It's Only A Paper Rose

I always figured if I was going to end up in the hospital, I'd at least want a good story to go with it. And I at least achieved that goal; the nurses all agreed that "I was pole dancing in 7" heels, which I've done before, but I had a new pair with no ankle straps, and when I went to do a one-legged pirouette, my heel moved but the shoe didn't" was one of the better ones they'd heard recently.

Unfortunately it also came at the cost of a thoroughly broken ankle. Both bones, unstable fracture, bad times all around.

As it happens, I'm very good in a crisis. When it happened, there was some pain, but it honestly wasn't that terrible—thanks to adrenaline, the actual pain itself was maybe a 3. Initially I thought it was just dislocated, and having some familiarity with bodywork and first aid, my first instinct was to immediately grab my heel and pull. (This thoroughly freaked out the other girls in the class, but as I explained later, it was better to do it then than later, when the swelling would have set in and the adrenaline wore off.) As that only got my ankle partly back in place, though, I figured a doctor would be necessary, so one of my classmates was kind enough to drive me to the urgent care, where they took x-rays and informed me that no, my ankle was broken, it was time to head to the ER. Brian having fetched the car and caught up with me at that point, we drove to the Rush ER—the doctor at the urgent care said she'd usually recommend a smaller hospital with shorter wait times but the orthopedics team at Rush is legendary. (Rumor has it most of the professional athletes in Chicago go there when they have injuries; from what I saw of it, they certainly have state-of-the-art facilities. But I'm getting ahead of myself.)

The ER was a seven-hour wait. On the one hand, I was grateful that my situation wasn't more urgent; on the other, by the time I got in the adrenaline was definitely wearing off and my pain levels were climbing. They gave me a local anaesthetic and set the bone into something resembling its usual shape (a painful process even with the lidocaine); the actual repair would require surgery. We thought I'd be waiting until at least Monday, but they had a doctor who was able to do it on Sunday, so back I went the next day.

To be honest, I was completely terrified. I'm used to being the caretaker in these situations, and "no significant medical history" also means "no idea how I might react to anesthesia or drugs". It was a very different experience from being nine years old and going in to have my arm set after I broke it—then, it was just Another Thing People Did, whereas as a 38-year-old woman I had a much better idea of the stakes and the possibilities for complications. That said, the team was lovely; the anesthesia team in particular consisted of several Korean (I would guess? my East-Asian ethnic identification skills are not great) girls who were super friendly and chatted with me beforehand. There was one person in particular, though, I remember—I have no idea who she was, honestly couldn't even see much of her beneath the cap and gown and mask, but she had the biggest and most sincere blue eyes, and she clearly picked up on how scared I was—she held my arm as they were administering the anesthesia, assuring me that I was going to be all right, that they'd take good care of me. (I wish I knew who she was so I could send her a card and tell her how much that meant.)

As it happened, my skin was so badly compromised from the swelling that they weren't able to do the internal fixation (where they put your bones back together with plates and screws), so I woke up with my leg in an external fixator, also known as the Hellraiser frame—it had pins that literally screwed into my tibia and calcaneus and metatarsal, holding my ankle in place while my skin healed. (The sensation of not being able to move my ankle despite there being nothing visibly restraining it was weird as heck, and is definitely going into a horror story someday.) The idea was to give things a week or so and then come back for the final surgery, so they gave me half a pharmacy's worth of prescriptions and sent me home.

Unfortunately, two days before the follow-up, I noticed a red rash on the skin of my foot. The next day I went to the urgent care, assuming it was just cellulitis (a common complication, especially with external fixator surgeries) and they'd give me antibiotics for it...but their take was that they couldn't rule out a blood clot and I had to go to the ER again. So back to Rush we went.

Luckily, this time it wasn't quite such a long wait (both because it wasn't as busy and because potential blood clots are more time-sensitive, I suspect). I got to have an ultrasound on my leg, and luckily there was no sign of a clot, so then I got to have a CT scan to check the progression of the infection, and they told me they wanted to keep me overnight to give me IV antibiotics and run my situation past the doctors. They put me up in one of the nicest hospital rooms I've ever seen, spacious and uncluttered and new, with an amazing view. (I guess there's a lot of money in orthopedics.) And after taking approximately fifteen liters worth of blood samples, they let me sleep.

