A freak accident, a fall, and a bloody death.
I looked at her body in the ICU, words forming accusingly in my head, fighting to keep from uttering them out aloud, "What the hell mom? What the fuck were you thinking to do?"
And i imagined my mom's words, the cadence of it, the bewilderment and shock in her voice as she might have spoken had she been able to speak.
"I thought I would quickly just do that one thing, Varsha. I never expected...I never thought that's what would happen. The last thing I ever wanted was Ani to find me like that, that poor poor child"
That godawful blood. That stench of dried metallic fluid and gunk.
My mother was with me and she wasn't with me yesterday. She kept popping into my head to tell me things, that she hasn't meant to die, only to clean up the kitchen a bit, that she didn't want any of the fuss, she called me to cover her legs after they cleaned up her bloody clothes but hadn't thought to preserve that bit of modesty. She rested in the ICU only to wake up in my head again as we went to the police station to complete the medico legal formalities, regretting the trouble her decision to climb that ladder had caused. "I'm so sorry ma" said her voice. "Who would have thought I could do this or that it would come to this?" She bemoaned the delay in getting her body out of the hospital "Yeddukki, yenna ippidieyelan paduthura?"
The post mortem. My understanding of how she might have died improves. Her voice quiets as many many pieces of information are given: supra something something fissure, midline shift, massive cerebral hemorrhage on the right side, multiple fractures on the left side.
"So, you are saying that somehow she fell off the ladder, and landed on her left side, her right side of the brain started hemorrhaging and she lost blood and she died?" I ask the forensic doctor.
"The impact was massive", says the doctor gently. Massive, massive, says my head and her voice.
I latch on to something tightly. So she may have become unconscious? She may not have even known? RK clasps my hand to him and says, yes. She was unconscious when Ani found her a few seconds after she fell. Her body probably would have shut down immediately.
I feel a sigh going through me. I sit with her wrapped, plastic packed body in the ambulance. I make no move to touch her. I recall the feel of her soft familiar flesh and I recoil from imagining how hard it might be by now. She looks different, sort of like a nun or some saint with her head tightly wrapped. She looks molded, like a doll. When my father died, he was dressed in clothes that he liked, in a khadi kurta and loose pants. My mother got plastic and ropes. "Ayyo Varsha", says her voice, and I imagine her keeping a palm on her forehead and shaking her head at me. "What does it matter now?"
We come back home, they lift her body into an icebox and I can no longer touch her, even if I want to. Right by the icebox on a table is my father's photograph. I stare at his face wondering if there is some secret that he knows. Could my father perhaps be there with my mother? Perhaps they were right now arguing about it. My father might be saying, I thought you wanted to join me and my mother might say, yes, but not so fast and not so violently!
Or maybe my father would say, why in the world did you come so fast? Surely you knew the kids need you. And my mother would say, yes. I know. I don't know why I came so fast either.
Or even worse... To my ever lasting shame, my father might say, I saw Varsha didn't turn up with you for my 45th day ceremony. Clearly she wasn't taking proper care of you. I didnt think you should hang around there moping about me anymore.
My eyes are sore, my head burns behind them. I have a choice- I can either continue to sit and stare ahead, and eventually collapse into sobs, tears and a migraine or I can push some food into me, get some rest and stay in control. I eat. My mother is no longer taking directly to me, but in echoes, from a not so distant past when she and I both decided to eat after my father's body was brought home from the hospital so that we could stay alert to do what had to be done.
I nap.
When I wake up, my mother's voice is silent. There is a finality in that icebox. I join my aunts in keeping the vigil through the night. Somehow I feel lighter at heart. Light enough that I'm able to greet all those who come, able to narrate her death story and talk and laugh loudly with my cousins both during the vigil and later after the cremation
Somehow it doesn't feel wrong. And right now, when my head is thick, all I can do is go by my feelings.
Tuesday, May 8, 2018
Friday, March 30, 2018
Touch
My father was never a touchy-feely kind of a guy. Apparently, he got this trait from his father who frowned upon any expressions of love, either verbal or physical. My paternal grandmother too is very much hands-off. She expressed her love through food, like most textbook grandmothers, cooking incessantly when she was able to and now that she can no longer leave her bed, incessantly asking people about whether they have eaten or not. Any craving for touch would make one a target for gentle mockery on my father's side of the family: "Ayyo, kozhandaikku conjanuma!" ("Oh the baby needs coddling!") my aunts would exclaim.
