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Breathings From My Heart

Monthly Archives: August 2014

Still In The Midst Of The Maelstrom

19 Tuesday Aug 2014

Posted by BRomero in Family

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storms and faith

In a little book of morning readings a couple of days ago, on the very morning that my younger daughter’s two little girls prepared to fly back to Kuala Lumpur with their dad, her husband, I read a message printed in a stranger’s book, one that is meant for millions. It’s a popular devotional that is based on scripture, a book I try to read each day. Each entry is always meaningful, but that day it was as though it was meant especially for my family, more especially for those of us with a part in the activities surrounding the departure of those children from their mother. Funny that in an ironic way often the messages in that book seem to be speaking directly to me. No doubt many people who read it each morning feel the same way. And yet, I choose to believe that different days resonate with different ones of us depending on the events of our lives. That morning was my turn.

The words in the book that morning spoke of being in the midst of a maelstrom, and were we ever in one that day. Have we not all been there? Is there a person among us that has known only peace, only laughter, only health, only joy? Is there such a person that has yet to experience troubles, tears, illness, sorrow?  Is there a person who has not at some point ever asked why?

That morning as my daughter hurriedly packed the very last of the bags that the girls and her husband would carry home, as she checked and doubled-checked her children’s carry ons for the plane, making sure favorite snacks were visible and handy, that the personal electronics, loaded with favorite game occupied the assigned pockets, art books and colored pencils were stowed properly, their security blanket animals that soothe them to sleep nestled within a short reach (a task she’s done countless times for a flight that lasts 16 plus hours), I knew her heart was heavy. At the same time I was rushing to put the finishing touches on a photo album for each girl, a tradition that started with their first trip home after their move to Malaysia. This year I’ll also make little brother’s first one when he leaves.  They hold precious pictures to mark our time together, to help remember their trip. I wonder if those books are as much for me as for them, even though I don’t make one for myself. After all, it’s crucial to me they never forget. The weight of my heart matched my daughter’s, with one exception. She had never sent them home. She had always accompanied them. That day was a new challenge for her, for my girl who needed no new challenges after learning of the cancer that kept her in the states while sending her two older children, still young, home to start school, to find comfort and distraction in routine, surrounded by the familiar. The cancer kept her on the ground while they took to the skies.

Even before we had feasted our eyes upon them long enough one last time or hugged them half enough times to satisfy our need to hold them close (is that even possible with grandchildren?), the girls and their daddy were off for the Houston airport where their mommy, my sweet daughter, would drop them, those most precious to her, save for their little brother, and stay the night to meet one last doctor on Monday at MD Anderson. One last time she would hear what is to happen on September 9 when she trusts her health, her life, to those who are said to be experts at saving it. One last time to hear how her body will be forever changed. It is her life we want. Everything else will be lagniappe. She would meet with the plastic surgeon, and that doctor plays a vital part in this process we now talk about with regularity, something ingrained into our lives, but that until three weeks ago, we’d never had to consider. Yes, that doctor is important, but life……life, to see her children become adults and have their own families, to grow old and content with her husband….that is paramount.

So I was left to seek God in the midst of this maelstrom, to speak His name, almost the only word I could mutter, when other words choked in my throat, when instead of watching my daughter’s car leave my driveway, I wanted to run and stop it. Could stopping it stop the future, the plane, the surgery?  I will not waste my time wishing for a different set of circumstances. Not true – I will TRY not to waste my time wishing for something over which I have no control. Control, that illusion that I’ve sometimes believed I had. I have already been taught that I have no control over our lives. It appears I am to be taught once more.  In truth, if I’m painfully honest, would I really want it?

On the day that my daughter drove her precious cargo to the airport, the first time in many that we have not done the driving because she, too, was always leaving, we were – and are – indeed in the midst of a maelstrom. Today, typing these words, we are in that raging storm that God sometimes allows around His children. Still, with one utterance of His name, the seas calm, the wind slows. It may only be for a moment. I need to utter it often. While I battle the pain of the day, the day of departures, the day that meant the disease we’d met is real, while thoughts whirled all around me, I remembered the name that has the power to bring peace to the chaos, the name of the one who holds us all, who can use this circumstance, this storm, for His purpose. I remember that He holds my daughter and her children just as He has held all of us who need Him and ask. I pray the serenity prayer again. God grant me, please grant me.  For one special moment I have that peace that we find so hard to understand.