(Well, I tried to sleep. About the time the urgent care doctor said "blood clot", my anxiety spiked, and it basically didn't calm down for a good five days—I don't think I got more than three or four hours of sleep a night that whole time. But that's not their fault.)

In the morning, the doctor came by and told me the good news was that the cellulitis infection hadn't progressed past the skin, although ironically, that made it harder to treat (since there weren't any abcesses or discharge they could sample and hit with targeted antibiotics). If I hadn't had the fixator as a complicating factor, he'd've just sent me home with pills, but with the fixator and especially with the upcoming surgery, it was his opinion I should spend the week in the hospital, both so they could hit me with the big guns via IV and also keep an eye on any further complications that might crop up and catch them early. Much as I hated to admit it, his logic made sense to me...so that's how I ended up in a hospital room with a million-dollar view for a week and a half.

In the way of hospital life, it was both very dull and very stressful, and also an abject lesson in how even the most proactive and driven of us sometimes have to learn to let other people help. I was surrounded by people whose literal job it was to take care of me, who were actively working to help me get better, and yet...well, like I said, five-day anxiety spiral. It was hard to trust, if that makes sense. It had honestly never occurred to me how much of the active go-out-and-make-friends part of my personality was a defense mechanism, but here I was making friends with all the nurses/assistants/doctors as if my life depended on it, because in a real way, it did. (One of the night nurses in particular was a fairly closed-up dude—not cold, exactly, but not really one for small talk. It took me three nights to get him to open up a bit, but when he did, my anxiety levels went down significantly. Which probably says a lot more about me and my trust issues than about him. Still, it was gratifying when he said to Brian and me on the third night, "I'm so impressed with y'all, you haven't messed up my name once." High praise!)

Anyway, the infection was a tough one, but by five days in they'd seen enough improvement to tentatively schedule the second surgery, which helped immensely with the anxiety. I slept much better during the latter half of my stay, and while the second surgery wasn't easy, it helped a lot that I had a better idea of what to expect. (Never going to quite get used to the sensation of someone holding an oxygen mask over my nose and mouth, though...I could breathe fine, obviously, but the THIS IS NOT OKAY signals were all going off in my brain, heh.) The surgery itself went smoothly, though pain control turned out to be trickier the second time around; they gave me a nerve block (cool thing I learned: even when drugged out and in a lot of pain, I really like listening to people teach other people things about bodies—Rush is a teaching hospital and the anesthesiologist was teaching a second person how to use the ultrasound to guide the needle to the exact nerve cluster), and after that wore off it took a few tries to find a medication dose where I was functional. (Being stoned out on pain meds is not my favorite feeling, but I'll take it over being in constant debilitating pain; knowing that the worst is over and all this is temporary helps a lot.)

So now I'm back home. Brian bought new pillows and a new mattress for the second bedroom, much nicer than the futon-with-memory-foam-topper we had in here before; we also invested in a new duvet cover and sheets from my favorite company. My ankle now has two plates and a dozen screws in it. The doctor says he sees no reason why I won't make a full recovery; depending on how well he's done his job, I may be more prone to developing arthritis in the joint, but that's a problem for Future Me. I now have a whole-ass pharmacy's worth of prescriptions to take, what with antibiotics as well as pain meds and blood thinners and I'm not even sure what all else. I'm getting around okay on crutches; for the first week I'm supposed to be pretty constantly in bed with my leg elevated, so I'm very grateful for my nest of new linens and pillows. So at this point it's just a waiting game to see if there are any more complications.

On the emotional front, I've definitely had a bit of a time adjusting my identity mentally from the "athlete" population to the "patient" population. (The nurses would profess amazement at how mobile I was, being possessed of three functioning limbs and no small amount of core strength, and it seemed almost condescending until I remembered that their pool of comparison was the rest of the patients in the orthopedics ward, most of whom were probably not athletes before their hospitalization.) It's helped a lot, though, in being less frustrated with all the things I can't currently do.

I also need to give a huge shout-out to the friends and family Brian and I have formed here in Chicago. KC (his girlfriend) has been an absolute rock; doing housework and helping Brian set up the new bed and regularly inquiring after how I'm doing/listening to me rant about feeling helpless, as well as loaning me the crutches and shower stool she used after her recent hip surgery. Evan (her husband) drove my to my first surgery when Brian (who'd been up with me in the ER the entire previous night) didn't feel safe to do so. Taylor (my boyfriend) came to visit me in the hospital a couple of times so Brian could have a day off, despite a full plate of grad school work and a difficult transit schedule; plus he's studying to become a nurse so he was able to demystify some of the odder aspects of hospital work culture.

