 Liz is in the house remember and to celebrate our extraordinary friend Liz Suidos and I welcome all of you here and around the city and apparently around the globe. It's wonderful to be here at La Mama where Liz did so much of her groundbreaking work and it's also really fitting that Ra's in her love and wisdom chose Valentine's Day. First of all Liz had a dog named Valentine but Liz as we all know was so full of love for for Ra's, for her family, for her friends, her musicians, singers, her students, her community and for what she did as only she could. Her work was fierce and passionate and fearless. I especially experienced this the one time I got to work with Liz on the animated film of my depression which must be the most generous honest charming document ever written about this subject. So vulnerable, so funny in presenting herself at her lowest and most tender she invites all of us to take off our armor. My husband Jim Simpson who ran the flee where we were graced by several productions of Liz which I wish were all still running they were so amazing but he's unfortunately couldn't be here today but wanted me to say this if you looked at Liz you'd know she was special. She carried herself with a brave devil may care counterculture kind of vibe. She was always ready for action. Her size was deceptive because this woman was a giant. She had prodigious musical gifts, a sharp visual sense, a sophisticated rhythmic sense, her work always rocked, swung or wailed and she had huge appetite for new artistic challenges. Liz never played it safe. In preparing a score you'd hear an early workshop and fall in love with the melodies. Come back weeks later they've all been replaced by new world. This giant was always on the edge of her big talents and she liked it that way. Liz was also on the side of the young. The establishment could have itself. Liz aligned herself with young people. Their stories, their struggles resonated powerfully for Liz. She was a one-of-a- kind guru. Loving, tough, demanding, professional, ecstatically talented. You wanted her to notice you, to praise you for having half the courage that she had. The surprise was that Liz was already ahead of you. She probably loved you most when you struggled with her challenging score and when you really hit it, she'd figured out long ago that you were capable of it. Otherwise you wouldn't be there. I've never met anyone like Liz. I'll miss her. I'm deeply grateful that we got to share some time together with her. Thank you. Liz and Roz are a part of my family and I was lucky to be a part of theirs. I'm Becky. I know all of you. Thank you for being here and thank you for supporting Roz and each other. Liz was known more for her music than her lyrics. She helped others find songs in their hearts or matched her perfect score to their, to brilliant, she matched her perfect score to brilliant words of others. If you're here, you know what a fantastic friend and listener Liz was. Yet she was very selective with how she would share her own words and Liz had a lot to say. I'm going to share now one of her poems that reflects some of her humor and perspective on the everyday, but I encourage you to seek out her poetry and you will learn more about Liz than you thought you knew. Luddite. I don't carry a cell phone. If it rings from the bottom of my Guatemalan bag, I'd reach in, uptween my wallet, my cards would fall out and I would be in danger of losing my American Express or worse my NYU identification card. They'd keep me out of tish or my keys would get tangled around my fingers. I keep them on a long thick ribbon so I don't lose them. With my fingers entangled around the ribbon on which my keys are tied, I would be in danger of inadvertently yanking out the books I carry. Isabel Eberhardt, Biographies and Essays. Ridiculous. Now I have to squat on the sidewalk. I'd look like a Tibetan monk taking a shit. What if there's a wind? The papers and my purse would fly. I would lose the order of the political review I'm creating with my students if I'm allowed into tish without my ID. How can I direct a show if I don't know the order? The ink could become blurred and the research I've done on the triangle shirt waist factory fire could rip into soggy shreds and of course the Groucho Marx finale to this missing scene is that when I finally find the phone, it stops ringing. Of course if I possessed an iPhone, I could see who called me and immediately return their call. However, I wouldn't be able to see the number without my glasses which as by now you've imagined are buried somewhere in my Guatemalan bag and once I begin to search for them, I am subject to repeat the whole cycle of events I've laid out for you. Truthfully, I don't like talking on the phone. Anyway, I hate the damp mist of breath on the receiver and the voice of on the other end to whom I can't give subtle body signals to change the subject. Shut the fuck up. My friends want me to get a cell phone in case of emergencies. There's always been emergencies and they've waited until I got home. I could be lost or late. Well, there are some pay phones left or my favorite activity, borrowing the cell phone of a Pakistani cab driver. Life is good. It's raining and dawn and just a gray reason to stay inside. I have an answering machine. I will put it on and screen my calls. All that energy covering an exchange with a friend or a bank. Please, my daughter, don't insist on buying me an iPhone. I'm a big busted nail fighting lazy Luddite. Life