Days With My Father

This is my attempt to recount my Dad’s last months/weeks/days before I’ve forgotten them. I’m motivated from reading an article written by someone who had just watched his Dad die after years of fighting cancer.

I started at Christmas because I think that’s the first time I maybe noticed there was anything wrong with him.

My dad had been here at Christmas, and upon reflection I see that maybe he wasn’t as relaxed as usual. What I thought was just introvert’s anxiety over being around too many people at the holidays, I now know was him suffering in silence from being in pain and ill but not letting on.

Once he got home from Christmas, I wasn’t talking to him as much as usual. I was having a hard time simply getting hold of him. He would typically return my calls as soon as he got a chance, even if he was traveling. He had stopped doing that. I caught him at home here and there but rarely and we didn’t talk long. I started hearing voices telling me something was wrong. The same voices that noticed his changed stature and weakened state over Christmas. Dad was sick.

On February 4th or 5th I finally reached him after almost 2 weeks not speaking to him. The longest I might have ever gone without talking to him. 2 weeks. In 33 years that’s the longest I went and 2 weeks was sooo long I was very worried. That should tell you how much we spoke.

He was in New York somewhere on business. My Dad’s job had him doing a lot of outdoor installations of high-tech equipment. When he traveled it meant he was working hard in a very physical way. We know now he had incredible bone pain at that point on that trip. But when I talked to him he just said: Not doing well. He sounded awful. He said he couldn’t kick the flu or something. He wasn’t sure. He said, “It’s like the body aches of the flu, but nothing else.” I cut the call short and told him I’d just talk to him when he returned back to Knoxville that weekend. I called my brother and told him, “I just don’t think Dad’s doing well. Something’s wrong with him.”

On Saturday, I called him. Again. He answered the phone…groaning. He said he was in a lot of pain which is just something I rarely ever heard my Dad reference pain. If he was openly declaring he was in pain? It was bad. I tried to keep the call light because I didn’t know what else to do. He just sounded…bad. He said he had an appointment with his Family Doctor on Monday. He would later tell us that at that moment he knew he was dying. He was in insane pain and…dying. I look back on that conversation all the time and tell people, “Only my Dad would be dying and schedule and appointment for 2 days later with his family doctor.” He very openly wanted NOT to be on the phone. My Dad never faked kindness if he didn’t feel it – and you’ll have to trust me – He did NOT feel it that night. I hung up the phone.

I had my first Balanced Living event that Tuesday in Chicago. I did consider canceling for a fleeting moment, but why? I knew nothing yet.

I tried to call Dad Monday night to no avail, which only let me know he didn’t feel any better. I wasn’t going to call him, not after how much it pained him on Saturday. So, I just went about my life worried – but changing nothing.

When I was boarding my plane to head to Chicago on Tuesday (mundane entry here), I noticed I had a missed call on my cell. That was weird as I had my phone on me the entire time. It had just happened and it was a Knoxville area code. I panicked and checked my voicemail. It was Dad’s doctor, he had my number as Dad’s emergency contact and was worried he couldn’t reach Dad. Did I know how to reach him?

I freaked out. I was boarding a plane to head out of state. I was actually buckled in my seat. The flight attendant was telling me to turn off my phone. WHERE WAS MY DAD? I called my husband and just said, “I’m about to take off, you HAVE to find out how to check my voicemail. There’s a message from Dad’s doctor. Call him back, Call my brother, find my Dad and find out what’s wrong. I’ll call you when I land.”

My poor husband.

I left my phone on so that I could see text messages. As the plane was taking off I got one that confirmed that Dad was okay. Someone had sent my Mom to go check on him. He was calling the doctor. When I landed in Atlanta (or was it Dallas? Charlotte? I can’t remember…) I touched base with my brother. He was trying to get to Tennessee. Dad talked to his doctor and the bloodwork from Monday indicated he was undergoing kidney failure. The doctor told him to go to the emergency room. We would later find his car in the employee parking lot down a very steep hill from the ER. Meaning that dying…and in very severe pain…he found no reason to park close. And he walked up that hill to the ER. I wonder often what was going through his head then, taking that painful walk up that hill.