--

So I wrote all that a couple of days ago, and meant to read it over and post it, but (in the way of things when you're recovering) I didn't get back around to it. And today Adora Belle, our eldest cat, was wandering around perfectly normally, went to sleep...and woke up in severe distress and unable to walk. Brian rushed her to the emergency vet, who diagnosed her with a large blood clot cutting off circulation to her hind legs, likely caused by a silent heart condition. There's not really any meaningful treatment, so...at least he was able to be there for her when they did the euthanasia. Even more, KC was able to be there for him, since I'm not going anywhere right now.

Feelings are strange when you're on opioids. To be honest, my strongest reaction has been "are you kidding me right now?" Not that it's that strange for an 18 year old cat to have a sudden health emergency, but it just seems like life's been one string of emergencies lately. I'm sure the grief will come later, and I'll do my best to sit with it when it does.

Maybe I'll lie back and listen to "Comfortably Numb" for a while...

(Gotta say, on the balance of evidence I kinda prefer Aerosmith's version.)

Ups:

My reading was a smashing success, or at least, that's how it felt. We had a good crowd—it appeared to be roughly 1/3 open-mic readers, 1/3 salon regulars, and 1/3 friends of mine (some from Tumblr, some from meatspace). I was honestly humbled by how many people showed up; I'm not sure if it was the novelty of having a fandom writer featured, or the fact that everyone was super into hearing something smutty that night, or my promotional efforts, or just good luck. (Probably some combination of the above.) Regardless, somebody commented later that it was the most people we've had yet at one of the virtual salons (I think we hit 25 participants at one point?), so that's encouraging.

One of the difficulties of doing a Zoom-based reading is the relative inability to get audience feedback in real-time—even if you have your work on a separate device so you can leave the Zoom window open, your eyes are focused on the page, and everyone's muted/in tiny video-chat format anyway so you can't easily read changes in body language. However, when I finished, I came back to a surprisingly lively chatlog—a couple of my Tumblr friends had shown up and been the absolute best hype-men in the comments, even getting some of the salon regulars to participate. (I was somewhat darkly amused to see that, at one point, the conversation had devolved into a not-quite-argument over whether each character was a top or a bottom, respectively. I've seen these arguments turn into outright fandom wars and cause major schisms, but apparently it's less of a fandom thing and more of a human thing? I dunno, I seem to have unchecked the "a character's preferred sex position is clearly an immutable aspect of their personality rather than a function of personal preference and context" box during my Human installation. Luckily the conversation moved on.) One of my meatspace friends who showed up told me later she'd been watching the video feeds and the scene clearly landed; perhaps most encouragingly, the host texted me afterwards (and reiterated in front of our writing group the next day) "You should know you're writing at a professional level, and if you file the serial numbers off there's a good chance you could sell this." Which...I sorta suspected as much, at least in the better sequences, but given my spotty history with longer projects I think I'm best keeping the pressure low until I've at least figured out whether I can actually finish it. Still, it was a lovely vote of confidence.

Condo board stuff is ongoing. I did get a contractor out here whose back-of-the-envelope calculations for the masonry work were significantly lower than the first contractor's. (The scope of work was also smaller, but he considered it sufficient to stop the leaking; his opinion was that the rest of the work the first guy recommended was a good idea, but not urgent.) I liked him a lot, he clearly knew his stuff and was happy to explain his reasoning; I never thought I'd meet someone who got that excited about different styles of brickwork, but I do love people who're passionate about their work. Additionally, it was his opinion that the issue wasn't a leak per se, but bricks absorbing moisture that was causing the water intrusion; that fits with what Aaron (the unit owner) told me about it only being a problem during major/extended rainstorms, and lowers the likelihood of significant damage by a lot. So all of that was a big relief. He's promised to have his formal estimate to me by today, so fingers crossed he comes through and it's in line with his initial assessment. Sunday we have a meeting to discuss all of this and figure out the path forward.

