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Hormoanal Hell

Many of my friends are too well aware of my rather dry humour. Or my wild and inappropriate humour. Or – sometimes – my descent into unadulterated madness.

Today,  these qualities will combine. And I shall also be adulting – specifically directed at women of a certain age and those who care about them.  Care sexually, in addition to other forms of interaction. The topic calls for a bottom-line discussion here. You have been warned.  The non-latex gloves are off.

So I’m relaxing in the tub, content with my usual foaming indulgence,  assured that I won’t be interrupted by anyone. Living alone has its perks. Nobody pounds at the closed door or hollers at me to hurry up. I bathe in blissful silence. Through the steam, I can hear Bach and Handel. Bach appeals to me because, well, he’s Bach. Paterfamilias of multiple offspring, cornerstone of a musical dynasty, and rather attractive with his enigmatic half-smile, as if he’s hiding an especially fun idea that he will never share.

I know how that feels. I’ve been doing it quite a bit lately. With or without the “fun” part.

Handel I just … like. Confirmed bachelor, beautiful soul,  man who dances to the same winds that play through my own trees. Like me, he has left the world no copy. No biological child to pass along his genes. His music is his bequest. We can’t always procreate. Some of us, however, create in other ways.

So I contemplate this small body sprawled below my chin. Explore its slippery contours, scrub them kindly. Decide that I’m in better shape than I’ve been for twenty years.  I am, in fact, younger than my former self, in most of the ways that matter. The calendar is useful for recording to-do notes but not otherwise.

I’ve been solo for a long stretch now, either in the midst of plenty or at the mercy of circumstance. I tell myself it’s a preferable state for anyone past her prime – if I’m there yet. No fuss, no inconvenient adjustment to someone else’s choices. Just … easier. I say this quite often. I have almost come to believe it, but not quite. The woman in the foam sloshes water over her breasts and thighs. She wonders whether they will be of the slightest damn interest to another living human being, ever again. Anyone who might have appreciated them is either nonexistent or dead.  So she believes.

The ego-centered “I” darts like a hummingbird from thought to thought. Droplets bead on her skin. They reflect light and perhaps her eyes. My eyes. They have sadness in them, and hope too. They are the windows to a soul not completely rubbed clean by time or chance. Rubbed raw, however. I have not bled from my flesh since age 52 but I bleed every day from parts that no one sees.

And thereby hangs a tale, which too many women know. We’ve memorized every word of it. We’re the ex-lovers who don’t dare look ahead to the next chance, the people whose cells feel uninterested in every new experience. The ladies who long for reassurance that we’re still attractive, still desirable, perhaps still destined to walk again in a couples’ world. Everyone is partnered, it seems. We’re clumsy that way. We fear to attract attention, lest we disappoint.  We might run from it – the quirky smiles, the curious appraisals, the extended hands that want to meet ours. We step around men standing at our bus stops, because we can’t ride with them. Maybe they won’t enjoy our company once they realize it comes with a certain deficit.  That’s how we think.

The medical community steps around us, too.  Once our reproductive cycles have ended, few of us ask our doctors any questions relating to sex. It’s like a slamming barn door. The horse leaves with such frantic speed we’re coated with dust, standing dry in the road. Stinging with the kicked sand.  Only 22% of women past the age of 50 ever raise sexual  concerns with their physicians. 38% of men, however, ask such questions. Still not enough – but more than we do.  (Mayo Clinic, Sexuality in the Aging Female, Carol L. Kuhle, 2016)

Why don’t we speak? Why can we not snip the silken threads that bind our mouths?

But it’s damned hard to go there. Vaginal atrophy affects up to half of all post-menopausal women. Suddenly, things aren’t so great “down below”.  Parts of us shrink. They hurt. It’s like sandpaper on gravel. The spirit is willing but the proverbial flesh is not only weak, it’s screaming. Nature’s programming ensures that we will be reproductively sound as long as this is needed and then the gyne-goddess decrees that it’s time to stop that sort of nonsense.  Like she has a say, right? We know what we want and a stop sign isn’t the sort of erection we have in mind at this point. Still … there are undeniable conditions.