isn't fair. And we miss Liz. She's left so much, but there was so much left to be said. I didn't know Liz very well. I actually got pitched my depression by my psychiatrist. I don't know if that's an admission, but since you're all in the dark, you don't know me. I don't know you anyway. My psychiatrist gave me a book called My Depression. At first, I thought that this book was just because we matched the book in me. But I saw Liz's name on it. And I said, you know, I thought maybe she had a part time job at William Morris. I didn't know why Marlene this book. And she said, because I think you could do something with this. Anyway, so I took the book home and I read it. And I shared it with my friend Sarah. I don't know Bernstein. I don't know if she's here somewhere in the dark. And we thought, what a great documentary. How great this would be animated. How important this would be. But we would have to meet Liz Svedos. And so I got back to work and I looked up Liz and Liz was a partner of the great, tough lawyer, Ross Lichter. And I thought, Ross and Liz, Liz and Ross. But I grew to realize that that was the most beautiful love. And that Ross was the most perfect wife. And the dream that we would all have when things go askew, that this wonderful human being would be by our side. So thank you, Ross, for loving Liz so, and for staying so long, and making her always in those last moments feel that she was loved. That was so important. So now lightness. Okay, so now I adopted a dog. In the middle of working on my depression, I adopted a dog. My dog had died. I couldn't stand it. I adopted a dog. He came from Atlanta. He didn't have a name. He didn't have ethnicity. Liz felt he was Jewish. And she gave him this dreidel. And when I pulled it out of his mouth to come here, he didn't want to give it to me. But this dreidel puts him to bed at night. It wakes me up sometimes in the middle of the night. I love you, Liz. Bogey loves you so much. And we miss you so. Too soon, so much. Thank you all. Bye bye. This way does. And originally from Buffalo, New York, what we're trying to get to is is the same kind of state, the same kind of fire, honesty that you hear in music in any country where the music is a absolutely complete part of the whole way of life, of the whole way of ritual. Sorry, short. I'll do my best. Remember how we met? Summer of 1972. La Mama Lobby. Ellen with her magic vibes, or as she called them, beeps, made it happen. This is Liz, the red hair girl, fresh from Bennington College, dying to work with Andre, the hope of Romania. Both eager to revolutionize the stage. So you composed magical chants for Medea in ancient Greek and Latin. Then summer of 1974 in a remote village of Bahia, Brazil, together with Priscilla, returning from a voodoo ceremony, looking for inspiration for the Trojan women. You got the news of your mother's suicide, but personal tragedy did not stop you. On the contrary, it gave you strength to create a major opera about the suffering of women and dedicated Trojan exodus to her. My own mother died during electric rehearsals and our destinies got so mingled. Our chemistry was such that Ellen even mixed our names once. Elizabeth was her mother. Of course, you know, she loved us both. Although you were the golden girl always, I was often the bad boy. While doing many other productions together, the trilogy became the landmark and the long lasting achievement in the mama history being performed all over the world. The last time in 2014, at the Opera House in Romania with you being present. And I will not forget the thrill on your face hearing for the first time your music divinely sung by these enthusiastic professional opera singers who adored you. The memorial we recently held there to honor you was felt deeply another sign that your music reached far and deep in the universal soul, free of borders. You've been a Renaissance artist, spreading your creativity in such vibrant directions. You always reminded me of Edith Piaf, like her. You are the central character of your songs. The eternal runaway that never quite found a home, except at the mama and of course with roles. And like most true artists, you had no more an answer to saving the world than anybody else. Still, in spite of all odds, you kept the candle burning, remorse, suffering, effort, hope. This was your process of search, your transcendence, and always with humor, with laughter, the refreshing antidote to pain. Liz, shall I tell you the truth? Ellen was unique. You were exceptional. Or the other way around. I am sure you two have a happy reunion. Dear friends, wherever they are, they watch over us. Our response is delivered in one word. Gratitude, suggestion. And the mama theater should be now be named. Liz Svedos, 10 of us, mom's side, didn't buffalo. And grew up together, of course, had the privilege of giving her her first nickname. I looked at her and I said, This was when she was a little older, and she was a biter. I said, Hello, it was a bite. She did not like that. Go into her house. I would say, Hi, bite. The bite would attack me. There was only one way to get her off. And that was, of course, to tickle her. And we were soon separated and went on our ways. Now, we always celebrated the major holidays together, including among them, Passover. And of course, as soon as she was big enough, it was great to have her take over saying the four questions. But there were three older cousins, myself, her brother, Lincoln, and Brian. And Liz