Starting hospice. The end

August 4, 2024 By in cancer Tags: , 64 Comments

I’m entering hospice. It’s time, and realistically past time. The squamous cell carcinoma tumors are growing, and the two doses of spot radiation I got on June 10 and 12 have utterly destroyed whatever quality of life I had. This weekend, a nurse came by and did some planning with Bess and me. Our extensive efforts to find and start another clinical trial have turned out to be futile, and I’ve withdrawn from the next-best potential clinical trial, BGB-A3055 in Dallas, at NEXT Oncology, because there’s no feasible way for me to do it (the people at NEXT, however, are and have been amazing: if you’re looking at clinical trials or live in Dallas, schedule a consult). HonorHealth in Scottsdale, where I live, has a TScan slot, but my physical condition remains terrible for essentially the reasons I’ve written about so extensively that there’s no need to belabor them. My days and nights are filled with unrelenting coughing, hacking, and pain. My whole jaw area is numb, likely from tumor growth. I wonder how much (or many?) of the headache I’m experiencing actually come from tumors, rather than coughing and other problems.

Why hospice? Bess wants the support, after I’m done. There are rules and bureaucracy even in death, and although she admits to being bad at asking for help, she feels overwhelmed now, and certainly will be later. Her bandwidth, she says, is only for me. The details about what comes after are too much, and too distracting. 

I’ll keep reading messages until close to the end, though I may not have the strength or presence of mind to reply. I exist in a hazy, druggy fog. I’ve heard Tyler Cowen say in podcasts that he finds the fascination with people’s last words to be overblown, because at the end of life people are rarely at their cognitive peaks and often forget the constraints and desires that drove much of their lives (I’m paraphrasing and have probably gotten some nuance incorrect).

One virtue of a prolonged end is that I feel like I’ve said everything I have to say. I don’ t know that I have a favorite, but I’m fond of “I know what happens to me after I die, but what about those left behind?” Same with “How do we evaluate our lives, at the end? What counts, what matters?” I’m tempted to keep citing others, but if you scroll down into the archives you will find them. I meant to turn these essays into a memoir, but that is a project never to be completed by me. Bess assures me that she’s going to complete the project and do her best to get it published. We’ve created so much together in the process of building our life, and Bess says that doesn’t need to stop just because I’m not physically here, and that putting both our baby and our book into the world gives her immediate future the purpose that she’ll badly need.

Though having my life cut short by cancer is horrible, I’ve still in many ways been lucky. Most people never find the person who completes them, I think, and I have. I’ve been helped so much. Numerous oncologists have gone above and beyond. Many people, friends and strangers, have asked if there is anything they can do to help. The #1 thing is to support Bess and our soon-to-be-born daughter, Athena, whatever “support” may mean—the most obvious way is the Go Fund Me, as any remaining funds will go to Athena. I wish she could grow up with her father, but that is not an option. Being a single mom is hard;[1] growing up without a parent is hard; I cannot see what Athena’s future holds, except that I think and hope it will be bright, even though I will not be in it, save for the ways in which friends and family promise to keep me alive for her.

If you want to donate to research, I don’t know the absolute best place, but one good-seeming choice is the Arc Institute: “Arc researchers pursue both curiosity-driven exploration and goal-oriented research. The institute will initially focus on complex diseases, including neurodegeneration, cancer, and immune dysfunction.” They don’t have a turn-key donation page up yet, however, so send them an email and ask: “Why not?” I also got a lot of care under Dr. Assuntina Sacco at UCSD’s Moores Cancer Center, which does have a turn-key donation page. Let’s make the future better in every way than the past. Donations can be made in memory of someone who has passed.

I wrote earlier, in “How do you say goodbye?”,

The gift must be given back, sooner or later, willingly or unwillingly, and sadly it seems that I will be made to give it back before my time. I have learned much, experienced much, made many mistakes, enjoyed my triumphs, suffered my defeats, and, most vitally, experienced love. So many people live who never get that last one, and I have been lucky enough to.

One friend wrote to me: “You did good—when the time comes, I hope that brings you additional peace.” Many of us don’t get what I’ve had: the opportunity to live a full, generative life with people who I love and who love me back. Yet I was able to have all of it, for a time.

[1] Though if anyone can do it, and find a way to do it successfully, it will be Bess.