For those women lucky enough to be sexually active when menopause swings its club at them, the impact of age can be diminished or at least made less awful. “Use it or lose it.” Still, we can’t predict which of us will end up falling off the veggie truck. Make that vaggie truck. Our partners call us by unflattering names. Cold. Frigid. Indifferent. They take it personally. We just take it. And when they abandon us for warmer beds, we sometimes find their forgotten packets of little blue pills in our medicine cabinets. The seesaw is unbalanced from the get-go. We fall on our asses. The thud is jarring, the consequences lasting.  Ouch.

So we fear to try again. We are afraid to love. We’re scared to disappoint. But  there’s really no set route to the finish line here. There are many other options besides the planted flagpole. We grew up with some pretty ground-breaking books to guide us. We’re not our grandmothers. Women are adept at adapting. We can express our physical interests and desires in several different ways – rather pleasurable, at that. For both parties.

But ours is very clearly a penetrative society. Viagra has made it even more so. And we cannot always be penetrated. Not by choice, merely by biology’s punches over time.  We are (we’re led to believe) lessened if we don’t engage in the whole nine yards. Or six inches. Or whatever fits.

As I write this, “I Attempt from Love’s Sickness to Fly” soars through the room. I used to sing it, many years ago; this was one I learned when I was studying voice, because I asked to learn it. I would give much to sing that lovely, anguished piece again. The last person to play for me is gone now;  I have no love from which to fly or even limp. And a natural process is hardly sickness.

So here it is: I want to raise a window, lean outside, breathe the same joy I used to feel every single morning of the world. Shout to the sun. Become once again the woman I am inside – the woman who has never walked away. The burning self within the shell. Venus rising from the sea, or a tepid bath, or just a small bed where cats stretch with the daylight.

Yet that woman is anxious and discouraged. My current doctor has been forthright. “If you are ever in a position to consider a new relationship, there are treatments.”  She’s a young woman, and I think she gets it more than most. Over-the-counter supplies can help, I suppose. They have cutesy names like Replens and Satin. Or maybe it’s Satan? We – the already-defeated – hesitate to go there. We don’t want to speak to a pharmacist. We study the packaging, squint at the instructions. Sounds messy. Sounds a bit futile. And rather paradoxical, since we won’t need this stuff until we have a use for it, or use it until we need it. I guess a crystal ball goes with the potions and lotions and creams.

The doctor’s more potent arsenal includes estrogen products. These can be effective but their content casts a long shadow. Female cancers. Breasts, ovaries, uterus. Deadly consequences of our craving for wholeness.  Back in the day, when I believed myself less vulnerable and perhaps more obligated to act, a prescription was handed to me. With a warning – “I don’t want you on this for more than three months.” Great, right? Make the beast with two backs and then die before my time, if I’m unlucky. And trust me, I am unlucky more than I care to admit. I’m the woman who sprained her ankle once, driving to Halifax. Guess I pressed too hard on the gas pedal.  You haven’t truly encountered embarrassment until you’re on crutches because you’ve got a heavy foot.

Then there are the sources of these creams. Premarin is a big zero for me; it comes from pregnant-mare urine. I know way too much about the PMU farms to ever consider that particular treatment. Estrace – estradiol cream –  is made from plant-based estrogen, which makes it much more appealing. Still, if we’re contemplating either of these products, it’s advisable to read the monographs and chat with the medical pros.  Then we’ll be aware and informed. These substances  aren’t what our bodies ask for – only our minds.  So there can be tricky side effects.

Meanwhile, I’m not sharing this piece on social media. We’re immersed in silence when attempting to discuss such topics. We can post messages of hate, or truly horrendous jokes, or graphic images of wounded creatures. But this health information might be deemed a bit “much” by some folks.  And since I do want it to be read, I’ll use discretion – for now. I’m not exactly a model of discreet behaviour.

But I’m a woman; I hurt like so many of us. The sadness never leaves my eyes.  I’ll do what I can to help it leave yours – or hers – or the quiet lady’s, as she’s browsing the pharmacy shelves. The one who simply won’t ask, won’t speak. Won’t admit to her own grief.