This peace I wish for my daughter. This peace she deserves. This peace she will have.

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Still In The Midst Of The Maelstrom

19 Tuesday Aug 2014

Posted by BRomero in Family

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storms and faith

In a little book of morning readings a couple of days ago, on the very morning that my younger daughter’s two little girls prepared to fly back to Kuala Lumpur with their dad, her husband, I read a message printed in a small but powerful book.  It’s a popular devotional that is based on scripture, a book I try to read each day. Each entry is always meaningful, but that day it was as though it were meant especially for my family, more especially for those of us with a part in the activities surrounding the departure of those children from their mother. Funny that in an ironic way often the messages in that book seem to be speaking directly to me. No doubt many people who read it each morning feel the same way. And yet, I choose to believe that different days resonate with different ones of us depending on the events of our lives. That morning was my turn.

The words in the book that morning spoke of being in the midst of a maelstrom, and were we ever in one that day. Have we not all been there? Is there a person among us that has known only peace, only laughter, only health, only joy? Is there such a person that has yet to experience troubles, tears, illness, sorrow?  Is there a person who has not at some point ever asked why?

That morning as my daughter hurriedly packed the very last of the bags that the girls and her husband would carry home, as she checked and doubled-checked her children’s carry ons for the plane, making sure favorite snacks were visible and handy, that their personal electronics, loaded with favorite game occupied the assigned pockets, art books and colored pencils were stowed properly, their security blanket animals that soothe them to sleep nestled within a short reach (a task she’s done countless times for a flight that lasts 16 plus hours), I knew her heart was heavy. At the same time I was rushing to put the finishing touches on a photo album for each girl, a tradition that started with their first trip home after their move to Malaysia. This year I’ll also make little brother’s first one when he leaves.  They hold precious pictures to mark our time together, to help remember their trip. I wonder if those books are as much for me as for them, even though I don’t make one for myself. After all, it’s crucial to me they never forget. The weight of my heart matched my daughter’s, with one exception. She had never sent them home. She had always accompanied them. That day was a new challenge for her, for my girl who needed no new challenges after learning of the cancer that kept her in the states while sending her two older children, still young, home to start school, to find comfort and distraction in routine, surrounded by the familiar. The cancer kept her on the ground while they took to the skies.

Even before we had feasted our eyes upon them long enough one last time or hugged them half enough times to satisfy our need to hold them close (is that even possible with grandchildren?), the girls and their daddy were off for the Houston airport where their mommy, my sweet daughter, would drop them, those most precious to her, save for their little brother, and stay the night to meet one last doctor on Monday at MD Anderson. One last time she would hear what is to happen on September 9 when she trusts her health, her life, to those who are said to be experts at saving it. One last time to hear how her body will be forever changed. It is her life we want. Everything else will be lagniappe. She would meet with the plastic surgeon, and that doctor plays a vital part in this process we now talk about with regularity, something ingrained into our lives, but that until three weeks ago, we’d never had to consider. Yes, that doctor is important, but life……life, to see her children become adults and have their own families, to grow old and content with her husband….that is paramount.

So I was left to seek God in the midst of this maelstrom, to speak His name, almost the only word I could mutter, when other words choked in my throat, when instead of watching my daughter’s car leave my driveway, I wanted to run and stop it. Could stopping it stop the future, the plane, the surgery?  I will not waste my time wishing for a different set of circumstances. Not true – I will TRY not to waste my time wishing for something over which I have no control. Control, that illusion that I’ve sometimes believed I had. I have already been taught that I have no control over our lives. It appears I am to be taught once more.  In truth, if I’m painfully honest, would I really want it?

