recuperation: bubble theory

Today I am here. Today I am limited. Today, I am not the same as I was on February 12, 2012, the day before my brain and body exploded with heat and pain, and my body’s processes dropped toward zero.

For the last month-plus, I have observed myself coming out of the fog of death-defying illness. The first two months are only a fuzzy blur where I went through the motions of taking care of myself, taking meds on a regimented schedule, staying at home, using every bit of energy to just be, so there were no observations and very little awareness beyond my skin.

When I first came home from the hospital, with its tubes and hard-hitting, life-saving drugs, I did attempt to fall into my daily routine, subconsciously allowing muscle memory to guide me.

In the before-time, part of my morning habit was turning on the CD player and sitting in the living room, drinking coffee, checking email and reading the funnies online, plus checking the (awful) news, both domestic and foreign sources.

In the time after, it became thus:

There was no planning, just doing: arise after dreamless sleep, go to the CD player to have music for my morning as was habit for years, but quickly turn it off. Then, shower, and dress, boil water for herbal tea, fix the same bland breakfast, and read in the bedroom for hours.

The music of my mornings before my descent toward zero was usually Baroque chorale music, or one of my favorite happy guys, Henry Purcell.  In those new mornings, as soon as I turned the music on, I had to turn it off because it immediately used up all my brain cells.  The music evoked a constant sonar pinging against every sense and caused immediate confusion. Too much information to have music playing while I attempted to be.

That information overload felt like that sensation of hearing two distinct channels of music simultaneously, the way The Beatles did on “Revolution 9” (“number 9, number 9, number 9”) from The White Album.  Hear the left, then the right, but never together. I didn’t have enough mental channels to listen to music and, say, make tea. I stopped listening to music, which is still the case, 110 mornings later.

I followed muscle memory, not conscious thought. The physical act of using the computer made me queasy, and I simply could not comprehend what was on the screen without exerting tremendous energy. The muscle memory for typing was gone. Eschewed the computer.

I have not sat in the living room since my aborted attempt on the first morning back; instead I migrate between the bedroom and the recuperation room. It is as if the living room has too much space and I need confined space to feel calm.

Once I was able to use the computer, it turned out that I was unable to comprehend posts by blogging buddies–got lost at the emotions–as if when I hit upon an emotion, my brain scattered in four different directions and couldn’t get out the other side of any of ’em.

This can still be the case, being unable to comprehend posts written from the heart, with emotion. It’s much easier looking at pictures of kitties and flowers.

Most reading comprehension was too difficult, couldn’t focus my eyes, as if the eyeballs couldn’t move along a whole word and digest it, translate it into comprehension.  Never mind comprehending a whole sentence. This still happens, but if I go slowly and concentrate on each word, I do OK. Never mind about complex instructions, that’s still a lost cause; while reading the directions, my brain peters out and can’t combine the steps to make an action.

I stopped reading the funnies because I just couldn’t see both the drawing and the words in my head, that seeing necessary to produce the meaning (and the humor). My ability to recognize humor has been blunted: I’ve become quite literal; I can be looking at a face and hear it talking, but I cannot seem to grok the whole picture, with the facial expressions and the tone of voice, so I miss sarcasm.

Once I realized I was having difficulty with a task, I simply stopped doing it and stayed within the cocoon of distance from the world.  I rested in the limited world…  And it was OK.

As my recovery progressed, I would slam against the invisible unmovable wall of the inability to cope with the world outside my immediate breathing space. I was unable to cope with emotion or other people’s complexity. Making decisions or planning was outside my ken and when faced with a decision outside my skin, anxiety split me into heart-pounding, confused pieces, which still happens, but much less so now almost four months into the after-time.

Holding conversation taxed me beyond strength, so I quit talking.  I didn’t make phone calls because I couldn’t think what to say.  Still is that way.  Mind goes blank.  When a friend would call to check in on me, I struggled to call forth conversation.

Big calls me from work in the mornings and I have nothing to say.  But it’s Big, so that familiarity should evoke thought that would translate verbally.  Nope.  Uh-uh.  Nothin’.  Blank.  Trying hard to be a partner, thinking hard about something to say.  Then, as if someone kicked me in the shins, I know I should ask how his day is going.