As I waited to fly to Chicago I kept hearing the phrase, “Kidney failure.” I mean, people die from that…right? What the hell is going on? At some point I finally talked to Dad and he said he was fine, they were admitting him for more tests. He actually said, “I’m not dying, don’t worry. Finish your trip. I don’t even want your brother coming here but I can’t seem to stop him.” I look back on THAT conversation often too. Because he knew he was dying. He told us later. Maybe one of the only times in my life I know for sure he lied to me.

The trip to Chicago is a blur. I remember feeling really crappy that I was so distracted with my first event for the Balanced Living community. I tried to be social, put my game face on. I tried to hide what I was going through. I remember getting the pedicure and just holding my phone tight in my hand and thinking, “I wish Dad would call.” The organizers were wonderful and did everything they could to find me a quicker flight home. They sent a car service to take me to the airport at 4am the next morning. I barely slept at all. The flight back was a blur. I think I finally heard from my brother that day as he made it in to see Dad. They were starting to meet with doctors. Specialists.

I decided to stay in Huntsville until I knew more. I felt better since my brother was with Dad. I wrote first about it here. I guess it was at work on Wednesday that I got the call: “They think it’s bone cancer.”



Because Dad died before the fight really started, I still haven’t processed that he had cancer. Cancer. I got the death certificate and it said, “Multiple Myeloma” as his cause of death. Cancer. My family history now changes. My Dad had cancer. Cancer.

We headed to Knoxville and the following days/weeks of Dad in the hospital seem all blurred together. I know my brother was there the whole time. I know I felt guilty I couldn’t be. Dad got the official diagnosis of Multiple Myeloma. He’d start a pill form of chemotherapy for 29 days. He was put in ICU (I wrote about that room here) for a long time because the kidney failure caused fluid to accumulate in his lungs. My brother was there the first night in ICU and he recalls a terrifying moment when Dad just couldn’t breathe and his panic was making it worse and my brother thought…”This is it.” I remember wishing he had called me then. But also glad he didn’t. I remember my aunt’s shock when she found Dad in ICU the next day. He wasn’t in his room. We forgot to call her. She thought the worst.

Dad had a bone biopsy done when he was in ICU. I’ve often heard about those as being the most painful thing you could experience. He was nervous about it, I could tell. That biopsy is a testament as to how high of a threshold of pain my Dad had. He actually said, “It was fine. Great.” And I think he meant it. I think he was so worried about the potential for pain, that the actual pain seemed like nothing. I can assure you I will never refer to a bone biopsy as “Great.”

Dad was not typically a nice person in the hospital. At least not to family, he was smart enough to try to be nice to the people taking care of him. We realized later most of his anger and frustration had to do with the fact that he wished he hadn’t come in. He said many times if he had known for sure he was dying and what was waiting for him in terms of diagnosis and treatment, he would have never come into the ER that day. When we would tell Dad we were glad he did because it gave us more time with him, he would be openly irritated at that.

I called Dad Feb 25th (or was it the 24th?) because we knew he was getting discharged that week. My brother had gone back home and I assured him I would go back to Knoxville when Dad got discharged. It turns out they were kicking him out that morning. He asked if I would come get him. It was probably the only time Dad openly requested my assistance for anything. I jumped in the car and headed to Knoxville. I picked him up at the hospital. I remember how frail he looked back in his regular clothes because they were so big on him. My strong father. The runner. He looked so small.

I got him settled back into his house and we made a list of things he needed. I went and got him a cane (I jokingly told him I almost bought him a butterfly covered on), some pajamas, and his prescriptions. He had only had one or two prescriptions filled his whole life and now he’s on chemotherapy. He would never wear the pajamas. They’re at my house now, waiting to be given to goodwill.

We talked that day for a long time about what his future looked like. He was in better spirits at home, but still seemed very lost and miserable in many ways. He kept looking in the mirror and saying, “Is this all I am now? I won’t run anymore? Carry my backpack even? What do I do?” He joked at one point, “My job is too physical, I don’t see me being able to do that again. What should I do? Write a book? Start a blog?” The day was poignant because I remembering him thanking me for just letting him talk the stuff out. I remember thinking, “The score is now me ONE you NINETY MILLION.” He always let me talk stuff out. Always.