Through a piece of good luck (and a lot of wrangling), I also have managed to achieve one of my low-key goals for the building, and have obtained and set up an extremely high-quality elliptical in the workout room. KC had sent me the Craigslist post (a unit that went for $3K new, selling for $400), I had emailed the board offering to pay for half of it (since I was the one who wanted it) as well as take care of the truck rental and hauling; after some back and forth about insurance and cleaning and maintenance questions, and some low-key grumbling on our treasurer's part, I got everything sorted, got a truck rented, and got out to Northbrook. I was half-convinced it was too good to be true, but nope, the seller was a 70-year-old dude whose wife had purchased it a few years before she died, and he and his son were trying to clear out the garage. Moving it was no joke—the specs say it weighs about 250 pounds, and rarely have I been so grateful for my stocky-but-solid-muscle husband or all the Sculpt classes I've been doing. (It was worth it all just to see the look on the seller's face when we hoisted it up into the bed of the truck with relative ease.) I now have an impressive bruise on one thigh where I rested my end of it at one point during moving, but I also now have a high-quality cardio machine that I suspect will be invaluable during the upcoming (and frankly rather bleak-looking) winter months.

In other positive news, Dexter is hanging in there, far better than I'd expected. When I wrote about him a couple of weeks ago, I'd really thought it was time to call the vet. But it turns out the continence issues were more related to the litterboxes all being downstairs; I set one up in the second bedroom (easy enough to do, since I'm not hosting clients right now) and he hasn't had any difficulty using it. He still has active days and less-active days, but he doesn't appear to be in distress, and he still comes and snuggles on the regular. So we're not quite to the end yet.

Downs:

Well, I mean, there's the obvious.

My personal reaction to the news has been weird. Like, when Brian told me, it was a blow, but in the way that the eighteenth blow in a fistfight is—there's no shock or horror left, just a certain numbness and the grim reality of "well, gotta deal with this too." Which isn't to say I didn't react—I spent much of the evening in a low-key dissociative state, which is unusual (and disconcerting) for me. I've since been experiencing moments of profound grief, for the death of our country's self-image and democratic norms as much as for the woman herself, but in between I'm just...carrying on living. Because really, what else is there to do?

I spent the whole weekend in the Zoom version of a massage seminar I signed up for back in January. And while I learned some potentially useful techniques, it was hard not to feel like the time was pretty well wasted. I'm not going to be practicing probably for another six months to a year at least, and by then the knowledge will be more or less gone. To be honest, I'm not even certain I'm going back to massage as a primary career; right now my primary energy sink is writing, and if I can keep up this kind of consistent productivity even after quarantine is over I may well make this my primary focus and just keep massage as a sideline. I enjoy it, and I genuinely miss that feeling of making people feel better, but I don't miss the constant hustle for clients or the uncertainty of the income or the "???" of a future career path. (I realize, with some irony, that writing as a career is even worse on all three metrics, but it feels like there's so little expectation that you'll ever be able to make a livable income that there's less pressure? Psychology is weird, man.)

So, yeah. Lots of change happening. Some good, some bad, some just...different. I'm trying to stay focused on the things I can do, and not worry about the stuff I can't. It's tough. I'm not always in a great place. But life is movement, and so...onward.

I've been really getting into vinyl lately. (Me and all the other music enthusiasts I know, haha.) For my birthday I went to a local audio shop and got their recommendation for a high-quality turntable...and wouldn't you know it, it came in purple. Clearly this was meant to be!

As it happened, ordering it was only the first step; once it came in and Brian started putting it together, he quickly discovered that the needle it came with was borked, and that the receiver we were connecting it to didn't have a preamp...a couple more Amazon purchases and quite a few magic hi-fi-fixing words later, however, it sounds every bit as good as digital, and arguably better than the streaming music I use for everyday listening. (Not really surprising, since the latter is compressed and then usually sent wirelessly from my phone or computer to the receiving station before being routed through the receiver...) It's set up in the second bedroom, which is where I do most of my writing as well as just hanging out in the mornings with my coffee; it's nicely soothing to put a record on while I do. And having to get up to flip the vinyl helps keep me from getting so lost that I don't get up for hours, heh.