On the day that my daughter drove her precious cargo to the airport, the first time in many that we have not done the driving because she, too, was always leaving, we were – and are – indeed in the midst of a maelstrom. Today, typing these words, we are in that raging storm that God sometimes allows around His children. Still, with one utterance of His name, the seas calm, the wind slows. It may only be for a moment. I need to utter it often. While I battle the pain of the day, the day of departures, the day that meant the disease we’d met is real, while thoughts whirled all around me, I remembered the name that has the power to bring peace to the chaos, the name of the one who holds us all, who can use this circumstance, this storm, for His purpose. I remember that He holds my daughter and her children just as He has held all of us who need Him and ask. I pray the serenity prayer again. God grant me, please grant me.  For one special moment I have that peace that we find so hard to understand.

This peace I wish for my daughter. This peace she deserves. This peace she will have.

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Praying for Serenity

16 Saturday Aug 2014

Posted by BRomero in Family

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2ff5af222604bb72ad9fe774e6242c51Praying the serenity prayer this morning.  Over and over again.

Yesterday evening my daughter and her husband, who had been in Houston for doctor’s appointments pertaining to her newly-discovered breast cancer, returned to us.   We were in touch the five days while she was gone, a quick text here, a hurried phone call there, telling me what the last doctor had said, what the last test had revealed, which results we were to wait on.  It’s hard to follow those kinds of conversations.  I felt I had a general understanding of what was happening, but I knew I only had information enough to understand the very tip of the iceberg that is to be her(our) journey from here, on this side of breast surgery and the unknown of treatment, to the almighty there, her final recovery.

It took a few hours after their return, with the everyday business of feeding children over,  before I could actually sit down privately with my daughter and hear what needed to heard.  What I so badly wanted to hear, but what I so badly was afraid to know.  Funny how we both have husbands, and hers had even been with her through each appointment and exam, but when it came time for mother and daughter to address the latest developments, the absolute vital information of the breast cancer, mother and daughter wanted complete privacy.  Only her older sister would have been included had she been with us.

It took going out to her car, parked in my driveway, to get that privacy.  Her husband taped each conversation with the doctors, and so because we couldn’t get the one I needed to hear to play inside on my speakers, we took to the car.  We escaped to the car where we could listen, and where there would be no interruptions.  There, in the dark of her parked car, the security light above my carport  shining shadows around us,  there is where I heard the voice of my daughter recorded on her phone speaking with the man who would remove her left breast.

In that conversation, taped during the second visit to the surgeon/oncologist at MD Anderson, the one where he marked on her breast exactly where the cancer was (most of the breast) and marked what the plastic surgeon would need in order to take pictures for both of them, I could hear my daughter’s voice asking questions. I could hear the doctor providing answers.  I could hear him offer information she hadn’t yet asked for, the way any seasoned doctor can.  I could hear her stress and his professional calm.

There, in the shadows of her car, we listened.  There, in the shadows of that car, we were a unit.  The two of us.  Mother and daughter hearing that a part of my daughter, a physical part of the child I’d given birth to, was to be surgically removed in order to save her life.  I could see her silhouette in the shadows.  I could see her sitting straight, her natural posture, as though we were listening to someone else’s conversation with the surgeon.  As though the percentages and statistics he was quoting were for someone else.  In truth, the numbers are good.  We are encouraged.  Still, listening to those disembodied voices discussing a killer disease inside her body was hard.  Shortly after the conversation started, and I could hear their voices, I took her hand.   I took her hand thinking I wanted to reassure her, as we sat there in the shadows, that all would be fine in the end….on the other side of this journey.  I held it a long time.  At that moment it was important to me that she feel the love coursing through me to her.   I wonder this morning if I may have needed the feel of her hand in mine, needed to touch of my child, as much as I thought she needed to feel my reassurance.  Oh, the things we tell ourselves.  Is there anything more precious than our children?