I left that day for Huntsville and came back that weekend to take him to dialysis. He hated dialysis with every ounce of his soul. HATED it. I blame the pain of dialysis (It’s hard to sit still for four hours when you have so much bone pain and damage) and the inconvenience of it all as being the thing that made him not want to fight. A lot of things confused him that weekend. Why is he doing this? He kept wanting to know WHY? I was worried he was losing brain function for awhile, Did he have a stroke? It turns out he just meant, “What’s the POINT? Why am I doing this?”

On Thursday, March 5th, while MrZ was on business in California – I got the call. The call from my Dad where he said, “I want to talk to you about dying.” I think a huge part of me knew that call was coming. I felt like he was trying to tell me he wanted to give up when we were together, he just didn’t know how. I immediately told him I understood, because on many levels I did. He was so miserable. I had never seen him so miserable. But in reality? I just didn’t know what I was allowed to say.

Can you tell someone, “No” when they tell you they want to die? Did I want to force him to fight if he so clearly didn’t want to? I kept it together and I don’t think I even cried on the phone. We talked a bit about what would happen, about going into hospice care at a facility. About how he wished he’d never gone to the ER that fateful day. About how he just can’t continue like this. I just kept telling him I understood. I don’t even like thinking about that call now. It still hurts too much. Why wasn’t the joy of seeing me enough to make him want to live? I’m his daughter…aren’t I enough? Didn’t he want to see his grandkids grow? Wouldn’t he want to meet any other grandchildren that may come? Aren’t we enough? These are questions I’ll be asking myself forever. But for that call? I just pretending like I understood.

He was going to call my brother and I told him to call me after that.

I called my mother-in-law who works next door. She told me immediately, “I’m coming over.” She met me in the parking lot and embraced me and I cried. I think I blubbered something about it, “Not being fair.” I would say that a lot the following days.”It’s not fair.” That’s a mantra I never used. I know life’s not fair. I’ve never expected it to be fair for me. But it should be fair for the really good people – like my Dad. He should get to live a long and happy life. He deserves it. He deserves the dignity of a painless death. It’s not fair.

I called my husband and cursed how many times in our family we’ve been separated during emergencies. He would be home the next day.

I spent the rest of the day/evening waiting for my brother to call. I knew he’d call as soon as Dad called him. Why hadn’t he called yet? I googled everything I knew to google about how long someone would have to live after quitting dialysis. I read everything from 2 days to 2 months. I called the dialysis center to talk about my Dad’s decision. I learned through a lot of my research that quitting dialysis is a very common decision. A lot of people don’t feel like it’s worth the life it gives them. Since my father’s cancer had already ravaged his body so, dialysis was only allowing him to sustain a level of living still significantly below where he was happy. This helped me accept his decision. At least a little bit.

By that evening I still hadn’t heard from my brother – but I was dying to talk to him. I finally called him. I spent a good chunk of time in the dark that evening, discussing this with my brother. He had a much more realistic reaction. I’ll always worry that Dad read my acceptance as Not Caring. When in reality it was more about Not Coping. My brother would later talk to Dad and try to talk him out of it. To no avail. It was time for him to head back to Tennessee. As would we. With a broken heart I wrote this.

We arrived in Knoxville late Friday night. We brought suits and things for a funeral. We slept little. I picked my brother up at the airport the next morning after a red-eye. Dad had decided to go ahead and head to hospice. We met him there.

Note from 2021: I’m editing this entry and found ANOTHER GODDAMN  SPAM LINK FROM “All Caring Palliative and Hospice Care in Cincinnati, Ohio.” A fucking hospice organization actually paid some marketing firm (I guess) to maliciously insert their link on websites where people talk about hospice. I will make sure to complain to them about that eventually but until then I’m just leaving their full name here so maybe someone Googling them will find this post. I AM VERY UPSET THAT THEY USED SUCH NEFARIOUS MARKING TECHNIQUES JUST TO BOOST THEIR SEO. That’s shitty behavior from a HOSPICE group. They should know better.

I’ll never forget how almost normal he looked in the hospice room. He was sitting up in his clothes and eating lunch. Other than being frail, he didn’t even look sick. We sat down with him and started the process of Making Plans. Planning someone’s death is very difficult. We also had The Talk. Dad wanted to know if we were happy with our lives. OF COURSE WE WERE. We discussed some of the effed up things in our lives and how they affected us. He kept saying raising us was so easy. We kept telling him that’s because he’s AWESOME. We all barely avoided crying.