Going back to the masseuse should have been easy, yeah? Notably, driving was a very bad idea because my mind would float away while behind the wheel. In her studio, she has music playing and a fountain tinkling. When she is working on me, I am aware of three obviously distinct channels of stimulus, three separate streams each with its own flow and rhythm–the music, the fountain, and her touch. They all used to blend together, in the before-time, or just float around. Now, still, I have to shut out two channels and only notice one, or none at all. It’s like having my brain mess with the balance control so my eyes seem to dart from one channel to the next. Very tiring.

In the last month I have realized that my long-term memory took a beating in those four days in February of deadly illness. Can’t remember Christmas or last October. I have signposts only of the time before, and a sense of “it’s too much effort” to recall other memories–it actually taxes me to spend time in recall, to try to part that gauze curtain that separates the before-time from the after, so I slide away from the remembering.

My sleep was dreamless for the first six weeks, then I became aware of having dreamt. Six weeks seems to be a milestone–it was at that time I returned to the geometric drawings.

There are memories of living daily life, of thinking, of doing, but so far away it is as if they don’t belong to me.  There is a nonfiction movie, What the bleep do we know?! that describes a scene that I apply to my recovery experiences and to cats.  Bear with me.

The scene:  Roughly 1490, America (think Columbus, not Erik the Red).  The Spanish ships are standing off the coast of what would come to be called the Eastern United States.  The coastal Native American Indians look out to sea, but contemplate no dangers, have no response because even though those Spanish ships are there, the onshore viewers do not see them because the viewers have never seen anything like those ships, so they simply do not exist.

Cats do this all the time:  for the first time, a harness appears.  They walk right by it and don’t even bother to sniff because it isn’t there. Or how about the “I’m invisible” poses of cats hiding behind or under something that doesn’t hide their whole bodies, but they know they cannot be seen. Like those chubby Looney Tunes cartoon characters whose bodies disappear behind the skinniest tree in the world. Invisible.

This is the first time in my life where I have truly admitted that I have limits and must live within them, even as those limits flex slightly. When I was 16 with a broken leg in a full-length cast, I insisted upon setting and clearing the table, holding the crutches hard into my armpits and carrying hands-full of dishes to and from the kitchen. I can imagine my parents’ frustration with me, behaving like that. My parents brought me a wheelchair to navigate our fairly large house and I refused to use it with something approaching hysteria.

Curiosity guided and propelled me in the before-time. Recognizing the unusual or having a sideways interpretation amused and delighted me. Puzzles were fun: as a child, being absolutely engrossed in unraveling the surprise knot in my shoes. Challenges were never too great, even when I should have had a little good sense about some of them: skiing off the face of a mountain was beyond my abilities, but I wanted to try. Kayaking in 3-foot waves with 20 knot winds pushing the boat offshore was dumb, but a challenge I rose to (so I could survive!). Novelty piqued my curiosity.

Now, I am aware of my limits physically, emotionally, and creatively, and instead of making every moment a powerful balancing act, I lean back into myself and do what I can do and do it peacefully. I’ve removed myself from the complexities and agonies of my mother being relocated out of her home: Big, my lovely Big, has stepped in and borne the load I normally would carry. Even his sister has stepped into help. So, I discover what it is to say “No”: the world carries on without me, and the people I love are safe and cared for, and I am whole and well.

My bubble expands with glacial slowness, allowing more experience in, the moments sometimes coming right up against the sheen of the bubble and being shoved at from the outside world so that the calm shape is distorted, and then I beat a retreat to the nucleus of safety, where my Self understands the pulls, but is not thrown from the safe orbit into chaos.

Today is a new day. Every day is slightly different, but has the same general shape and feel. I don’t know if my brain will regain its former power; I’ve thought I was pretty smart and fast-thinking, able to understand about anything I wanted to. One of the joys of working as a technical editor was encountering new subject matter and having to quickly get enough understanding of the topic in order to ask intelligent questions of the subject matter experts. Or, simply choosing to study Mandarin because I was curious and never considered that I could not learn it despite discouraging words from other people.

Now, complex thought is difficult. I notice the difference from the before-time and at times the heartbreak overcomes me. Creativity has been second nature to me, but that ability to pick this and that to combine into a creative thought or product is stashed behind a fog. Having decided in the before-time to make a go of making a living as a mosaic artist, this does present a problem. I am, however, determined to not give up on that idea.