I'm actually kind of pleased (and, in retrospect, unsurprised) at the vinyl renaissance that's going on right now. Streaming services are difficult to beat for sheer convenience, with their huge catalogs available anywhere you have an internet connection (which, if you have a smartphone, is nearly anywhere, especially in the city), but quality issues aside, there's no sense of tangible ownership in them. Which for lots of people is fine! But I've always enjoyed the self-expression inherent in building a visible media collection, whether books or music or movies...the fact that they take up physical space means that you have a limited amount of space for them, which makes each selection relevant, as well as the collective space they take up. How important are books to me? Movies? Music? How much space in my home am I willing to dedicate to them?

Related, I've been working my way through a collection of vinyl records that Brian's mother gifted us when we first moved in together (and have been lugging around ever since). In truth, if it'd been up to me, I would've donated them a decade ago, but they were his parents' collection and Brian wanted to keep them, so they've been sitting in a box in the closet until recently...and now that I have a decent player, I've been sifting through them. There's a lot of good albums in there, much of it (Jimi Hendrix, Simon & Garfunkel, Billy Joel, Fleetwood Mac) exactly what you'd expect from a couple of college students in the 70s, but some more obscure stuff as well. But even more, I've found a strange sense of satisfaction in that aforementioned tangibility; these are the literal physical records his parents listened to when they were younger than I am now, and something about putting them on my bright-purple player creates a strangely comforting sense of continuity. I've never been a big one for family heirlooms, never having been close to my extended family, but I think I'm beginning to understand why other people cherish them. I'm heading up to Anchorage for my yearly family visit at the end of this month, and my grandmother's promised to let me look through her box of vinyl as well. I'll have to ask her for her stories about it...hurrah for family!

Closing today (aaaaaaaaaa). Still not reading much, but I've been making my way through The Last Days of Judas Iscariot on loan from a friend, and man, I'm sad that I'm completely the wrong ethnicity to ever play Saint Monica. Giant Writing Project of Doom still going on. Also I've been making a new writer-friend who, while it's early yet to say, may well become one of my favorite people. (It's been a long time since I had anyone who enjoyed exchanging long-ass daily emails, probably because we're all in our 30s now and don't have the time, so the fact that we've been doing so a week now despite our hectic lives points to real chemistry, I think. I hope.) Tuesday night the anxiety insomnia finally hit, but while the morning was rough the day actually went pretty well and after twelve hours of sleep last night I'm feeling downright good. Writer friend has been gracious enough to loan me her personal anthem, which got me through yesterday and I think will be playing a similar role today. Even though (as I told her) I'm usually the keep-one-foot-on-the-ground type, there are some points in life that just require that leap of faith. "Stretched to the point of no turning back..."

(aaaaaaaaaa)

See you all on the other side.

Do I know anyone who could use a Kindle Paperwhite? I finally broke down and upgraded to an Oasis, on the justification that a nicer/faster e-reader can only help me want to read more. My Paperwhite's a few years old, but it has a new battery and other than occasionally needing a little jiggling to get the charging cable to sit properly, it works great. And it comes in a bright pink magnet-closure case, so, y'know, there's that.

So for once, I have plenty of time to write my weekly book post (my jury duty today was cancelled so I have an unexpected free day), but here's the truth: I'm just not feeling like talking about books today. (Maybe I should go see a doctor, heh.) Between work and house-hunting and changes in my personal life I have a lot on my plate right now and I think the cycles I usually devote to literature analysis are being diverted to other ventures. I'm still reading, but much less over the past few weeks; even my audiobook listening has been taken over mostly by more undemanding fare like Maximum Fun network podcasts. We'll see how I'm feeling next week—I don't intend give this up permanently (I enjoy the discussions far too much), but right now I'm going to see about making some dinner and maybe going to a yoga class.

It sounds like a humblebrag, but really it's not - I haven't been doing reflective New Year's posts the past few years, in large part because my life is going pretty darn well. It's not that overall-positive years aren't worth reflecting on, but it feels a little like tempting fate - if I outline all the ways my life has gone well and how fortunate I've been, perhaps the deities of misfortune will see it and remember that they haven't got round to me yet. Silly, yes, but a very real feeling nonetheless. And that's not even taking into account the fact that many of my friends haven't been half so lucky, and probably aren't super into the idea of listening to me go on about my awesome life.