became our secret weapon. We would find the afficulman, bring it to Uncle Rocky, Uncle Rocky would offer us a dime. We would pull out our secret rapid. She was sort. She was cute. She had the most wonderful smile. And we would say, Lizzie, ask him for something bigger. So she would ask for something bigger. And of course, he would offer her a nickel. So he said, Lizzie, a little bigger than that. And she would go up and she eventually got him to a quarter. Really a great negotiator. She was terrific. In our family, if you couldn't drive, you had to ride a bike. And cousin Bruce had this 18 inch wide bike driven by a belt. No brakes. He learned to ride on it. Then cousin Brian learned to ride on it. Then it was my turn to learn to ride on it. No brakes had it painted a nice green and yellow. Liz came over one day, it was sitting in the garage. She knew we all rode bikes. And I said, Sure, Lizzie, you can ride it. I don't think her parents ever forgave me for those bruises. But she did learn to ride that bike. And we all rode bikes to each other's houses. And that's how we saw each other. Often, those days growing up, gonna skip ahead a little bit. There's a lot I could probably say about our childhood. But we did keep in touch with each other. And it was very nice one summer when I came back from college, and she had graduated from eighth grade. And she asked me to host her graduation party. It was terrific. She was a great dancer and a terrific hostess. And I said, Lizzie, you're the best dancer there. She said, Kenny, you can't give me the reward, you got to give it to my guests. So I took her cue from that and did what she asked me to. She was learning to play the guitar. And I wanted to give her my guitar, but my one of my other cousins beat her to it. Much later, when we were both young professionals, I met her in New York City. And she listened to me, given argument before the Second Circuit Court of Appeals. And we discussed the case afterwards. I know RJ's listening to me RJ. I think that was the appeal of the case where I took you in here. Here are my closing arguments. Boy, if you ever want to get criticized, bring teenagers in to listen to you. And then she took me to her TV studio and where a television production of the Trojan Women was being performed and showed me what it was all about and everything. And this poor actress was having such a hard time with the introduction in a break. I just commiserated with her a little bit about the difficulty of the script. Later on, we were leaving the studio and Lizzie started to laugh. And she looked at me and she said, do you know what you did? And I said, no. And she said, you know, the person you commiserated with, I said, yeah, it was really a toughly written script to read. She said, she wrote that. That was the same visit where she finally put an end to my teasing her about her true birthday. But I won't get into that. Hey, I'm sure you all have had older cousins who have done worse to you. On Facebook, one of her colleagues at the Buffalo Seminary posted a poem that was in her yearbook, the students were allowed to select the poetry. And it reads, I've been awarded with many medals. I got a springtime for being a little girl many years ago. I've been chosen for the honor of being the interpreter of the gold of the morning sun. Ask the wind for he has seen me grow since the days he carried me around on his shoulders. Ask the willow tree in my uncle's backyard. For he has seen me in the prime of my life before. And the poem is signed. Jay Daisy. Lizzie, I think you wrote that poem. I know that willow tree. I looked at it almost every day for most of my life in Buffalo. Jay Daisy, I think that's a combination of Jay Gatsby and Daisy Buchanan. And I miss you very much. Hello. Thank you, Chris Preston, Roz, George, and everyone involved with organizing this event for letting me say a couple words. My name is John. And I first met Liz through her work when I was 15 in my high school and we did runaways. And I had just been doing theater for about six months at that point. And I remember falling in love instantaneously. I'm from Washington Heights and growing up we didn't really, I'd never considered that being an actor or performance was an actual thing or a possible profession. And I struggled to figure out if I even had a place in the theater. And after doing runaways, I thought I did because I was playing a character that was very much like me and coming from the place where I was coming from. And so that sort of blew my mind. And I started being involved in theater and was lucky enough to about a year and a half later meet Liz and audition for her for a production that she was doing in Washington Heights called Sosua there to dance together, which was bringing together Dominican kids and Jewish kids to tell this story about Jews escaping Germany and Dominican Republic's Dominican Republic that was going through a dictatorship and all this trauma but that through all this trauma people would come together and find this unity and this love. And in the story we did and also in the production we did. From there, I learned so much about Liz and so much about theater and so much about myself. Just through her ability to see through me and see what I was capable of and see what all the kids were capable of in that production. We were all coming from all these different schools, private schools and public schools and some kids who weren't even going to school anymore. And somehow she