I am experiencing a rebirth of my brain power, despite my worries. I improve, but it is slow, which is not my usual speed. I began creating those geometric drawings because at one moment the book caught my eye and I realized I could do that again. How I knew that I was capable is a mystery, but hell, this whole ride has been a Magical Mystery Tour in a shiny submarine! I started this essay weeks ago, but it has been a difficult task, concentrating and remembering, then finding the words to describe, and finally, overcoming the ennui from lack of interest in expending so much energy.

Dr. Jill Bolte Taylor watched her descent into stroke-induced dysfunction. I watch my ascent from the depths of serious illness and see an altered shape of my future. I feel my vulnerability like never before, but decide to live not in fear, but in the moment, having faith that I will be OK.

Turns out that I feel curious about what is coming.


46 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. heretherebespiders
    Jun 09, 2012 @ 11:48:39

    Wow, babe. I had the thought, half-way through reading, that you sound like someone with sudden-onset asperger’s. Or another mild variety of autism. I’m both fascinated by the process and horrified it happened to someone I grew to care about quite quickly (back in your lost October – at least a good thing about blogs is you can go back and read it again, I suppose-if inclined). I was also thinking this must have taken a long time to write. If it helps at all, you are still YOU, in the way you write. I don’t know if it is faith, it’s a hard concept for me, but based on the evidence you are recovering and will continue to do so.

    You are curious because you are still you, and this is yet another challenge. Not one you have a lot of control over, but a challenge nonetheless. Maybe you won’t be as quick as you were – but I know you’re already quicker than a lot of folks out there and improving daily.

    And..I’m sort of jealous that you don’t “have” to listen to music – I have a love/hate relationship going on with it now that I hear rubbish at work and nothing I care about at home!



    • lahgitana
      Jun 09, 2012 @ 12:04:36

      I’ve thought that, too, about the autism. My response to noise reminds me of working with autistic kids–traffic noise makes my insides clam up, my head seems to pulse! I don’t know about sudden-onset asperger’s and I’m too chicken to read about it. Yikes!

      Thank you so very much for reading this tome. It did take a long time to write, but it seemed to be a necessary part of the process of the recovery: where I was and where I am.

      Isn’t that funny about this world–that my music has been taken from me for now and you are inundated unwillingly!


      • heretherebespiders
        Jun 09, 2012 @ 12:10:25

        Oh, I don’t know if the sudden-onset is a real thing – it sounds impossible, to be honest.

        I’m glad you did this – it was hard to read but needed. Does Big read your blog? I find I can say things my fella needs to hear easier on the blog. But (surprisingly?) I’m a terrible communicator, at least compared to Socks anyhow.

        I have, for the first time in seven years, my driving-music time back. It’s my only ‘me’ time with tunes, and I cherish it. Do you miss music?


        • lahgitana
          Jun 09, 2012 @ 12:24:40

          Please tell me why it was hard to read, E. Yes, Big even nags me when I don’t post, but not so much nagging right now because he gets that I’m a little quieter than usual! >:-D

          I’m pretty sure communication can be/is a learned behavior, that there really are some practices that make life easier–like me remembering to ask Big how his day is going!

          I LOVE your descriptions of rocketing and rockin’ to work, E! Happy you have it back for your own time. Pretty necessary in my book. And, no, I don’t miss music; it is still distant…. That’s hard to describe–I have put the idea of music away for now and don’t feel the lack. At all. Which is damn weird, but OK, it’s what I’ve got for now. (Whenever I moved house, my FIRST moving-in chore had always been to set up the stereo!)


          • heretherebespiders
            Jun 09, 2012 @ 12:41:51

            Hard to read because I don’t like to hear how someone I care about is injured. Technically, it’s perfect :) I do know, sort of, what you mean by distant. I do that with people, with reading, with tv, quite often.

            Just to give you a visual/audio impression of my evening: there’s some catholic procession thingie going through the town, and I hear a woman on a loudspeaker doing hail Mary’s and whatnot in the distance. It’s quiet, otherwise, just birdsong – I assume all my neighbors are in town watching? Hubby said he wants me to see it – but I would laugh and that’s not nice for anyone but me and him. I don’t want to be disrespectful. I am wondering how come a woman gets to do the readings when they can’t be priests… Just rambling, dear, ignore me :)


          • lahgitana
            Jun 09, 2012 @ 12:57:43

            Thanks for telling me why it was hard to read. I was curious! (Yaaay! Curiosity!)