Now it is Saturday morning.  Two of my daughter’s three children sleep upstairs, my two precious granddaughters who live half a world away most of the year.  I learned yesterday, when I learned the date of their mother’s surgery, that they will leave us on Sunday evening, tomorrow,  and return to their home in Malaysia.  Their dad will fly with them so that they will start their school year, though a few days late, reunite with their friends, and settle into the routine of their lives while we wait for the September date of their mother’s surgery.  Their little brother will stay here, too young to be gone from his mother that long.  His sisters, thought to be old enough to handle it, have no choice.  They will go, whether they are old enough to handle it or not.  When their dad returns alone for the actual operation at MDA, the girls will stay behind to be shuffled between their live-in housekeeper and their closest friends and those parents.  They will be half a world away with no relative anywhere near them.  I pray for serenity.  How I pray for it over and over again.  Each time they make the trip here to visit, the leaving is heart-wrenching.  Each time.  This time I fear their leaving in a way I haven’t needed to before.  This time they leave without their mother.  Routine is good, yes, but there will be no routine until she returns to them.  They are returning home to an illusion, and it is not of their choosing.  She is the sun in their universe.  She is what warms their little lives.  They will enjoy their friends, yes.  They will start school and have the fun that school children have starting a new year, yes.  But it will all be done against a backdrop of loneliness and uncertainty and even fear.  It will all be done with an ache somewhere inside their hearts.  An ache with their mother’s name on it.  Children can feel fear, can sense tension.   It comes in all sorts of ways to them.  One is insecurity.  I, as their grandmother, know all that, of course.  Blessedly, they don’t yet.  I am powerless to change the scenario, so I pray for serenity.  Oh, how I pray.  Separation from these children each time is enough of a heartache for me that bearing it is a trial, a loss that takes a toll and takes time to scab.  This time, with the worry about their mother and the worry about their well-being without her, knowing they are leaving without the sun that warms their little lives, the uncertainty clutching my heart is indescribable.  They will have their dad, true, and yet most of us know that dads are support for Mom, not the center of a child’s universe.  Their days will be cloudy and overcast until their mother returns to them.

Grandmother that I am, I must admit I was for a moment tempted to fly to them when their dad flies here for the surgery.  We all know grandmothers, at least certain grandmothers, can provide the warmth of their mother easily.  My little girls and I have that connection, that bond, that love.  I would be bringing some of the sun with me were I to fly around the globe to be with them.  It was a fleeting thought.  I know my daughter needs me here, but I confess I actually did consider it.

Dread of their leaving has already crept into my heart and taken its place right next to the dread of their mother’s surgery.

Meanwhile, cancer sits in the breast of my younger daughter.  Cancer sits in the breast of the baby I carried and the woman I love.  Cancer sits in the breast of my grandchildren’s mother, who means so much to them, who is the warmth in their world half a globe away from us.  I will take care of her for all of us, and they will once again feel the sun on their faces and in their hearts.  One day.

Again I type while the rest of my house sleeps, nudged awake early even though it was very late when my head met my pillow last night.  I would like to believe it is God nudging me.  I want to think He is nudging me awake to remind me that He has all this (as I know somewhere, somewhere in my conscious mind), and that I can let it go.  He’ll take care of it.  Let go and let God.  How many times have I said those words?  How many times have I meant them for myself or said them to friends?  Oh, how I need to say them and mean them now.  Oh, how hard it is for someone like me to fully let go.

Time to do my morning readings, my daily meditations, and to pray for serenity more powerfully than I have since my mother’s illness and death, or since my grandson left for Basic Training, but those stories are both for other posts.

Maybe even more importantly, it is time to remind myself that eucharisteo precedes the miracle.  Time to give thanks for all we’ve been given, for all the times God has pulled us through other trials.

 

 

 

 

 

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LIFE IS WHAT HAPPENS

09 Saturday Aug 2014

Posted by BRomero in Family, News

≈ 5 Comments

lennon two greenIt’s been some time since I have posted here. I’ve written a couple of posts, but I’ve kept them private, for my eyes only, telling myself that they weren’t quite ready for public consumption. Now I believe that it was more that I wasn’t quite ready to share them. I’m still not ready, so for now they’ll remain private.

John Lennon once said that “Life happens when you’re busy making other plans”, and in some mystical union with the cosmos, I suppose that’s what happened to my family and me this summer. It’s one we won’t soon forget, and it isn’t over. In thinking of that quote often this summer, I realized that though John Lennon might have meant differently, I believe it is God who happens while we’re making our other plans. After all, is God not the creator of our lives? God happens by making His presence known.

In early June my younger sister, my only sibling, was diagnosed with colon cancer. Alarmed doesn’t begin to describe our reaction. She lives about two and a half hours down Interstate 10 from me, so not far enough to keep me from being with her for the surgery. In fact, I’d already been with her for a previous surgery about 18 months before, though that one had nothing to do with cancer. But, as Lennon famously said, plans sometimes don’t necessarily work out.