64 responses

  1. Thinking of you and Bess and Athena. Thank you for sharing your life, your words; may the road be easier for those after you. Have learned so much from following you this past year. You shall be remembered for a long time to come.

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  2. I hope you frame that picture for your daughter. All the words. And none of them. The look says it all. Unconditional everlasting and forward love. Thank you for sharing with us strangers. My world, at least, is better because of you.

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  3. Thank you for your blog. It’s been an exquisite pleasure to read for the last couple of years or so. I’m subscribed to about 200 blogs, through my newsreader, but I was always looking forward to your next post. Except for these last two.Thank you both for sharing your journey with us, through the hell that is head and neck cancer. Hope that Bess keeps on blogging. She too is immensely talented. Thank you for your posts regarding the FDA bureaucracy that prevents experimental treatments to reach metastatic cancer patients, and for trying to help fellow cancer patients. You made the world a better place.

    My heart goes out to both of you and your family. I’m so sorry that you won’t get to see your daughter. She will be very proud of who her father was, I’m sure. I can totally understand why Bess loves you so much. You are special, and won’t be forgotten.

    May you dream of your loved ones forever… till you meet them again.

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  4. Jake, thank you for your writings. You have been helping me confront life in ways that I’ve been avoiding until now.

    I don’t know what happens after death, but until then and whatever comes after, I hope for the best for you.

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  5. Dear Jake – reading this post filled me with both sadness and admiration. Your courage and honesty are deeply touching. Thank you for sharing your journey and reminding us of life’s true essence. I’m learning to be a better writer and love your writing style, so I’ve been learning from it, and will continue to do so through your archived posts. I’ll remember you for a long time. Wishing you peace and comfort.

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  6. Jake,

    You have likely heard this thousands of times, but it won’t hurt to repeat it. I am sorry to read this piece and every other posting since you revealed your diagnosis. I hope you find solace at the end.

    I was thinking about you earlier today as I drove across Wisconsin with my wife and 1-year-old son in the back. My thoughts kept returning to my inevitable death and your excellent framing of “the gift.” I suppose I will think about life forever altered by your words and experience. Existence really is a beautiful thing.

    Please don’t reply even if you have the energy. Your time should be spent elsewhere.

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  8. Thank you, Jake. Thank you for taking us all on this journey with you. We have all been changed by the experiences you took the time and effort to delicately articulate.

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  9. Jake, I am sorry that you have reached this point in your health. I hope, too, that you and Bess take comfort in the knowledge/belief that people can communicate even when they are no longer Earth-bound. I look forward to the day when I am acquainted with both Bess and Athena. The insight, humility, and sense of humor that are so uniquely Jake Seliger will be missed by all who have known you personally and through your writing.

    Wishing you peace,

    Vera Bergermann

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  11. Jake,
    Your words have informed, inspired, and broken my heart (at times).

    The words I wish for you are peace, comfort, and freedom from pain.

    You have accomplished so much. Thank you.

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  13. You.are.a.brave.man. Tears fill my eyes as I know the drill… having been diagnosed and treated with radiation and chemo last year about the same time as you with tonsil cancer. But tears and a smile for you, your wife, your love, your child, your mother ( my friend from high school) your writing, your bravery…. Your life. Blessings on you sir.

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  16. Thank you so much for sharing so much of your mind-blowingly difficult and terrible journey.
    You’re words have been a big inspiration, your courage and honesty are incredible.
    Wishing you peace from The Netherlands.

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  17. Your words over the past year have left their mark on me, and presumably many others. I’ll carry your words and your example with me.

    I wish I had more to offer than stock phrases, but please know that they’re heartfelt.

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  18. Jake and Bess, my heart hurts for you. I’ve read and cried. I’ve felt. My boyfriend has the same cancer as you. He’s in remission for the moment with keytruda. You gave me hope when I had none. You’ve made me a better person. All my love to you both.

    Kim

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  19. Jake,

    You are an incredible person and a truly talented writer. What I’ve learned from your essays will better my life and help me contemplate the inevitable setbacks. Your record of treatment and navigating trials will be particularly useful for me if my melanoma ever returns. You’ve also inspired me to prioritize my own writing and read Brooks’ book.

    Thank you,

    Alex

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  20. Jake, I have been following you for several months now, and I want to join the others in thanking you for sharing your experiences and your reflexions. Your writing has positively impacted me in a profound way, and I am sure my loved ones would thank you as well if they understood. Your contribution to the world has been an undeniably positive one, and that is more than can be said for many. I am wishing you and your family so much peace.