            I believe that the aural experience out your window is a cacophony of catholics! And, yes, isn’t that SWELL of the fellas to ALLOW the woman to chant and to have her very own megaphone?! grrr… not so good with the ridiculous sexist limits….


            • heretherebespiders
              Jun 09, 2012 @ 13:07:49

              I’m out front trying to get the last of the sunshine! It’s weird and echoey, I hear it four times! We live right near the church so… Hubby says its the ‘Legion of Mary’ a women’s group. Because the catholic congress is in Dublin tomorrow – he says it’s the catholic olympics.

          • lahgitana
            Jun 09, 2012 @ 13:15:23

            hahahahaha! so wrong but so funny–the olympics!

            we’re having quite cool weather–Big just lit a fire in the woodstove because I complained of a runny, cold nose!

            wait, you have sun at 9 pm?!


          • heretherebespiders
            Jun 09, 2012 @ 13:20:25

            Oh yes! I’ll see Old Sol for another hour, I’d guess, and then it will be light until at least 11. We are so high up! We had a fire last night :)


          • lahgitana
            Jun 09, 2012 @ 13:29:01



  2. Kathryn McCullough
    Jun 09, 2012 @ 12:07:52

    I thought the same thing “spiders” did–that it must have taken a long, long time to write the essay above. But, clearly, you are beginning to emerge from the fog. I just hope you won’t give up your dream to be a mosaic artist. You are dear, Laurel. I’m so happy to hear from you today. Peace and blessings to you, my friend.


    • lahgitana
      Jun 09, 2012 @ 12:16:28

      Hi Kathy–I’m happy to be back here. Writing has been difficult and this essay did indeed take many sessions. The bulk of it I wrote in one sitting, but was very difficult otherwise. Fascinating, that, in its own way! I’d like to hear why you thought it took a long time to write–if you’re so inclined.

      My dream is alive–I have ordered a boatload of tesserae (mosaic tiles and stone) and will attempt a simple design.

      Thank you for being here, Kathy. It has been a journey, and sometimes too lonely, but not now!


  3. heretherebespiders
    Jun 09, 2012 @ 13:08:28

    Oh tesserae!! Such a beautiful word.


  4. sweetdaysundertheoaks
    Jun 09, 2012 @ 17:19:44

    Laurel as I read this post it took me back to the year after I had my cardiac “event” and stent. I felt I was in a deep depression and fear was always there. I felt damaged and couldn’t move forward. It sounds like you are coming out of the grip of fear and vulnerability. I wish for you continued recovery and the feeling of happiness at just “being” and enjoy every moment of your life.


    • lahgitana
      Jun 09, 2012 @ 17:40:53

      Hi Oaks! Zounds–that’s quite an event! [:-<

      Thank you for stopping in, Oaks, and the comforting words. Always very nice to hear from you. I was just noticing that your blog has been quiet (or is that my funky memory?!).


      • sweetdaysundertheoaks
        Jun 10, 2012 @ 05:35:22

        Good morning Laurel! Been quiet. I’m taking a blog break… :) I have zero motivation to blog right now. No idea why but it happens to me. Not your “funky” memory at all… :D

        Take care,


        • lahgitana
          Jun 10, 2012 @ 08:22:41

          Hi Pix (and what a wonderful, evocative name it is!)–it’s a real phenomenon, this taking a blog break. It is more than just not writing…. I know I would always want to hear how things were going for a quiet blog buddy….

          Writing for us writers must connect squarely and keenly with emotion. I’m just sayin’.

          And–I had actually written a longer comment yesterday and it disappeared. I HAD said that your event seemed to be a defining moment in your life and that most of us don’t actually get those moments and then DO something with them. Brava, Pix.

          The damaged self is real, so it’s our response to it, huh, that counts. Like life. Oh crap. It’s all so simple, isn’t it?! Shoulda taught THAT in first grade! >:-D


  5. nadbugs
    Jun 10, 2012 @ 05:30:37

    Dear Lahgitana, I appreciate the burst of passion I imagine it took to get this down and done. It’s a matter of life and death, right?