instilled in us that we were greater than even what we thought was possible. Even when we didn't know it or couldn't show it at rehearsal, she would pick on us to create something even if we'd never created anything at all. That's really where our relationship started and then ended up going to NYU where I continued to work with her and a lot of people in this room and a lot of people behind me. I can't help but think of love and community when I think of Liz because I mean look at where we are from many, many years ago. She was here on this very stage doing stuff and look at where we are now. Everybody coming from all these different communities to come together and nothing was greater than the NYU community that facilitated all of these experiences. And the theater director who introduced me to theater from the beginning was also Liz's assistant when he was at NYU. And that I was up here singing with the Great Jones Company, which she helped found. And I feel very honored to be a part of that community and this community and the NYU community. And I was asked to read a letter from Mary Schmidt Campbell who was the Dean of NYU when I was there. So I'll read that now. Dear colleagues, I am so sorry for your loss. Liz had a talent for spotting what was golden in her students. The NYU reality show was a perfect example of that. Every year she would audition and watch intently for that something, that distinctive glimmer, a glow that beckoned and spoke to her. She saw her work as burnishing and making visible that golden talent that nestled inside of her gifted actors. She once told me that when she auditioned a large number of talented young people, she was looking for a connection between herself and them, a connection that allowed her to build a creative partnership. On stage, the fruits of that partnership were abundantly evident, not only between Liz and her actors, but among the actors themselves and with the audience. Trust was at the heart of all her collaborations. Her actors trusted her with the truth. They trusted her with their bold experimentation. They trusted the private process of developing the reality show and they trusted the public staging of the end product, which is why we, in the audience, experienced the show as honest, authentic and alive. Liz liked to write me every few weeks to keep me apprised of her astonishingly full slate of creative projects, music, theater, dance, spoken word. I don't know how she managed it all. We'd make a date for breakfast or lunch about once a month. On one of those occasions, breakfast at Noho Star, Liz's kindness was in full display. We were chatting away when I reached up and touched my ear, realizing that to my horror, I had walked out that morning with mismatched earrings. What was for me a fashion disaster, for Liz was probably a style statement. Nonetheless, good sport that she was, she helped me find a substitute pair of earrings that morning from one of the Broadway Street merchants. Having retired from NYU and having moved from New York, I already missed her. Bros, you have my condolences and sympathy. Liz was one of a kind, someone who could lure the best from all of us and the necessary presence in the lives that she touched. Now the world will miss her as well, with sorrow, Mary Schmidt Campbell. Thank you for everything. And I just want to close with, as I think about Liz so much now these days, as we all do, something that my theater director always told us was that when you create sound in the room, physics just allows that the waves keep propelling off the walls. And I constantly think about how many rooms I walk into that Liz was in, and that for somebody who created such loud sounds, it's also in her silence that we find so much strength. And so I urge you to just sit in silence sometimes and see if you can hear her sounds in whichever room you find yourself in. Thank you. You may wonder how a Buffalo Jewish composer, writer got connected to an Irish, Catholic, Bostonian, non educator. We were both changed and could not and got stuck with a date in history. December 2 1980, was the death of four church American church women in El Salvador, more o'clock, Eater Ford, Dorothy Kaisel and Jean Donovan. They were raped and murdered for their crime of being with the poor. Neither one of us could let it go. I began the more o'clock Eater Ford Women's Education Center in Bushwick. And while I was there, someone invited me and Mary Dowd, the co director to go to BAM to see this musical. It was called Missionaries, the story of the four women and Oscar Romero. So for the fifth anniversary of the center, I call Liz and say Liz, would you like to put something on for us? Maybe I could come over and talk to you. So she said sure. And you know how Les Mis became a choral presentation. That's what Liz did with Missionaries. And we put it on then and then we put it on a few more times in the city. And it got excellent reviews. She started calling me one of her producers. A few years later, I went back to Liz and said, Liz, could you write something about the center for the 10th anniversary? So she came over and met with the women at the center and myself and put together a piece called Ten Years of Hope. There are two songs there that are important. One, she wrote a song about the two Marys, me and Mary Dowd, which is fun to have a song written about oneself. The second was she sat down and we talked about this room that was very important at the center. Many things happened there. In