I recall my father carrying me around on his shoulders till I was almost 7, after which, one fine day he decided he had carried me enough and made me walk everywhere. I still remember the tantrums I threw at that time of forced transition from babyhood.
After this, any touches were either accidental, or very much with a single purpose, such as holding my upper hand to guide me through traffic, or giving me a leg up when I needed to climb a wall to retrieve a shuttlecock. In my early teens, I rebelled against this enforced no-touch policy of my father's and would find ways to hold his hand or plonk my head on his lap while we watched TV and so on. I would hold my breath and only release it if it seemed like he would allow this temporary aberration, always knowing that he would free himself in a few minutes.
As I grew into my late teens and early twenties, I grew closer to my mother. She fulfilled my need for casual touches and caresses. Many times, I used her as a mediator to communicate with my father. It wasn't until I left for the US that I realized my father and I had many things in common, not least the preference to communicate by email rather than by phone or face to face. When I type 'Sreedhar' in my Gmail inbox now, I get tens of thousands of hits over the past two decades. My dad sending me recipes, advice, scoldings, wry observations on life, and pictures- dozens and dozens of pictures of his life. By the time I returned to India, Appa and I had reached a steady state. We would communicate by email, in case anything important had to be said. He immersed himself into the lives of my kids. He played, fought, and laughed with his grand kids every day- the no touch policy didn't apply to them.
During my father's last days, he craved touch. As he gasped for breath, straining to expand his solidified lungs, nothing gave him more comfort than having someone rub his back. As his mouth filled with ulcers from the cancer treatment and oral thrush raged in his throat, he found it immensely soothing to have someone gently move their hand up and down his throat as he coughed and coughed and tried to swallow.
When we decided to move him back from the ICU to the ward so that we could spend his last hours with him, my mother and I had one single thought in our minds: that we needed to touch him, as much for our sakes as for his, so that he would know he was not alone. We wanted to hold his hand, help him with his food, put an arm around him when he coughed, wipe his chin after he had hastily gulped down food before his oxygen saturation dropped.
If there is one regret I have with the way he died, it is this: I was not holding his hand when he breathed his last. He had fallen asleep (or what seemed to be sleep) and I didn't pick up his hand again. And by the time I realized that he wasn't breathing, it was too late. I think this must be a regret for my mother too- that she spent the entire previous night and the next day morning and afternoon with him. And about an hour after I took over from her, he died. "If only I had spent just an hour more with him" is what she expressed to me after she hurried back to the hospital.
What have I learned from this? I'll never stop touching my kids, husband, mother, anybody important to me: caresses, hugs, kisses, massages- they will get it all.
I'll never again discount the power of touch - touch is as essential as life in newborn babies, toddlers and even adults. And the weaker you are, whether by age or by sickness, the more important touch is.
I recall my father carrying me around on his shoulders till I was almost 7, after which, one fine day he decided he had carried me enough and made me walk everywhere. I still remember the tantrums I threw at that time of forced transition from babyhood.
After this, any touches were either accidental, or very much with a single purpose, such as holding my upper hand to guide me through traffic, or giving me a leg up when I needed to climb a wall to retrieve a shuttlecock. In my early teens, I rebelled against this enforced no-touch policy of my father's and would find ways to hold his hand or plonk my head on his lap while we watched TV and so on. I would hold my breath and only release it if it seemed like he would allow this temporary aberration, always knowing that he would free himself in a few minutes.
As I grew into my late teens and early twenties, I grew closer to my mother. She fulfilled my need for casual touches and caresses. Many times, I used her as a mediator to communicate with my father. It wasn't until I left for the US that I realized my father and I had many things in common, not least the preference to communicate by email rather than by phone or face to face. When I type 'Sreedhar' in my Gmail inbox now, I get tens of thousands of hits over the past two decades. My dad sending me recipes, advice, scoldings, wry observations on life, and pictures- dozens and dozens of pictures of his life. By the time I returned to India, Appa and I had reached a steady state. We would communicate by email, in case anything important had to be said. He immersed himself into the lives of my kids. He played, fought, and laughed with his grand kids every day- the no touch policy didn't apply to them.