    So what you write is of tremendous importance. This blog – it’s a chance for us to share this precious opportunity to air life and death issues. Where else can we do this? You take the floor, uninterrupted, about your life-and-death. I listen rapt.

    You’re grappling mano-a-mano with a tremendous upheaval in your sense of self. You’re being asked – demanded – to put one brain cell back into connection with another, neuron by neuron. Re-organizing your senses once again. This is a challenge we all accomplished eons ago as infants. But we fully expected it to stay put. What a seismic catastrophe it is, to have to re-boot – when you were making other plans. And did it ask politely. It blew down the doors.

    Let’s not catastrophize, mind – I imagine you’d have short patience with catastrophizing – but on the other hand, let’s give this thing its due first, before we buff up with the inspiration.

    Recall that Jill Bolte Taylor took *nine years,* I think it was, to put herself back together. And she had the constant loving attention of her mother, who, from JBT’s book, sounded like re-raised her like an infant, neuron by neuron. And then, of course, having been put back together, she was changed big-time. She could sing, where before she could not. But it took nine years. And a village.

    I have two requests of you. One: Would you be willing to consider coming back to writing more regularly? Could you manage this in small bytes? Pick one neuronal challenge and tell us about it? You are in the trenches here, just as JBT was. Think of the contribution her story has been, to millions of people. Then do what you can? I promise you I appreciate even the idea.

    The other is: There’s tremendous work being done these days in recovery from what you’ve been through. There are resources out there that are unimaginable. I have three to suggest at random – knowing you and your magnificent capacity for self-connection, your imagination will take hold who knows where.

    Here are my three strategic suggestions: Feldenkrais, Open Focus, and Brene Brown. Here are links to see whether any of these might be of interest. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to facilitate your connecting with any of these, or anything else.


    Open Focus:

    Brene Brown:

    Lahgitana, let me know your response. I’d really like to hear.


    • lahgitana
      Jun 10, 2012 @ 08:17:18

      Bean, oh my goodness! Don’t laugh, but I’m wordless! I will save this lovely screed off-blog and absorb it.

      I have been alone, as was proper, in my journey because they are my neurons doin’ their thing. With posting here, I learn more about my experience because of the village chiming in, and I can’t tell you well enough how grateful I am to feel a part of a village.

      Since I have, er, issues with the medical world, I made the decision to take this trip without their input. THIS input here is what I needed. This is why when JustI posted the JBT video I needed to see it, even though I was unclear why JustI thought it applied to me in any way (confusion). An ironic particular about the video–despite my modern computer, I couldn’t get the video to play, so had to read the transcript. Actually is funny irony!

      So much for wordlessness! >:-D Off I go to your email now.


  6. IsobelandCat
    Jun 10, 2012 @ 11:08:40

    This a very powerful and eloquent post Lauren. And very well structured, so somewhere you brain is engaging and doing.
    I hope some medics read this. I can imagine it would be a very useful post for people in medicine to read to help them understand what the process of recovery is like from the other side of the prescription.
    Could you just ask the masseuse to work without music etc and explain how difficult all these stimulii are for you at present?
    Enjoy the being, and I am very glad you are curious about the future. Hang in there.


    • lahgitana
      Jun 10, 2012 @ 11:48:20

      Will answer all in a mo’, but for now: hahahahahahaa that I absolutely NEVER thought to ask the masseuse to turn off the stimuli! hahahahahaa lordy! i just take the ride each time! hahahahahaa little steps forward–and suggestions from the audience are helping me immensely! >:-D


    • lahgitana
      Jun 10, 2012 @ 11:54:19

      Your comment about medics reading this is interesting–the fact that I would have had to explain, struggling ever so, to a medic is exactly why I have stayed away from them for now.

      Isn’t that nice of my brain to show up?! Actually pretty exciting. I can feel the changes happening–to wit, when I first started this essay, I could only get sentences down. With each re-visit, I started to flesh them out. Hmmmm….

      Glad you’re here, Isobel. See why my response in your post comments was so short?! >:-D Still loving those vortices of helicopter-induced air. Zounds!