the midst of the conversation, I said to her, we had a perfect view of the city on 9-11. So she took that and in the middle of the song she put down, they saw the towers from this room. And that said so much to me about who she was and what we experienced. In 2002, I got a chance to go to El Salvador. And the first place I went was to where they found the bodies of the women. And I was standing there and it's a memorial now. And there were bushes all around. And on these bushes were flowers. And I can't sing. So in my head, I started singing one of the songs from Missionaries. And flowers will grow and flowers will grow. And that, I believe, is our legacy from Liz, to make sure flowers grow and they bloom. And we notice all the beauty in this world in the midst of that, which is not beautiful. So now I'd like to introduce Missionaries. Thank you. I'm Judith Ginsburg, executor. I'm not a writer, a singer, or a dancer, or an actress, although I wish I were. I'd like to share with you some of my recollections of Liz and her life. Liz struggled and triumphed for 64 and 1112 months, dying exactly one month before her 65th birthday. And why she couldn't live to be a little old redheaded lady, I don't know. I was privileged to know her for almost 25 of those years. I met her when she asked me to support her creation of a musical performance piece that became the Hating Pot, an unforgettable work of theater. Its cast was a talented, multi-racial, and multi-religious group of New York City high school students. In song and dance, they explored hatred, prejudice, and acceptance. The Hating Pot toured schools in New York, Chicago, and LA, and became a terrific video that was shown on PBS with support from Steven Spielberg's Righteous Persons Foundation and the Revson Foundation, among others. My very own high school in the Marinette, New York shows it annually on its diversity day. And so, we became friends and met very frequently over the years at the City Bakery and the Union Square Market. We shared our secrets. Liz was a tomb, as they say, and so am I, so I can't tell you very much. We spontaneously gave each other numerous material gifts, necklaces and bracelets, yellow nail polish, and a rattle made of animal nails from Peru. That was me to Liz. A fabulous brown and orange scarf. Liz, to me, and a giant wooden giraffe that Liz surprised me with in my office one day and declared that I needed it. I attended her shows and loved them, of course. I wish the reality show had been around when I was a college freshman. I understood her interest in outsiders and seekers, missionaries, the nomad, Casper Hauser. I was deeply moved by her dysfunctional family portrayed in the Four of Us, her struggles with depression, and her triumph over it in my depression. I was charmed by the myth man and the contest with Roz's wonderful photograph on the cover. Liz and Roz would come to us for Thanksgiving and Christmas and became family. Liz's triumphs include success in the two major aspects of mature human experience, as Freud would have said, livened and arbeiten in love and in work. In the love category, she had a supremely happy marriage to Roz Lichter. I was honored to attend their brief, modest, but deeply moving wedding. And who ever thought when we were growing up that same sex marriage would ever become legal? The very best of the many gifts Liz gave me over the years is that of her wife, Roz. But her love was not limited to Roz, and she had plenty to go around. She loved her students, her many, many friends, and her beautiful dogs, rambunctious Leonardo and her darling Clementine. And before them, Billy Bob, Tootsie, and Valentine. Liz triumphed in work, too, the arbeiten part. She was constantly creating, reading, thinking, rebelling against the conventions of her time. She was not into pretty. She was into meaning and justice and love. If any child of God should be allowed to break the rules and attend her own memorial, it should be lit. She would certainly make the most of it, darting about in red sneakers, reblocking everything, exhorting, cajoling, inspiring, annoying, adding bird calls, knocking each of us out of our comfort zones in diversions of ourselves we didn't know existed. Then she tweaked the lighting, the seating, and most likely the script, rearranging the words I'm delivering right now, which she would then set to music on the spot and order me to sing, which I can't, but Liz would insist I could. So I would somehow and we'd all be amazed. Liz was a change agent. No one she ever encountered was untouched. And let us recall just how many lives that involved from villagers in Africa to farm workers in the San Joaquin Valley to a generation of students in New York to run away kids from everywhere. And her message to all them was mostly this, you are not alone. You are part of a community. The burdens of life can be shared. And if you are open and generous to those around you, together, you were stronger. And together you will find what you can do, and combine it with what others can do and what a beautiful, joyful noise we shall make. Experience teaches us there are no charm lives, but I do think there are lives a few that are magical. There are special few who can reach out and touch the many, creating wonder and delight and mystery and mayhem all at the same time. For 40 years, people people emerge from Liz's theatricals and novels and poems as if exiting dreams, shaking their heads and asking themselves, how did she do that? Because