courtney" to tell us apart, and I actually really liked it.
CODY: She could've just said "Courtney's sister" — but no, Cancer Courtney it is.
COURTNEY: It just sounds good. It's catchy. I love a play on words, and a dark joke, and it stuck.
CODY: People can find you there, follow along, engage with you — and not say anything mean or creepy while they're at it.
COURTNEY: That would be nice.
CODY: Well — thank you so much, and good luck.
COURTNEY: Thank you.
CODY: Thanks.
CODY: Thanks to Courtney for joining me on the podcast. I know it's been a long road, and there's more still to come. I hope you'll keep advocating for yourself, and that you find the answers you're looking for. If you'd like to watch the video of this interview, you can find it at patreon.com/dyingtotellyou — you can subscribe there for free. Remember to follow Dying to Tell You on social media, and help us spread the word to get these stories to as many people as possible. Thanks for listening. This is Dying to Tell You.