      Best, Laurel


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  8. JustI
    Jun 10, 2012 @ 12:03:52

    Ahhhh, Laurel, you have challenged me once again. I read your post twice and then I set off searching for some mindful/meaningful and thought provoking information. I’ve created another post for you, to challenge you and encourage you to exercise your brain. I chose two, totally opposite videos (yes, from TED, again). Tell me what you think when you have a moment in time.


    • lahgitana
      Jun 10, 2012 @ 12:25:24

      I think you’re swell, that’s what I think!

      Exercising my brain is exactly what I want. It just needs time and encouragement. It was a pretty darned good brain before the nonsense!

      And thank you for posting on your blog so that I can re-blog in my entirely slothful way! >:-D


  9. JustI
    Jun 10, 2012 @ 12:28:45

    You are a dear! Let me know what you think after you think ….:)


  10. Dorcas
    Jun 10, 2012 @ 17:31:26

    Dear Laurel,

    I’ve thought about your post since I read yesterday. Beautifully written. What strikes me is that you put into words what is hard for the rest of us to see or understand with just the few cues we may receive when we see you in person. Your essay helped me better understand and have greater empathy. That is a gift for the rest of us. I am reminded of how it might feel for someone with Parkinson’s, for example; or even someone who is hard of hearing. How often does one explain, “uhh, you know, I have this problem…” However, hard this is for you, I’m with the rest of those who commented above, your writing is incredible. I’m proud of you. Love, Dorcas


    • lahgitana
      Jun 11, 2012 @ 08:31:53

      Hey You! Thank you so much for your lovely words. You captured the flip side perfectly–that I can tell folks I’m having a hard time finding my words, for instance, but there is no way for me to splain that because I’m having a hard time finding my words! >:-D

      Me, too, with the empathy for the folks who tell me they are limited. After Mom came home from hospital having lived through sepsis (at her age!!!), our conversational style changed: I would wait as long as it took for her to find her words, unless she asked me for help, instead of bolting in and filling in the blank. We also laughed like hell about our odd conversations. Too, I heard her own heartbreak about her brain having changed, a more powerful brain I have not met.

      Thank you, Dorcas, for chiming in. I always look forward to your take on life.


  11. minlit
    Jun 11, 2012 @ 11:53:44

    Wow. I’m so pleased you’ve put this all down, though I realise it must have been like climbing a mountain to do so. It sounds like you’ve been Zen-ified, almost against your will. In the before-time, Zen-ification might even have been something you were attracted to. But not to have control over it….To be forced to mono-task, when you were previously the Zanny-fication of the purple grasshopper! Amazing.
    Note to self: No sarcasam or words of more than two syllables from now on :)


    • lahgitana
      Jun 11, 2012 @ 12:21:26

      Hey, D! I thought of you as I posted this because I remember your fascination with my other descriptions.

      The Zen-ification has been a gift of this mess, one I intend to write about. Eventually. The mono-task-ness is real–I also can only have one big thing or emotion a day: for instance, I went to the haircutter lady and since it’s a school, I was there for three hours. When I got home, I was DONE for the day. She added blue to my purple. >:-D

      A week ago I realized that my thinking has become linear! Oh lordy what a change. I’m usually grasshoppering all over the place, but not so much right now! But I’m taking the ride and it turns out that the linear experience is adding to the deep understanding of Zen moments.

      If you leave out the polysyllabics and sarcasm, you will not exercise my brain. Plus, you will miss out on opportunities to giggle because, really, it’s worth laughing when I take a statement at face value–it’s so different from the before-time.

      Remember when I tried to join you and Spiders in punning? Arrrggggh!!

      So happy you’re along for the ride. Weirdly wonderful, innit?!


      • minlit
        Jun 11, 2012 @ 12:33:13

        Oh, yess. Totally. Also, meant to say, I remember vaguely that 6 weeks is about a cellular cycle – ie, when the body replaces itself, so it makes sense that things should change then. AND also, the part of your brain that makes connections and does language is not necessarily the same as the part that does pattern.


        • lahgitana
          Jun 12, 2012 @ 08:11:17

          Then I’m right on schedule, eh?!

          I’ve been thinking about developmental psychology and the relationship of my ability to write ever so much more clearly than speak. I’ve concluded that babies actually learn full-syntax language before they talk, but when it comes time to talk, they’re expending so much effort that they just do bits and pieces until they bring the full syntax from their brains to their mouths.

          I could make millions, I tell ya, with my research! >:-D


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