Information for Further Reading:

The Globe and MailTaking the stigma out of vaginal atrophy – without a little blue pill

https://www.theglobeandmail.com/life/health-and-fitness/health/treatments-let-women-prolong-sex-lives/article21368960/

The Guardian – When it comes to menopausal hormone therapy, women are left guessing at the risks

https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2016/aug/30/menopausal-hormone-therapy-treatment-women-risks-breast-cancer

Livestrong – The Types of Estrogen Cream
https://www.livestrong.com/article/70133-types-estrogen-cream/

Mayo Clinic – Sexuality in the Aging Female
https://ce.mayo.edu/sites/ce.mayo.edu/files/S_4-Kuhle-Sexuality%20in%20the%20Aging%20Female.ppt.pdf

Medscape – Vaginal Atrophy: The 21st Century Health Issue Affecting Quality of Life

https://www.medscape.org/viewarticle/561934

Life Lessons from Academia

They say that no matter what you study – regardless of how irrelevant it might seem at the time – someday you’ll find a use for that stored-up knowledge. I’m not just talking about university, but about all kinds of other options for learning. The banquet table is groaning with wide and spectacular choices.
     When I decided to take a degree in Sociology, back in the mid-‘Sixties, it was locally considered a fledgling and rather wishy-washy field. The “real academics” took majors in History, English (I did that too), various languages and so on – and the heavy hitters went for the hard sciences, Maths, Engineering, whatever else had clout. Or they did a Business Administration degree, which was called “Commerce” back then. We also had Computer Science departments – without the internet. Imagine.
      Soc majors, and Political Science types as well, were kind of a fringe element. Our courses included research methodology and other assorted topics that were just as tough as anyone else’s courses. Still, who really cared, except us? We didn’t fit so well.
      I even have a university medal somewhere, which I received for highest standing in my major field. I put it away, which means I misplaced it, and ended up becoming a teacher. I taught everything from English Lit to Phsyical Geography to History to Drama. Anything but Soc! Eventually, when that discipline was added to the high school curriculum, I wasn’t the one assigned to teach the course. This seemed kind of strange: I think I was the only one on staff with a Soc degree. Then again, I didn’t even ask if I could have that course. I kept quiet; I was used to those I already knew. Inertia is a dangerous position. My minor was Psych and that was also considered “soft” so I ignored it, too. Now there’s even a Psych course in high school. I view this as a most positive step.
      So today I look around me, and I realize that a Sociology background can finally be made relevant. Social scientists work with human beings, not lab rats or chemical formulae. And it is human beings, at the moment, who are providing Mother Earth with some very awkward parenting moments. Who better to assess certain situations – including the volatility of the Middle East, the refugee crisis, and the challenges presented by disaffected recruits to gangs (military, ideological and/or street), than someone trained in this area? Who better to study the range of societal variables than people trained to look at populations as a whole, and how individuals relate to these populations? We do understand a bit about demographics, migration trends, ethnic and regional complexities, gender roles, educational and occupational distributions, social and cultural expectations and stratification. We’re no longer soft-core. We “know stuff”. We can even “do stuff”.
      My bucket list includes a return to university, because I love learning, and I thrive in that setting. I’d want to revisit Sociology first of all. This is probably a pipe dream; it’s expensive and demands a certain level of mobility. My degree was long ago and life has intervened since then. Would I get credit for any of my experiences in the interim? I might be a tad lazy these days as well. Call it “age”, I suppose. Other than more letters after my name, I wouldn’t gain anything except more knowledge. And then there’s the interaction with others of different ages. THAT is something I’d truly enjoy!

      Still, I can draw on those long-ago years and courses, at last. I feel rather good about that. They weren’t a waste of my time after all. And there’s the thing: nothing learned is ever wasted. The older I get, the more I believe this.                                                                                                                If you’re taking any particular program or school course or workplace training and someone asks, “Why on earth would you want to do THAT?” – just smile and say, “Someday, I might need it.” You might be surprised when this happens.

 

A Brief Gathering of Old Classmates

Class of ‘Sixty-Four

All our decades somersault, deposit us
in this circle of cross-legged strangers
whom I almost recognize. We put them
together like a wall of fragments: eyelid,
earlobe, bone. Laugh or grimace.

I cough without sound; nothing must smack
of mortality. We balance carefully, attentive
to hips and knees and feet, spines
no longer flexed like spring birches.

Backlight from a window casts our runes.
Her fine hair glows angelic. His shoulder
curves, a hillside traced on shadow.
Your eyes belong to the boy hidden
in them. We study each other, look away,
people the spaces with our own memories.