But I want to state, for the record, that - a couple of smaller-scale failures and misfortunes aside - I have been happy, and I'm well aware of how fortunate I am. I'm lucky enough to have two jobs that provide ample opportunities for both growth and rewarding moments. I'm lucky enough to have the kind of fiscal support that makes self-employment enjoyably challenging rather than stressful. I'm lucky enough to have a community of people who generally like me - as osprey_archer was mentioning, when you've never been a particularly popular person, it's surprising how great it is to walk into a place and have people be genuinely happy to see you. I'm lucky enough to have a supportive spouse I adore and live in a city I love in a country that remains a great experiment - inconclusive as yet, but worth fighting for nonetheless. I'm lucky enough to be in excellent physical health, in easily the best shape of my life. Most of all, perhaps, I'm lucky enough to have many interests and the time, opportunities, and supportive environment to explore them. And for all of this, I'm grateful.

I've never really been a big one for resolutions, but a post someone made on Facebook caught my eye, suggesting that, rather than make a general goal like "lose weight" or "read more", your resolutions be in the form of nine specific things: three things to read, three things to learn, and three things to do. So I think I'll break with my (non)tradition and set those goals.

To read:
--Yoga Sequencing. I don't feel I'm doing too badly just winging it, but I know I have so much room for improvement on this front.
--The Master & Margarita. I've heard from several people how excellent this book is, and I've been putting it off largely because I haven't felt I'd have the context for it. So I may need to brush up on Russian history first, but I will get to it this year. (It's not even that long a book!)
--Gentleman Jole & The Red Queen. I've been putting this one off because I know I'm going to love it and I know I can only read it for the first time once - but really, that's kind of a silly reason to not read it. Life is uncertain!

To learn:
--Some new massage techniques. This is rather vague, but it's going to happen regardless - I need to do some continuing education in preparation for my license renewal this year, so what I learn is probably going to depend on what opportunities I can find that fit into my schedule.
--To play "Same Old Lang Syne" on the piano. Simplistic? Maybe, but it'll take me a good amount of study to get there, so there's a fair amount of work implied here.
--More Swedish - specifically, more spoken Swedish. I'd like to get my spoken understanding up to where my written understanding currently is: enough that I can follow the gist of most conversations.

To do:
--Recruit some friends for karaoke. I've missed singing, and would like to do it more. Bonus if we can make it a semi-regular thing.
--Buy a house. Brian and I have been dip-toe-squealing about this for two years now, but this spring we're going to get pre-approved and start looking in earnest.
--Take guitar lessons at the Old Town School of Folk Music. I've been saying I want to do this since before we moved to Chicago. And I hear one of my friends is interested in doing the same, so I think I'll coordinate with her and see if we can't do it together.

I find myself wondering about humanity. Their attitude to my sister's gift is so strange. Why do they fear the sunless lands? It is as natural to die as it is to be born. But they fear her. Dread her. Feebly they attempt to placate her. They do not love her.

Many thousands of years ago, I heard a song in a dream, a mortal song that celebrated her gift. I still remember it.

"Death is before me today:
Like the recovery of a sick man,
Like going forth into a garden after sickness.

"Death is before me today:
Like the odor of myrrh,
Like sitting under a sail in a good wind.

"Death is before me today:
Like the course of a stream,
Like the return of a man from the war-galley to his house.

"Death is before me today:
Like the home that a man longs to see,
After years spent as a captive."

I never got to meet Jim Rothfuss in person, but through an odd turning of fate we've exchanged Christmas cards and letters these past several years. I can only say that the world needs more souls of his gentle and kind nature, and I'm glad I had the opportunity to know some little portion of his life, completely separate from my great enjoyment of his son's work.

Go easily and well, Mr. Rothfuss. And thank you.

(Attribution, and for the poem.)

aaaaaaaaaaaa

^^The feels I'm having when I've literally just finished my internship and my studio manager emails me saying "hey, we've got a C2 opening up in September Mondays at 7:30 PM, do you want it? It's plenty of time to get you ready to teach C2s, and I'd love to have you in another prime time slot."

I mean, yeah, without a deadline I'll probably never push myself to get there, so I'm not going to say no. Breanne's not going to leave me hanging on training, and she wouldn't have offered it if she didn't think I'd be up for the challenge. And this is a huge compliment - Monday nights are super-prime-time for attendance. But whoa, that's...a little high-stakes, relatively speaking.

Good thing it's just yoga. :)

(aaaaaaaaaaaaa)

(feels)