she was so prolific, it's tempting to believe it was easy that she lived in a state of flow. But that overlooks her astonishing work ethic. Liz knew just how much dissonance is encountered on the way to a resonant piece of art. Yet no one embraced the rigors of craft more ardently. And no one faced adversity and loss of which she had more than her fair share with more courage and grace. And she had a lot more to give. She worked right up to the end. Brilliant, interrupted. How will miss it, Lizzie and you? In the second nominee, our best musical, Runaways. This original moving and complex work is about children and parents and the runaway in everyone. And I know really what this means. Believe me. Ladies and gentlemen, the original Broadway cast of Runaways. I was sitting at the table with a trusted group of ideas who took my imagination past all who is some timeless and mysterious force of nature and a very practical organizer who was trying to get her next project done. Since her ideas had no precedent and were somewhere between street theater, opera, a consciousness raising group, and a homeless shelter, not to mention books of words and images for children and grownups, including one that made depression undepressing. This was never easy. Yet when her projects happened, no one left the theater or put the book down as the same person they were before. I always left her with feeling that my sense of color and texture had been heightened as if no one else's hair with that shade of red and no one else's tweeds and sweaters have the same texture and no one else's vibrations were as tuned as the guitar she played. I used to worry about her high level of energy. She was just on a faster timeline than the rest of us. And I feared she might burn out. I don't know if that's what happened. I do know that it is wrong that such energy and talent and kindness and creativity should have left the world, especially when she was a decade and a half younger than I am. It's not right. I can always suggest that each of us who loved her tried to take on an echo of what she saw and felt and felt in her and keep it alive at our dinners and in our books and in our theaters and in our activism in the world. Then she will be with us always now and forever more glorious item. It was an unrequited love. I don't have many prepared remarks because I wasn't sure what I was going to say today, obviously, and I thank everybody for mentioning me. I do have a team of people that worked with me at the hospital and Barbara Dopkin, Susan Whitehead and George Drans and Judith Ginsburg and Richard Sadowski who were my team at the hospital in the last few days. But I do want to talk to you a little bit about our relationship because people said, well, wasn't she working all the time and how did you ever have time for each other? Well, Liz found her way to work around my schedule. And often the only fight we would have is B830 in the morning when she wanted to compose some music and I wanted to watch Morning Joe. So it was only half hour. And then I left. Second thing that Liz always did was think my birthdays were the most important thing in her life as I did of hers. And for my 50th birthday, she produced and directed a film about me behind my back. And it was called Das Ros. It is available. And Das Ros had all my family, all my friends. And since I was named after Rosalyn Russell, there were illegal use of clips of Rosalyn Russell in her girl Friday. After the film, which was at the Tribeca Film Center, after the film, she had a Congo line of live musicians dancing in the street with my family, including my mother and my grandmother, and my sister, and my cousins, and many other people dancing down Greenwich Street to a restaurant where we had a party. For my 52nd birthday, because she was nervous that I thought I was getting old, she bought me a motorcycle. So I was tooting around Tribeca and Soho in a yellow Honda motorcycle, which wasn't frankly good enough for me. So I asked if she could get me a Vespa. And of course she did. For my 60th birthday, she took me on a world tour, only of Italy, which to me is the world. And we stayed in the fanciest hotels. And I went, really, we're going to be on the Arno, like really? And she said, yes, do whatever you want, buy whatever you want. It is your 60th birthday. I can't say what the last year has been, except to say that Liz never gave up. Never. And I think before we knew we had a shot at beating this terrible disease, I want to tell you a little story of when we first got or Liz first got the diagnosis, and we also thought at the time that had metastasized. This was before we got the good news, and then we got the bad news. But the bad news had come very early. And we went to see her psychiatrist, of which, as anybody knows us, we had many psychiatrists, many psychologists, many coaches, many people who were on our team. And I was sobbing. And she was looking at me and looking at her doctor and said, I'm worried about her. And it was not only because she was worried about me. She was also saying that the we would never exist if she died. And that's what I'll miss. It's not that I can't go on, I will. But the we stopped. And for that, I'm deeply ungrateful. I loved her. She knew it. She loved me more than anybody else had ever loved me. And she totally got me. And so for that, I thank her for giving me an understanding of love. And what I can give to people and what she can give and gave to me the week. Thank you.