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  21. Happy you are getting the support you and Bess need. I hope they make this transition period as bearable as it can be.

    I remain angry at the various systems and processes that failed to get you help in time and grateful for the many humans that helped you.

    We sugarcoat cancer stories too much. Too many ribbons, too many “fighters.” It’s a goddamned brutal disease. Thank you for always telling the truth even though I know it must have hurt. I hope your willingness to tell the truth moves the needle for future patients.

    Bess, if you ever set up a 529 for Athena. I’m sure people here would give. I wish there were more we could do.

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  23. Praying for you Jake. May you find eternal peace in Jesus Christ our Lord and saviour.

    Thank you for all you’ve given in your writing and your advocacy. I wrote a book review of the Emperor of all Maladies. I was thinking of you and Bess when I wrote it.

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  25. Thank you Jake / Bess for your words over the last 9 months since I discovered you. You have re-invigorated myself and many others into taking action in preparing better solutions to find and participating in clinical research. It is your honest and brutally frank words that have woken us up to ‘do better’. Thank you.

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  26. I hope you can be reasonably comfortable in hospice, and reach a peaceful end. You are fortunate that Bess will be by your side all the way through. If you don’t write again, thank you for your excellent writing all these years.

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  27. I want you to know that a different kind of happiness is indeed possible for your wife and child.My father died suddenly in 1958 when I was 2, and my mother was pregnant with my sister. Along with our two older sisters, my mother raised the four of us in the happiest household possible, eventually full of laughter and support, and of course love. I literally only heard wonderful things about my father (was it possible the man never did ANYTHING wrong?) and though he was not a part of my physical life, he is, of course, part of my heart and soul.

    Love is your legacy. Peace be with you.

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  28. I just learned about you this morning. What a gift of your time and attention and care you have given your readers with these words and what seems like vigilant updates on your journey. I wish you the best for your remaining time here and on the other side. I wish the best for your growing family. You have left them with so many gifts. Peace be unto you (all)!

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  29. I’m so sorry for the pain and suffering you’ve had to endure. You write beautifully – thank you for sharing your story with us. I wish your loved ones all the best for the years ahead.

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  30. Pingback: Monday assorted links - Marginal REVOLUTION

  31. Jake, I’ve been following along with your writings silently but diligently, and I wanted to express my sincerest gratitude for turning this terrible experience you’ve had to go through into such beautiful sentiments and prose. Your writing has impacted me to my core, urging me to pick up writing myself just to try and capture my own life experiences with even a fraction of the beauty and intimacy with which you do. You will live on as a small but important part of me, as I’m sure is true of many other readers of this blog, for all manner of reasons. I wish you the most comfort you can manage in the times ahead, and only the best for your loved ones as they accompany you on this last leg of the journey and into the future past that.

    Jonathan

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  33. Jake,

    We briefly chatted at the parents & aspiring parents corner at Manifest. We were talking about how we met our partners. When I told you that I asked my boyfriend out, you cheered for me being agentic. I’ll always remember that :)

    The past couple of years have been a particularly turbulent period of my life. A while ago you wrote,

    I’ve spent my life trying to learn to develop the skills necessary to connect with other people, which were, shall we say, not strong elements of my parents’ personalities. I’ve heard a cliché that goes something like: “What the rich know, the rest of us pay for learning with our youth.” I can’t find the true wording or source right now. It’s supposed to be about money, manners, and refinement, and so on, but the more generalizable version of it is more like: “The important life skills you lack growing up, you’ll need to learn later, or suffer without them.” So I had to learn how to relate to other people synthetically, on my own, and suffered greatly for it.

    I cry each time I read it, because I too grew up needing to figure out many things myself, and sometimes it’s just painful to feel like I’m in a sea storm without a working compass. But I’m so grateful for you having written this, letting your readers know that they’re not alone in their growth pains.

    The things we don’t learn from our parents, we look to learn from other people. What I’ve learned from you and Bess is a kind of courage to love that I’d never seen before. Your writing has made me reflect on my own selfishness and cowardice. I think I’m now a slightly better person, and you and Bess have played a part.

    Thank you Jake. Thank you for showing me a new possibility in life.