During my father's last days, he craved touch. As he gasped for breath, straining to expand his solidified lungs, nothing gave him more comfort than having someone rub his back. As his mouth filled with ulcers from the cancer treatment and oral thrush raged in his throat, he found it immensely soothing to have someone gently move their hand up and down his throat as he coughed and coughed and tried to swallow.
When we decided to move him back from the ICU to the ward so that we could spend his last hours with him, my mother and I had one single thought in our minds: that we needed to touch him, as much for our sakes as for his, so that he would know he was not alone. We wanted to hold his hand, help him with his food, put an arm around him when he coughed, wipe his chin after he had hastily gulped down food before his oxygen saturation dropped.
If there is one regret I have with the way he died, it is this: I was not holding his hand when he breathed his last. He had fallen asleep (or what seemed to be sleep) and I didn't pick up his hand again. And by the time I realized that he wasn't breathing, it was too late. I think this must be a regret for my mother too- that she spent the entire previous night and the next day morning and afternoon with him. And about an hour after I took over from her, he died. "If only I had spent just an hour more with him" is what she expressed to me after she hurried back to the hospital.
What have I learned from this? I'll never stop touching my kids, husband, mother, anybody important to me: caresses, hugs, kisses, massages- they will get it all.
I'll never again discount the power of touch - touch is as essential as life in newborn babies, toddlers and even adults. And the weaker you are, whether by age or by sickness, the more important touch is.
Sunday, March 11, 2018
Camping again
After almost a year, we went camping again this weekend.
Why do we forget to go camping? I think because camping requires an innate ability to leave yourself exposed, to give up a level of control. So, when you have a few rushed days in which to grab yourself a holiday, you would much rather keep everything under tight boundaries rather than risk losing that precious time to unforeseen elements. So it's not forgetting to go camping, but it's more of a deliberate decision not to bring the possibility into any equations.
Durga will turn five soon and she wanted to go camping. I think the main reason D loves camping is because she gets to make friends with dogs and cats and any other strays that get into her path. Sometimes I wonder how much of her innate love for animals I am stifling by not allowing her pets... am I ruining some beautiful expansive thing inside her and twisting it into some future misshapen horror? Or is that just plain weird thinking?
The very thought of having to be in charge of a pet, when as a family, we are emerging from D's babyhood, is enough to stress me out. No thanks- let the kids become old enough to clean their own poop, let alone some pet's, and then we shall see.
Our camping mainstay in India so far has been Bamboo Rustles, a wonderful place near Krishnagiri. But as BR becomes more and more popular, it's difficult finding available dates to go there. Plus, it's nice to explore a new place, not the same old safe zones.
I used Camp Monk, a website that curates camping areas across the country. We stumbled across Middle of Somewhere, in the depths of that website. MoS had been featured in CM's advertising post on environmentally conscious sites near Bangalore. Loved the description, loved the pictures and went ahead and booked the place. Very reasonable rates (Rs.500/ head) if you bring your own tent, which we wanted to do. We have a stove as well, but no propane to get it going. So instead of running to Decathlon and hunting for propane, we decided to order meals there.
We left for MoS on Saturday afternoon, after spending a hot morning at IISc's Open Day (incredibly crowded. No idea what events they had there- each thing had a mile-long line). It takes about an hour to get there, assuming you don't get lost. And it really feels like the middle of nowhere- you take a mud path from a point on the main highway and drive and drive inside for about a mile and all of a sudden, just when you wonder where in the world you are, you reach it.
Kids are now old enough to help pitch the tent! Hurray!
Wait for it.... And..... all done!
Why do we forget to go camping? I think because camping requires an innate ability to leave yourself exposed, to give up a level of control. So, when you have a few rushed days in which to grab yourself a holiday, you would much rather keep everything under tight boundaries rather than risk losing that precious time to unforeseen elements. So it's not forgetting to go camping, but it's more of a deliberate decision not to bring the possibility into any equations.
Durga will turn five soon and she wanted to go camping. I think the main reason D loves camping is because she gets to make friends with dogs and cats and any other strays that get into her path. Sometimes I wonder how much of her innate love for animals I am stifling by not allowing her pets... am I ruining some beautiful expansive thing inside her and twisting it into some future misshapen horror? Or is that just plain weird thinking?
The very thought of having to be in charge of a pet, when as a family, we are emerging from D's babyhood, is enough to stress me out. No thanks- let the kids become old enough to clean their own poop, let alone some pet's, and then we shall see.