The following week we spent cleaning out Dad’s house at his request. Actually, he wanted us to just blow it up because he hated us taking time out of our lives to deal with “his mess.” He spent the week doing two things that irritated us equally:

1) “Humorously” demanding we find a way to speed up his death and even joking that we should shrink the donation we make to the hospice facility based on how long they keep him alive.
2) Demanding we go back home. Go back to our lives. Come back when he’s dead.

Ha. Funny, Dad.

ANOTHER NOTE from 2021: I FOUND ANOTHER GODDAMN  SPAM LINK FROM “Lakeside Manor: A Hospice Facility in San Diego. Another fucking Hospice group that  USED SUCH NEFARIOUS MARKING TECHNIQUES JUST TO BOOST THEIR SEO. That’s shitty behavior from a HOSPICE group. They should know better.

We actually had a few, almost “fights” over that same issue. If you knew my Dad you would understand, he just hated being a complication in anyone’s lives. Hence the decision in the first place. He spent that week almost dreading seeing us throughout the day. We kept telling him, “We’re doing stuff we’ll have to do when you’re gone. While you’re still here it’s almost okay. It will be much harder after you’re gone. Let us do this.” He finally just accepted it. He quit fighting us.

After we got the house mostly cleaned out, I had to head home to Huntsville for a few days. It was a tough thing to do, but I was useless there because I kept having to deal with the kids. My brother was there. He could work from Dad’s, I couldn’t effectively. He (as always) could pick up where my family and I had to let go. I’m so glad he could.

Dad deteriorated. Several family members got to come by. Friends from work. My childhood friends even visited. My whole family got to see him one last time. I came into town every few days.

The last weekend I was there with him, I felt would be the last. He barely moved while we were there. He slept constantly. He stayed curled up in the fetal position trying to sleep most of the time. I left Sunday and I look back now and I think I knew that was it. I hugged his frail and bony body one last time. I told him I loved him.

My brother visited Dad every night. Monday night Dad was oddly alert. I remember my brother calling me and telling me about it. Dad was awake and sitting up. Antsy. Mentioned wanting a second opinion because he didn’t think he was dying. Contradicted my brother’s statement that he’d been sleeping a lot. “No I haven’t.” We were both confused. Is this real? Is he really better? The whole process seemed surreal so it almost seemed possible he was fine. Could he be fine? Did they give him happy pills? Is this a sign that the toxins are taking over and this is the end?

Turns out the latter was right.

Around 8:15am the next morning I got the call. The call I had been expecting for weeks. He had died. Dad was gone. Those 8 weeks were the last days with my father.

I think now that I’ve put it all into words, I’ll allow myself to forget it. I don’t really want to remember those days. I’d prefer to remember the days before. I’d like to remember those days forever.

42 thoughts on “Days With My Father”

  1. Sending you the world’s, no, intertube’s best stranger-hug. I can only imagine what that was like. I vote you remember ‘the days before,’ too and I am pretty damn sure you will.

  2. Thank you for sharing that. I haven’t been able to do the same and am still struggling to remember the days before.

    My mother had the same resurgence the night before she died, too.

  3. Thank you for sharing this. I am sitting here at work crying. You have done so much better than I would have.

  4. I’ve been waiting for you to write this, and knew eventually you would because it’s so cathartic. Your dad was a special guy. Hugs to you today.

  5. Kim, this is heartbreaking, but I’m glad you shared it. Hugs and healing vibes to you. xoxoxo.

  6. Thank you so much for sharing this with us. It’s obvious you had a very special relationship with your dad. I can’t imagine how hard it must have been for you to watch him die, but even in your telling of this difficult experience, the love you had for each other is evident. (((Hugs))).

  7. I hope that sharing this with us has helped you put it aside so that you can concentrate on the days before it all happened.

  8. What a hard hard thing to go through. Thank you for sharing it. My heart aches for you and your family, Z. I hope this helps you have this settle in your brain.

  9. Oh my goodness, Kim. I can’t imagine going through all of this with your two little ones to take care of as well. Although maybe that mothering helped and is helping you through the grief too. You will think I am crazy for saying this, but I think you are SO lucky to have had a father who would have “the talk” with you and share so much of his emotional life with you, even if it was only at the end. I’m a little jealous b/c I don’t think my own father will ever reveal that kind of vulnerability.