    Jasmine

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  34. I read one of your earlier blogs on your health struggles. It was just idle afternoon reading one day. It touched me and I carried around your story in my head. Several times in the last six months or so, I’ve found myself thinking about you and your story out of nowhere. It’s not much but I thought you would like to know. Thanks for sharing your story.

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  36. I’m sad to read this. I lost my wife to pancreatic cancer on Memorial Day this year. She, like you, fought like hell while maintaining an amazing attitude. She was only on hospice for 4 days but they did provide tools and support that helped us greatly. I have followed your story from a distance and will keep you and your family in my thoughts.

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  37. I imagine a world where an entirely private and secret blog exists, one that you and Bess have created and have been contributing to for months and have password protected in some tiny cave of the internet, just for Athena to read one day. On birthdays, milestones, when she needs to know more about you, her dad, and your love as a couple navigating all this. I know those writings will be even more glorious than the ones you’ve graced us all with, strangers all over that have been thinking of you often. Thank you for sharing yourself with us.

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  39. Jake, your life has meant so much to me, a stranger you’ve never known but who has followed you closely through Bess, and through your other writing. Thank you for all you have shared with and given to us. I have a daughter named Athena. She, like your Athena, has had to navigate grief and death in her short life. It’s a good name for a strong girl. Your Athena will be ok.

    I have often said that grief is love’s last offering. There are so many of us who don’t even know you grieving for you. This is how much love and beauty you leave behind. Thank you for turning your life into such a gift for those of us lucky enough to read your work.

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  40. Jake and Bess-

    I am thinking of you both and praying for your comfort. You are gifted writers and so very eloquent. I wish there was some way to ease your burden- thus I will pray for peace.

    so much love to you both-

    Patricia Chambers (a complete stranger who read your essays through a physician group and a fellow (pediatric) emergency medicine sister)

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  41. Jake,

    Thank you for sharing your journey with us. I’m grateful to have known you. Thinking of you and your family. Also shout out to that time we won a BBYO dance contest. 🤷🏻‍♀️

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  42. Thinking of you as others have noted. My mother raised my brother and I as an immigrant on a minimum wage fast-food job living right the poverty line. We work hard, we were OK. We both turned out fine. We didn’t have the same love as your daughter will (it was domestic violence case),

    …..but plenty of women who aren’t as educated or even well-verse in English have done and raised children successfully that can be conventionally called bright, intelligent, top of their game, etc. I think your daughter will be Ok.

    Sending you love.

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  44. Jake and Bess,

    I walked the HNCCC march with a dear friend from college 2 years ago. He, being another medical professional, could talk with me about trials, staging, symptoms and prognosis where others could not understand.

    What he and I couldn’t do was talk about life and its inevitable end as eloquently as you. I have learned so much by reading your blog; not about medicine but about being human. I hope it makes me a better one.

    I am thrilled that your dreams about having a child have come true and that her chosen name, Athena, the Goddess of Heroic Endeavor will serve as a reminder to us of your journey. A part of me is bemused by the thought that she sprang from you, like she did from Zeus’ forehead, in an act of parthenogenesis, perhaps of the tumor giving life to something good.

    Bess and Athena will be cared for and loved after you leave; please have no worries.

    Godspeed.

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  45. Jake,

    I’ve been thinking of you and your family often over the past months and days. Thank you for your writing– it’s touched many people already and will reach even more with time.

    It is a noble thing for a man to bring about as much good through his death as he can. In facing death courageously, you’ve done a great deal of good for others. I hope that, in time, your work might help to improve the practices of medicine and clinical research. But even now, it bears fruit spiritually in encouraging your readers to regard the gift of life with gratitude and to joyfully order our earthly lives towards their final ends. This is an invisible grace, but one without which all other blessings would be torments– I thank you for your help in it.

    I’ll be praying for you, Bess, Athena and the rest of the family. May God grant you eternal rest, and light perpetual shine upon you.

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  47. This last year has been an amazing year of blogging! You have gone to places which I never thought possible (and yet you still have thrown in some “normal posts” as well). If there was a Pulitzer Prize for blogging, then certainly you would have won it hands down for this year’s blogging.

    I loved the regular photos — and it’s been nice getting to know your wife during these tough times.

    It’s amazing to read your patient’s perspective on the health care system during your crisis. I’m glad you had time to prepare yourself and your circle of family and friends for it. I can’t help asking myself, how would I have reacted under similar circumstances? Probably not as bravely or as insightfully. I’m 58 now and I can’t imagine what I would have been like if something like that had happened to me at your age.