Dust spins in sloped rays that settle
on the floor. I think of stars slowly turning
until one finds us worthy, offers us life.
A hopeful fly circles my glass, perhaps
meaning to drown herself in bliss.

We speak quietly at first; explore
this new country. The room recedes
while stories form around us. The past
rebounds off our hostess’s painting
of a young girl, playing her flute forever.

Somebody mentions band concerts,
army cadets, gym, rifles. Male affairs.
I once stood with my swirly-skirt friends
– proper ladies – and wondered why.

But I have worn a dress today. I tuck
my legs, wish I could sit like a lotus,
then unfold, petals sharp as blades.
Glory from the mud. Surprise bloom
after such long and secret growth.

My chardonnay splashes, magnifies
the coffee-table grain. It’s like viewing
the universe through the wrong end
of a telescope. What we have become
is a contraction, yet the detail shines
with greater clarity than it ever did.

Science teaches us the definition
of gravity but we need no illustration
beyond a breast displaced, a chin
dropped, a belly tugging free from its
moorings. We bow to the dominion
of a force far greater than ourselves.

Yes. Gravity, regal and cruel, Henry VIII
of physical laws. I briefly rub the back
of my neck and this room shudders
with the ring of a crown falling. No one
else notices. You refill my drink and grin.

Brenda Levy Tate

for my Wolfville High School companions

Looking Back, Standing Still, Thinking Forward

One month ago today, my husband fell. It was Good Friday, and thus began his descent into the final weeks of his mortal existence. He entered the ER as a man still fighting, angry at fate, determined to get out of there as soon as he could. Sadly, that vital man never left the hospital.

On his darkest day, spring had extended a tentative hand. I’d expected to take him for a rambling drive along the shore, as he so loved to do. Instead, an ambulance bore him away. My drives will be solo now. He will be my unseen passenger, gazing through the windows as the road unfolds and rolls behind me. So much changes in a month!

Today, May 3rd, is one of those mornings when I can truly say, “God’s in His Heaven; all’s right with the world.” Of course, that applies only to my small corner of the world. In Nepal, nothing is right. In Baltimore, the aftermath of devastation will take time to clean up and heal. In many places, life is a struggle and the odds of survival are far lower than our own. We would be foolish to imagine ourselves the center of any universe, great or little.

Still, all I can do is celebrate the sunshine here. Where is Heaven, anyway? Is it a location? A spiritual state? An energy field? Another dimension? If God – either gender – is there, can He or She also be here? Do the two realms overlap? Will those of us in our material bodies ever connect with those who have moved to another form?

Is David wherever Heaven might be located? I’m assuming he’s in a place of rest, grace and healing. He deserves to be. He’d often claimed to be an atheist but he quite probably wasn’t. Agnostic, maybe, unable to know for sure and always up for a lively argument. But not a man in denial: his massive library testifies to his exploration of the vast and distant frontiers of science, history, philosophy, art, religion – everything that stands as testament to humanity’s finer (and lesser) achievements. Everything that makes us look up in awe and wonder. He has his answers now.

At the last, I choose to believe he accepted the existence of another, incomprehensible dwelling-place and of the Power that invited him to be there. He was alert and aware when matters of the soul were shared with him. His dear friend, John Symonds, sensed the strength of his acceptance. David had no voice, no movement, nothing but his eyes and ears. He had been reduced to vision and sound – the basics, his mind no longer concerned with food or drink or any other physical act. So he saw and he heard – watched and listened. That was enough, I think.

Who else might have been present in that room? His father, whom he never knew? His mother, with whom he needed to reconcile? His old friends long gone? The shouting boys of his childhood, the companions of his middle years? Whose faces were in the group assembled to lead him home?

In the end, he chose to leave for that unknown realm and departed in peace. Today as I work in the gardens, David will be in my thoughts. He so enjoyed his zero gravity chair, where he’d read and listen to the river. Cash was inevitably curled in the grass beside him. Gollum – who adored David and perhaps is with him again – slept in his little grave not far away. Nothing and no one is ever truly lost. This morning, I’ll walk across this bit of land and tend my flowers. I won’t be alone. The knitting of the heart’s bones will be slow. But they will knit in time.

funeral 3

On Doing

“What an adventure my life has been!” – Napoleon Bonaparte

One of the crucial questions often posed on ALS sites reads like this: “What would you do while you still could?”