Our camping mainstay in India so far has been Bamboo Rustles, a wonderful place near Krishnagiri. But as BR becomes more and more popular, it's difficult finding available dates to go there. Plus, it's nice to explore a new place, not the same old safe zones.
I used Camp Monk, a website that curates camping areas across the country. We stumbled across Middle of Somewhere, in the depths of that website. MoS had been featured in CM's advertising post on environmentally conscious sites near Bangalore. Loved the description, loved the pictures and went ahead and booked the place. Very reasonable rates (Rs.500/ head) if you bring your own tent, which we wanted to do. We have a stove as well, but no propane to get it going. So instead of running to Decathlon and hunting for propane, we decided to order meals there.
We left for MoS on Saturday afternoon, after spending a hot morning at IISc's Open Day (incredibly crowded. No idea what events they had there- each thing had a mile-long line). It takes about an hour to get there, assuming you don't get lost. And it really feels like the middle of nowhere- you take a mud path from a point on the main highway and drive and drive inside for about a mile and all of a sudden, just when you wonder where in the world you are, you reach it.
Kids are now old enough to help pitch the tent! Hurray!
Wait for it.... And..... all done!
After pitching the tent (during which my sole task was to take pics), I went for a spot of bird watching. I can't spot as many as RK can, let alone identify them, but I would like to think that I'm becoming better. I'm getting more patient, at any rate. Earlier I used to get a little jittery- I would think, man I can hear birds all over the place but can't see a single one, or can't see one long enough to figure out what it looks like. Nowadays, I'm getting to a more Zen-like state (!). I am not thinking (as much) of a bird count, or a list. I'm more like, let me hang out here for a while and if I see any birds, all the better.
In MoS, this attitude helped a lot because there were a TON of birds that I had either never seen or had no clue how to begin identifying.
So. Many, many birds. Amazing star-gazing areas. Wonderful Peepal tree under which we pitched our tent and which sheltered us from a blazing sun the next day.
What I am pleased with reg bird watching:
a) I saw my first treepie!
b) I finally recognized my first Red wattled lapwing- which is a bird that RK has been pointing out to me for years, but this was the first time I saw one and figured out what it was all by myself.
c) I finally saw the white eye of the White eye
Small steps that make me feel great.
When I closed my eyes for a nap this evening after returning home, all I could see were birds, on wires, on treetops, flitting about on the ground.
Sunday, February 4, 2018
Bemused and scandalized
I've been reading up about the effectiveness of drying up various types of biofluids and how these dried spots can be used for various tests.
The dried blood spot, for instance, is a well-known WHO recommended alternative to whole blood. And this, naturally, got me thinking about dried sputum spots, dried urine spots, dried semen spots and so on.
I tried to find out what tests you could try to do with dried urine spots- could you check for protein in the urine, pus cells maybe, bacteria? Could you extract DNA out of it?
When I Googled the same for semen, the first hit I got was this: Checkmate Dried Semen Spot Instant Check.
Hmm... let's see what they instant- check, I thought to myself. If you notice the page, there's no description in the beginning, other than the title and the pic. But hey, there were two reviews. I scrolled down to the reviews.
And I encourage you to do the same.
It took me three readings, THREE, of the longer review there to finally figure out what this person was talking about.
Weird! W-E-I-R-D!
The internet can be a strange and scary place.
Tuesday, January 23, 2018
Processes
I've prided myself on being flexible, quick to change, quick to respond and not be bogged down by what is supposed to be done.
I fancied myself a bit of a rebel against rules.
I've careened through life without bothering about processes.
I am an utter total idiot.
My lack of discipline, my dislike of creating routines or processes for aspects of life I am not automatically drawn to, are getting me into huge amounts of trouble everywhere. MSCH, 11 months after commercial ops, is growing. It's no longer a one-woman army: we have staff, we have billing software, we have a financial team, we have auditors, tax returns to file, marketing plans and a million other things that elevate a company from a shop.
And I am not stepping up. I've been sticking my head into the ground and refusing to acknowledge that I need to play nice to move up. I have been nostalgically comparing the complexity of today to the rustic simplicity of the 'good old days' when it was just me and a sterile hood in a 4 by 8 corner of RK's clinic and I could keep track of everything.