  10. Beautiful. Moving. Heartfelt. Though it won’t help, I send you hugs. It makes me remember when my own father died. I hope writing it out has helped you remember the times before.

  11. Thank you for sharing this. I can relate to so much to your story as I have a similar experience. If i could lift you up from the pain i would. All I can promise that one day you do remember the good times more strongly than the pain. Much love.

  12. I can’t even imagine how difficult this was to write. I hope it was also cathartic. Thank you for writing so honestly, and for sharing it with us.

    Know that even when you’re writing about the most difficult of times, the love you have for your family shines through bright and beautiful. Sending you hugs.

  13. man, i just love you so much. this is always on my mind for you because i know it’s always on your mind. your daddy sure was special, and he did a great job w/ you and chris. i bet it was pretty easy to raise you both too… it says volumes about you two that such a man would be so proud of you both! you’re SO beautiful……. you’re SO smart…….. and you’re SO funny………. 😉 i don’t have to say that cuz i’m not your kid either!!! i love you, girl……..

  14. It was amazing to read this and feel everything you went through. Someday, after you’ve forgotten how hard it was, you’ll look back at this and maybe find some bit of happiness in the way he handled the worst days of his life. We all could learn something here.

  15. I am so glad you were able to get this out. When I say you at the Balanced Living event that night, I had no idea. I read about it later on your blog. You really did keep your shit together!

    You should do exactly as you wrote — remember the good times, not the death.

    I am sorry for your loss, but it sounds like you had an awesome relationship with your dad.

  16. Thank you for sharing, zoot. The blog world is amazing in that complete strangers can impact each other in small and big ways every day. You telling your story is, in turn, going to help someone else. It has me. Thanks.

  17. Its a good thing I have an office with a door, because I just sat back and relived the last month I had with my grandmother from 3 years ago. And so many things are the same, and as much as it pains us to think of our loved ones like that, its almost comforting to remember.

  18. After spending last week with my friend Jolene in Vegas, I can see your father’s position on not carrying on, heartbreaking as it was. It does not make it easier, but the mental and physical toll of fighting cancer? Sigh. What an effed up choice.

    I am so sorry you have went through this. I am so, so sad for you and your family, Kim.

  19. Wow. I don’t really know what else to say. There’s just so much to say that I find myself not being able to find any words at all. I’m really looking forward to seeing you soon (are you still coming?) and hope we’ll have some good time to talk then. In the meantime, know that I am thinking of you so much as you continue through the grief journey.

  20. Your story sounds very much like my own. My Dad had back pain for a while and he was Mr. tough guy so he downplayed it. When my Mom was out of town I made him come with me and drove him to emergency but he downplayed it to them too. He left with a recommendation for Advil.

    A week later the night my Mom flew back in I picked her up at the airport and when we arrived at their house my Dad was on the couch and couldn’t move on his own. We took him to the bathroom supported on our arms and called the doctor. He was in the hospital right away. They quickly diagnosed cancer in his spine which cut off the spinal cord and his lower body functions. The cancer had been spreading for a while. Once he knew he said the same thing to me… my Dad, a Scotsman just said to me… ” I’m fed up” I knew what he meant. He died less than a week after his diagnosis, we barely had come to terms with the dreaded C word and he was gone.

    I had just had my second baby a few months before that and my oldest was four. I was angry soo soo angry that my kids wouldn’t get time with their Grandfather. I was also angry that nobody else seemed to notice that the world wasn’t the same and everyone went on with their own lives and at a speed so much faster than mine. It takes a while to process it all and time helps and heals. The baby I just had when my Dad passed is now 17. He knows his Grandfather through pictures and videos and stories. My older guy remembers some of the time he spend with my Dad. I choose to remember the good stuff and forget any of the bad stuff.

    My heart goes out to you and your family. You’ve got a lovely one and having them around you will help you loads.

  21. You’ll always remember those days, but, as time passes, they will take on a different significance. They’ll be the days that you draw strength from, the days that remind you that YOU can and will survive no matter how hard or painful the challenge. You will remember those days as the days when your parent became a human being with all the frailties that that entails. You will see clearer for having those days.

    In some ways, I envy the time you had, I had 12 hours. But part of me knows that I couldn’t have done what you did, and I admire you for doing it.