I often think about this. What, indeed? We’re all gifted with time and capability – until suddenly, the gift is withdrawn. A moment missed, an event planned and never carried out, an invitation refused. These are gifts not unwrapped. But there’s no refund for returning them. They’re just gone.

On the day my husband fell, we were anticipating a lovely drive in the early-spring sunshine. He has always enjoyed going to Sandford, seeing which boats were in (or out), meandering along Main Shore Road, parking on Port Maitland wharf across from the breakwater. We’d stop at Edna’s Bakery for tarts and fresh-sliced bread. As his disease advanced, he knew that most of it would be uneaten, except by me, but the scents were delirious! When a man can’t swallow food, his nose must provide a substitute experience. Nothing beats the olfactory “high” of bread straight from the oven.

That drive will never be taken now. A stumble – and everything changes. We’ve been well aware this was coming. ALS destroys mobility, one way or another. Falls, limb dysfunction and atrophy, or both combined. The neurons die and their tiny sparks fade. Anyone with a neurodegenerative disease will recognize this forward lurch toward stillness. For some, it happens quickly. For others, it is a slower part of the process. But inevitably, the critical point arrives.

So the gifts handed to us must be taken out of their boxes as soon as they’re received; appreciated and enjoyed. As the old Nike slogan goes, “Just do it!” Take an extra jaunt into unfamiliar territory. Spend a few nights on the road somewhere. Be open to whatever opportunities arise. Seek out friends of long standing, renew acquaintances, laugh together. Remember those who have always been there, through the darkness and the dawn, and cherish their company. Give yourself and your days to the people who stand to lose most from your absence. Allow them to keep pace with your journey, because you can’t go back again.

David was blessed to discover a companion named Gary from his long-ago childhood in the south of England. He has kept in touch with this man for a few years now. Of all our friends, only a few can know us as we were from the beginning. We scatter like wayward dandelion fluff on the wind. We might end our days without ever seeing or speaking with a single person who climbed trees with us, ran beside us on the beaches of our youth, went to camps and on school outings and off to college together. Swapped stories and traded the exciting secrets of adolescence. It is no surprise that for many older folks, recent memory erodes while recollections from past decades spring clearly to mind. They’ve worn the deepest grooves in our psyches. We speak of the ’40s or ’60s, of classic cars that were new when we first saw them, of old warriors and movie stars, politicians and adventurers – most of them dust now. Most of them unremembered by the young.

What would you do? Take a course in a subject that’s always interested you. Study a new language. Sign up for a cruise or hike to some unknown place. Read more. Learn a skill – garden, make wine, create art. Write or sing or skip down the country lanes of the heart. So what if you skip slowly? That merry girl or lively boy inside your head is going to enjoy it!

When you’re lying in a hospital bed or confined to a wheelchair, surrounded by machinery that gasps and rattles and whooshes as it sustains you, make sure you regret nothing. Do it while you still can! Celebrate wherever you are right now. Unwrap every gift – including the weirdest ones – and toss away the boxes.

Even if something breaks into a thousand fragments, the sunshine will turn those pieces to a glitter on the grass, the jewels of your own history. The mosaic unique to you, which nobody else can assemble.

My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—
It gives a lovely light!

– Edna St. Vincent Millay

Noel? No … Hell!

The holiday season is well underway now – concerts, gatherings, staff parties at many establishments. Excited children, dancing lights, Santa at the local mall. Stores with groaning shelves, carolers in red velvet, cheerful music wafting through all available airspace. Trees glowing in corners; menorahs gleaming on tables or in windows.

Indeed, a festive and celebratory month.

Except when it’s not. Some folks view this time of year with dread and even despair. They may be battling illness, whether or not it is obvious to the casual observer. They may be reeling from the impact of a recent loss within their circle of loved ones. They may be financially pushed to that cold stone wall which offers no doorway out. They might be struggling to sustain a relationship, or mourning a breakup they may not have wanted. Every balm for their wounds will turn to salt, and the salt to tears.

They could be estranged from family members, unemployed and unable to find work, recently-moved into an unfamiliar place. There might not even be a home they can claim, other than a doorstep, a bench, a temporary shelter. This is the season when the homeless feel the cold. This is the season when fires – meant for heating houses – end up destroying those houses instead. And this is the season when children go without the gifts their classmates enjoy, because these gifts cannot be provided.