    To everybody reading here, a vast amount of Jake’s posts sits waiting to be discovered in the ARCHIVES dropdown box on the right sidebar. Just check out a random month. It’s fun to see your eclectic interests over the years (and note how much of the web is subject to linkrot).

    You have discussed the decline of reading and book culture over the years. I’m glad you have maintained your intellectual passions through your blog and really the reading world will miss your regular contributions to the blogosphere…

    Holy cow — you’ve been on Twitter this whole time as well?

    Wow, I just saw your June 24 post about Positivity Culture. How timely. (It reminds me a little of Joan Didion’s Year of Magical Thinking).

    For the record I’ve been busy on a long collection of short stories — to be released in December. (It was something I’ve been working on during my twenties and thirties — which I only now am getting around to publishing) . A few months ago my Personville press released several more ebooks. At the end of next year I’m going to release my long overdue NONCRAPPY THINGS FROM MY BLOG, which is going to reflect on my blogging over the decades and the blogging habits of others. (I’m disappointed that you won’t get to look at it, but oh well). It’s a given that I will talk about your remarkable blogging journey somewhere in the book. Blogs are a kind of public notebook which are ignored by most people in real time, but nonetheless they are useful for the writer (as a testing ground for ideas and a way to store nice links and incidental responses).

    I think I mentioned before that I enjoyed THE HOOK which is very much a sober but sophisticated look at teaching, public morality and the intellectual’s life. It’s certainly artistically and intellectually serious, but it’s also an interesting snapshot at an earlier time of your life. I definitely look forward to reading ASKING ANNA.

    Back in my late thirties, I was still pretty gungho about web technologies and working in IT. Recovering from a romantic breakup, experimenting with different kinds of storytelling, impatient with the retro-conservativism of the Bush Administration (lord, if only I knew what would be coming later). That was where I was at during that stage of life. I certainly wasn’t pondering mortality or stoicism or anything philosophical. I was rewatching the Blues Brothers, playing around with Python and cameras and trying to read Petrarch. It was shortly after that time that my reading dropped off significantly, though I have picked it up again in the last 5 years or so). In comparison, I feel as though you have traveled around the world several times (metaphorically speaking) while I was still learning how to walk. Of course, nobody could have predicted or sought out your path, and frankly good health and time is a luxury that people take for granted until they can’t.

    When I found out the devastating news last summer about you, I really had no idea what you would be doing with the remaining time and whether you’d even be able to keep writing. It’s just remarkable how much you’ve been able to write about life, cancer and random stuff during that time. You’ve even been a podcast guest during that time.

    Actually during the last year I have had to experience the vagaries of our medical system indirectly when helping my mom deal with several semi-serious health issues. It’s been a source of frustration and impatience for us. Of course, you and your wife are younger and have more fighting spirit than someone in their 80s might have. But it drives me crazy — and I’m just the assisting family member. I actually have admired the level-headed way you and your wife have worked through the system and obtained experimental treatments. I know you see only the shortcomings, but I think it’s amazing that you have been surviving for so long (and been blogging about it!)

    I’m glad to hear that Bess is expecting a child. How promising. I’ve been watching the charming TV series on Apple+, Lessons in Chemistry. One of the main characters dies unexpectedly in an early episode while the girlfriend is pregnant. By the end of the series, the baby grows up into a precocious little girl who is driven to find out more about her father (and stumbles upon some amazing insights into the man without ever meeting him). You’ve certainly led a full life — and your wife certainly will preserve your memories. I’m sure that will be enough material offline and online to appease your child’s curiosity about you when she grows older.

    As I said, I know that hospice is the next logical step (and yes, the final one), but from the perspective of a reader and fellow blogger, I feel as though my contact with you and your writing is only just beginning. I can see by the comments how many people your life and words have already touched (and WILL TOUCH). Thanks for generously sharing this last year with readers like me — even when it must have been painful and harrowing and exhausting. Please enjoy the rest of your time as best as you possibly can.

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  48. Jake, thanks for writing all this time. I wrote that big rambling comment a week ago about influence after our time, I hope it’s obvious and it makes you proud knowing yours will continue a long time.

    You’re the man.