One of our daughters and her husband with their three children, 9 years old and under, currently live in Malaysia. They visit every summer and at Christmas. We live our days looking forward to these visits, and their arrivals in Houston are grandly anticipated for months by the whole extended family. My husband and I, the grandparents, always, always meet them at the airport. There’s nothing quite like seeing a grandchild run to your arms with a delighted smile on her/his face (yes, just like in the movies) in an international air terminal. It’s addictive. It’s a natural high some people will never experience, and that’s okay. The lows that are the flip side of that high, the heart-ache of the great distance that separates us for most of the year, balances that high all too well. This time the arrival was the exact day of my sister’s surgery. That airport and my sister’s hospital are almost eqidistance from us, in opposite directions. This time I was not able to be with my sister on the day of her surgery.

A wonderful chaos soon enveloped our house and lives, the familiar atmosphere of having our precious visitors from Malaysia, even if somewhat subdued by what was going on down the highway with my sister. I checked on her often by media or phone. She was recovering and waiting for her chemotherapy to begin on August 5. That date was, oddly, the birthday of my older daughter, the one who thankfully chose to live nearby with her family, so it was a date I wouldn’t forget. We were caught up in the swirl of activities that always surround the summer visits, and though I was appropriately concerned about my sister, I was busy entertaining my long-awaited visitors.

July 31 was the date of departure back to Malaysia for my younger daughter and her children. As typical of these summer visits that last about five weeks, the first three weeks or so we’re blissful in our happiness of being together and sharing days and nights. We’re caught up in each other’s company enough to ignore the calendar pages that I tear off each morning. The last two weeks are characteristically somewhat less jubilant as reality sets in, and the last few days leading up to their departure is a play in which we pretend to be as happy as when they arrived, while inside we’re all dreading the date that the plane will take off and fly them back across the world.

One week before the departure, which was to be on a Thursday, my daughter noticed a lump in her breast. She was concerned, but I was almost, almost (but not quite) sure that it was a fibrous cyst. Many women have fibrous cysts, so I felt that was the easy explanation. Besides, my daughter is only 36. I quickly slipped into denial that it could be anything else. Thankfully, she contacted the OBGYN who had delivered her first two children here, and on the Monday of the very week she was to depart on Thursday, I found myself sitting in one of the local hospitals while my daughter had a mammogram and ultrasound on that breast. Those were done mid-morning. Fifteen minutes after the mammogram, the OBGYN called to say she’d already heard from the hospital, and my daughter had an appointment with a surgeon for that same day at one p.m. Have I already used the word alarmed? Yes. The feeling was there again. There was something suspicious on the mammogram films. A detached feeling of surrealism began to creep into my consciousness along with the fear both my daughter and I were experiencing.

We saw the surgeon at one p.m., dutifully carrying the films from the hospital as told. After the examination, he explained that she was scheduled for a biopsy the next morning, two days before her departure home. So the next morning her older sister and I sat, waited, and worried at the hospital while my younger daughter had the biopsy, and not the needle kind. No, we waited for over two and a half hours as her breast was probed extensively. She bled the rest of the afternoon into evening. Upon leaving the hospital she was told that the pathology results on the tissue would be ready either late Wednesday or early Thursday, the very day of her planned departure. Still, the doctor wanted to see her Wednesday morning to check her breast.

Wednesday morning, the very next day, she returned to the doctor’s office. He checked her breast and asked what she planned to do for the rest of that day, the day before her planned departure. When she answered that she was planning to pack as though her results would be good, and nothing would prevent her from leaving on Thursday, he felt compelled to tell her the results of the biopsy, although the results were to come from the surgeon, not this doctor. Compassion couldn’t let him send her away to pack for a trip she wouldn’t take.

Meanwhile, my sister was awaiting her chemotherapy with the dread that all who have done it know too well and that was now less than a week away.