And so the people who stand outside endless, glittering windows must confront the joyous displays, the songs, the endless “Ho Ho Ho” messages, with a certain bitterness at the brutality of fate. These are people within whom no candles are lighted. Broken people, burdened people – voiceless, isolated. People with little hope of relief and little expectation of the simple kindnesses many of us take for granted. Afraid to ask anyone for support; reluctant to seek help for themselves, although they may do it for their children. Too proud to come forward and search for a loving face in the crowd. Terrified of being judged, and knowing full well that, indeed, judgment is being passed upon them.

No shared Facebook meme will make a difference to those who most need comfort. No “post on your wall for an hour” will help them. No “I say Merry Christmas” preaching will breach their sadness. Many won’t even have computer access. Others will be craving a personal communication that never comes. Some might even retreat from the internet – or at least from social media – until this whole glitzy, glorious, glaring time is over and the bells have rung its death. Then they’ll return, quietly and without explanation. For them, the Christmas weeks are their signal to disappear.

Joy to the World … but the world can shrink to a bubble for some. It can blow away, carrying with it all the rainbow swirls that shine so brightly. Then the night becomes silent, indeed.

An Absence of Sun

People speak of the “dark night of the soul”. It is real. It is overwhelming. You wake up to it and wonder where the door is. Every step is barefoot on glass that has no shine. The cup sits at your left hand, glimmering with its burden, and you beg for it to be taken away. But of course, it isn’t. You have filled it yourself. Every sin you have ever committed – even those you’ve forgotten – swirls in its dregs. Every regret, every sorrow, every wrong done to others – they’re all part of that elixir. You stare at it, terrified to drink. But you will. Inevitably, you will.

This is the time for family – if you have one – to gather and shut the drapes against a darkfall that many will never endure. This is the time for friends to toot their horns as they pass, their headlights leading your pathway out. They have, after all, thought to acknowledge you, and thoughts are another kind of beam through the dusk. But on this night, you’re lost to family, though they may be unaware of it. Friends pass and follow their own destinies. They don’t see that overturned sky over your head. And they couldn’t raise it, should they want to try. You must protect them from that knowledge, and from that attempt.

So you draw the blankness around yourself like a robe. You turn off your porch lantern and cancel the warmth falling on your yard, where the grass is frozen. No sleepy birds murmur in this winter of your discontent. In the old days, wagons ringed a comforting fire. Wolves and night terrors dared not intrude. But there are no wagons now. No fire but a candle clumsily lighted. And the wolves tiptoe closer, baring the teeth of those who hate you. Sadly, they far outnumber those who love, because after all, this is your darkness. You have shaped it through your own pain.

Because no one is entirely without fault, and you understand this, you’ve muddled along as best you can manage. No one believes you won’t keep on doing it. You err because that’s the human thing. You get back to the road and survive a few more years. Your twist your ankle or shatter your heart as you fall off the margin of that road and of those years. Then you either limp forever after, or work out the injury and build yourself stronger for awhile.

And in the irony of ironies, chances are you will be noted most for the brilliance of your smile. You’ve learned to hide everything behind it. You’ve cultivated it like a flower that blooms best after sunset. And when people say, “You have the most beautiful smile,” you feel reassured. You have hidden well the shadow that would turn your face to a mask of grief.

But the dark night still comes. It closes down around you, the way cooling stones trap water. Perhaps this is how crystals feel, locked in their geodes, unable to shine for anyone until the rock is broken. The risk involves smashing the best and most beautiful of those gems. Escape entails a cost. Something inevitably cracks.

Ask not for whom the bell tolls, indeed. You need not raise that particular question. The ringing drowns out all other music now. It goes on and on; it shakes the windows. You block your ears and it swells inside without the slightest softening.

But like the winecup, poured at your behest, you can identify where this tolling started. There’s no need to ask. You’ve hung that damned bell in your own soul, after all. Now you’ve hauled on the ropes, it won’t stop. It peals into that not-so-good night where no one goes gentle, and most don’t go at all. Only you, and only now.

You walk into the darkness on a carillon trail, unspooling silence behind you.

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