    The lesson death taught me? SAY IT! The greatest comfort I ever had during that time was that there was nothing left unsaid between my mom and I. So just SAY IT. Tell those close to you what they mean to you, tell them when they make you happy, tell them when they make you sad, tell them everything….

  22. This entry is so beautifully written and so brave.

    I am just so amazed at how beautifully you could capture all these moments.

    Sending love your way…

  23. beautiful, girl…..and so hard to read.

    i love you….and miss you.

  24. Hospice forces you to deal with death head on. You can’t ignore it, you can’t deny it, cant be vague. There’s no comforting self-delusion in hospice. It’s almost cruel.

    Take advantage of the bereavement services hospice offers. I benefitted a lot from it. (My counselor explained that the reason I was crying uncontrollably at work was because I was writing a course about a type of insurance that has death benefits.)

  25. Sorry for my long ‘post’ comment LOL.

    My dad was fine, fell in his driveway and spent the next year in and out of the hospital. He kept saying how he wanted to die, would be better off dead and like you I felt it was selfish. I don’t have kids yet, was still only dating my now husband… my dad wanting to die made me feel cheated. Didn’t he want to be there for MY kids, MY wedding, like he had been for my siblings?

    In the hospital my dad was so ornery with his family. He took out every frustration on us. When he got to come home he was nasty and never wanted us around. Maybe it was his way of trying to make it easier on us. It didn’t work. He had a heart attack at home and had to be readmitted.

    My last day seeing my dad he did not want me to leave. I had worked until 7am and went straight to see him. My husband had been up all night as well… we were tired but my dad kept asking me to stay just until my mom got there. My dad said ‘I just don’t want to be alone’. It broke my heart to hear him say that. I stayed as long as I could, told him I loved him, hugged and left.

    2 days later while I waited for my husband to get ready to head to the hospital my brother called and said we had to get there asap. He was dead. The worst part for me was after his funeral. When it was all over and they were ready to close the casket. I could not leave the room. All I kept thinking and saying was he did not want to be left alone and we were leaving him. I lost it. Finally after 10 minutes or so, my heart breaking, I left.

    Those memories from that year are some of the hardest I’ve ever faced. About a week after my wedding (my brother walked me down the aisle) I had a dream that my dad was there… and I believe without a shred of doubt that it was his way of telling me here was there that day, watching over me. It will be 4 years in July and I feel like it all happened yesterday.

    I hope that your memories of your dad are wonderful. *hugs*

  26. Helpless, is how I feel. Helpless for you and for all my grieving friends. All I can say is that my heart breaks for you and that you are right. It’s not fair.

  27. I remember hugging my Mom’s oncologist and sobbing after my Mom decided that she was done and Dr Taylor telling me what a good daughter I was to my Mother.

    I remember sitting with my Mom while she stared at me, not blinking or talking like she was trying to memorize my face.

    I remember her final breath as I held her hand and told her it was ok to leave us when I really didn’t want her to leave.

    I am sad that my youngest, who was only 8 wks old, will never ever get to be loved on by the most loving woman.

    It has been almost 2 years and there are more than a few nights that I still cry myself to sleep because I miss my Mom desparately.

    Tonight I am crying for you because I know.

  28. Many hugs to you and your family. All I can do is imagine and I don’t want to.

    Hold on to the days before. I admire your strength and courage to share.

  29. Zoot,

    I just linked to your post from Brit’s blog. Without even knowing you, I’m sending you hugs (from someone who’s been there – I lost my father to cancer, too, though I was only 11 at the time. I still remember.) I’m so sorry for the pain you’re experiencing and yet, so thankful, on your behalf, that you got to spend those last 8 weeks with your father. (Many years from now, you’ll see the beauty in that time and will cherish it, too. Though it never will change the fact that you and your father should have never gone through this.) It’s awful seeing the man you looked up to, the man you believe hung the moon, become so frail and weak. It’s awful becoming the caretaker for your parent. Roles (at least at our age) should not be reversed like that. I’m sorry for your kids that they don’t get many more happy years with their grandfather. I’m sorry for your dad that he didn’t get to enjoy many more happy years of being a grandfather. And I’m sorry for you — there’s just something so special about a girl and her dad. Sigh…


  30. Sending you a BIG hug for being so brave to post this. You amaze me. Best wishes to you and your family.

  31. Your dad sounds like a wondeful person so r well wishes r with u~

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