That visit to the doctor, the one where he told my daughter the results, was the only one when I had not accompanied her, and that was simply because I had the children. Also, we were so certain that she couldn’t possibly get results that quickly. We’d been told emphatically the results would not be ready until that afternoon if not the next morning. Plus, we told ourselves, the results wouldn’t come from that doctor anyway. Here we go with life happening in the midst of our plans. She called me from the parking lot of the hospital to give me the news, trying to say it indirectly, under the guise of checking on her children. A mother can read her child’s voice no matter how old the child. It was the day before the departure of my daughter and her children back to Malaysia.

Needless to say, that flight was cancelled. The next morning we saw the surgeon, thinking we’d be setting the date for her surgery. By now, of course, her husband was aware of everything and searching flights to get him from Kuala Lumpur to Houston, Texas as soon as possible. From Houston he would drive to us, the two plus hours it takes. After some discussion, the surgeon here suggested that Leisha, my daughter, have her surgery done at MD Anderson in Houston, the premiere cancer hospital in the world, and (again) only a bit more than a couple of hours down the highway from us. Unfortunately, we – as all patients and their families everywhere – are at the mercy of the timetable of the hospital and its doctors. That visit to the surgeon here was on July 31. Her first appointment at M.D. Anderson is August 12. We wait. Right now, as I type this piece, I am waiting.

Once husband arrived, and we were (and are) here waiting for that appointment in Houston, wanting to tear those calendar pages faster than the days will pass, my sister’s chemo started. On my older daughter’s birthday. Yes, it’s a summer we won’t soon – or ever – forget. This time I was there with her. She is weak, nauseated, and everything else you who know of it would expect from those chemicals invading her already weakened body.

Now it is Saturday morning, the one before the Tuesday that my daughter will meet with those folks at MD Anderson. It’s early. The house sleeps, but I don’t. My sister, some miles down the interstate, stirs in her sleep from the nausea and other side effects that accompany the invasion of her blood stream by foreign and toxic liquids. And a cancer sits in the breast of my younger child, her niece, my 36-year-old baby. Now it sits, but soon it will be removed by the practiced and steady hand of a surgeon. Not soon enough for me. Not soon enough for any of us. My daughter lives with equal dread of the cancer and the coming surgery.

Yes, “life happens when you’re busy making other plans”, it happens all the time. It happens every day. Some days it’s simply more obvious. My sister certainly didn’t plan to spend the last several months feeling ill, having colon surgery, and now looking ahead to months of treatment for it. My daughter thought that on this date, August 9, she’d be back in Malaysia over a week, getting her children ready for their new school year. Instead, my sweet babies sleep upstairs as I type this piece, far from their home half-way around the world, but near the people who love them and can nurture them through their mother’s illness and recovery.

So, yes, I suppose we can say that life happens while we’re making other plans. Truly, God (life) certainly happens. With all due respect to John Lennon, He is what happens while we’re making those plans. He already knows His plan, and mercifully, His supersedes ours. My sister moved to Baton Rouge three years ago. More than once she’s questioned that decision. Had she been here when her cancer showed itself, she might have gone to Houston as my daughter will, or she might have chosen to have treatment here. It’s certainly more convenient to stay here, and she was already feeling sick and weak. Now, in Baton Rouge, she is a patient at the Cancer Center there, one that is building its reputation and soon will be a major destination for cancer patients in that area of the South. She is in good hands. Had my daughter found the lump in her breast one week later, only one week (or perhaps, even worse, on the flight back), she’d now be in Malaysia. She would be facing the decision to come back home where the premiere cancer hospital sits two plus hours away from her parents, or staying there where the expertise of those doctors is unknown to any of us, and her family is half-way around the world.

Is cancer a God thing? I don’t believe necessarily so. Is it a way He shows His glory? His omnipotence? His power? I like to think so. Absolutely. His love and glory will shine through these two illnesses. We must do the hard part of practicing patience and keeping the faith. John Lennon’s quote means, of course, that we’re not really in control of our lives. God has known that since the beginning of time. He gave us free will, but he also can step in and rescue us from ourselves. I will try my hardest to remember that He also calms His children when he places them in the midst of a storm. We are having a stormy summer. We await the calm.

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BRomero

BRomero

A wife, mother, and grandmother, I have a rich supply of family material from which to draw, but I also want to write about other things that weigh on my heart and mind. We'll see.

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