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  49. Jake,

    longtime reader here. Just wanted to tell you that I’ve always liked your musings about the humanities and more fundamentally on how to build a life.

    Writing from Germany (you do have readers across the globe)

    Philipp

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  50. Jake, I have never had the opportunity to meet you in person. But since the day I first met Bess, eight years ago, your name has been about someone real, connected to someone I have grown to cherish. Reading your essays, and Bess’s as well, have given me the gift of powerful, lasting impressions of who you are and have been on this trajectory of illness, treatment, and now, your decision to leave the world.

    Small wonder your baby girl is an “Athena.” What extraordinary parentage she has come from. Your candor, depth, and wit have become welcome companions in my life—as have Bess’s words, shot through with compelling transparency and a profound lover’s dedication to you.

    I marvel at your writer’s will, and your capacity to summon energy to lay down a single sentence at a time, much less entire essays, under the strain of unimaginable physical and mental pain. It takes vast guts, heart, and a hard-won artistic baseline to do what you have done as a writer and human being throughout this ordeal.

    I want you to know that reading each of your essays has shored up my own spine as the wife of another great man, whose longtime medical frailties gain devastatingly clear traction over time. For this I am endlessly grateful to you, and to Bess, for embedding a portrait of Jake Seliger as clearly in mind as I could wish. You’ve left us with that, and infinitely more.

    When you stop writing, I’ll reread your installments. You will always remain in my heart.

    warmest wishes for your courageous transition,

    Pina Russell

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  51. Hi Jake, another long-time reader here from Czech republic, only learned about you a year ago but since then you’ve become one of the most inspiring people I’ve known to this date. I am deeply sad you decided to leave us but I wish you get the final peace and relief.

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  52. I remember reading your work on your grant writing blog for years. It helped me when I was groping through the dark to finish so many tome-like grant proposals, muddling through logic models and Federal indirect rates, contract compliance issues, and all the rest. You were, and are, a hero to so many grant writers and the money your advice unlocked has made our communities better.

    Love is like a baton that travels down through time, someone hands the baton to you, you carry it as far and as long as you can, and then we’re called back to the other side once our tour of duty on earth ends and the baton is passed once again. Be proud, and rest.

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  54. While I wish that you didn’t have to write these words, as expected you are handling the reality of the situation with dignity and courage. I hope that hospice is able to help you be as comfortable as possible during this time.

    I have no doubt that Athena will grow up to be an amazing woman because of who you are and who Bess is. She will be influenced by you and will grow up feeling your presence in her life.

    Both of my parents died young, but I’ve never wished to have different parents. I am proud to be related to them, and they set me up to have a great life. The only true sadness I have about my parents is that I wish they could be here to see how it all turned out and to know that they never had to worry about me. I believe that Athena will very likely feel that way about you. I think she will be proud to be your daughter and thankful for the life you set her up to have.

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  55. Hello, this is Sam, Jake’s brother.

    He passed away peacefully last night. It was a merciful end to his suffering. Thank you all for your kindness. It meant everything to him.

    The Story’s Story will live on, in some fashion, once we are doing picking up the pieces of our shattered hearts.

    With love,

    Sam

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  56. gI’d like to follow this blog. It seems very interesting and I would like to follow along with the family. Thank you. Jan Greenberg.

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  57. I’m very sorry to hear about Jake’s death. He’s at peace now and out of pain. Bess, know that all of us are sending you our deepest thoughts and prayers and hope when Athena is born she’ll know what a wonderful and brave man her Daddy was. 💜

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  58. After Jake’s passing, I decided to add an emotional note to my journal of ideas for a potential future script I want write, which I hadn’t opened in a while. As I hadn’t looked at it recently, I’d forgotten many of the recent entries. While browsing through it, I stumbled upon this gem:

    “At a drinks event for prospective residents in Bess’s emergency medicine program, Bess and I were chatting with one of the candidates. He mentioned that he loved short stories, so I asked which authors he liked. He replied, ‘Hemingway.’ Great. I then asked, ‘What’s your favorite Hemingway story?’ To my surprise, he couldn’t name one! I thought I was making conversation, not trying to interrogate him. Eventually, I said, ‘I mean, ‘Big Two-Hearted River’ is one I admire,’ and we moved on.”

    It took me a few moments to realize Jake had written this. What an amazing anecdote. If I ever write a movie, this is definitely going into it.

    With love,

    Daniel

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