God. Just call me a Trumper.
I just had a really horrible experience with a patient and I look back and realize the sheer number of things I did wrong in this entire series of encounters with this guy and I can't figure out how to fix it.
Well, other than going to the rest of the team and having some really really difficult conversations.
And coming out of it wiser and less trigger-happy.
I need to create some processes for every step of the patient-lab interaction along with my team and I need to learn to stick with it. Otherwise, I am Sarah Palin Going Rogue and MSCH becomes the 2008 election. Or I am the white male Trump supporter and MSCH is my coal mine- or is it the other way around? Whatever. I become harmful to the company.
Gotta step up and get ready to play with the big guns now.
I fancied myself a bit of a rebel against rules.
I've careened through life without bothering about processes.
I am an utter total idiot.
My lack of discipline, my dislike of creating routines or processes for aspects of life I am not automatically drawn to, are getting me into huge amounts of trouble everywhere. MSCH, 11 months after commercial ops, is growing. It's no longer a one-woman army: we have staff, we have billing software, we have a financial team, we have auditors, tax returns to file, marketing plans and a million other things that elevate a company from a shop.
And I am not stepping up. I've been sticking my head into the ground and refusing to acknowledge that I need to play nice to move up. I have been nostalgically comparing the complexity of today to the rustic simplicity of the 'good old days' when it was just me and a sterile hood in a 4 by 8 corner of RK's clinic and I could keep track of everything.
God. Just call me a Trumper.
I just had a really horrible experience with a patient and I look back and realize the sheer number of things I did wrong in this entire series of encounters with this guy and I can't figure out how to fix it.
Well, other than going to the rest of the team and having some really really difficult conversations.
And coming out of it wiser and less trigger-happy.
I need to create some processes for every step of the patient-lab interaction along with my team and I need to learn to stick with it. Otherwise, I am Sarah Palin Going Rogue and MSCH becomes the 2008 election. Or I am the white male Trump supporter and MSCH is my coal mine- or is it the other way around? Whatever. I become harmful to the company.
Gotta step up and get ready to play with the big guns now.
Tuesday, December 5, 2017
Being Positive in the News!
Here's the NGO we helped set up.
RK and his colleague Ashoojit were on the radio on the 1st of December to talk about their work and about BPF!
Saturday, December 2, 2017
The God of Small Things= Kalpavriksha
This concept of Kalpavriksha, or the tree that gives you what you desire, is an ancient one in Hindu mythology. Except there is no tree- it is a metaphor for the universe.
'Ask and you shall receive' has been described in the Bible, Quran and recurs in multiple texts in Hindu philosophy. I'm sure the same is present in the texts of other religions too.
It took me a long time to realize what this means. Some years ago, I had written a blog post (which I feel too lazy to ferret out) on my God of Small Things . I'd described how, if I would ever express a little wish out aloud or with some degree of ferventness, such as 'God, I wish I had a whole crate of alphonso mangoes all for myself' or 'Wouldn't it be great to be able to read this out of print book?', I would usually be granted this wish. It wouldn't be immediately, or even in the same form that I might have thought of, but ultimately, I would get whatever I had wished for.
I never thought then that it would work for bigger wishes too- mainly because I was never in the habit of making such wishes. I would never, for example, say 'I wish to become a doctor' or 'I wish to make a lot of money'. This wasn't out of a lack of desire for either of these things, but I felt uncomfortable saying these- did I really want to become a doctor? Did I really wish to make a huge amount of money? What was considered huge, anyway?
Over the years, and after multiple long conversations with a lot of people, including my friends, I realize that my original God of Small Things is the same Kalpavriksha which is the same universe that gives you what you most desire. Paulo Coehlo says this in his so-famous-that-it-is-a-cliche book 'The Alchemist'- And, when you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it
So recently, I had a chance to test this out. A few months after I started MSCH, I decided I would no longer continue working as a lactation counselor at St.Philomena's. I felt it was too distracting, the benefit-to-cost ratio wasn't really leaning in the benefit angle any more, for multiple reasons. But about two weeks ago, I realized my personal connection with patients had drastically reduced. I wasn't there entering their data, I wasn't speaking to them about the need for some tests, I wasn't there when their blood was being drawn and I wasn't even there to give them their reports and explain what that meant. All the things that I'd enjoyed in the initial stages of my company, when it was just a 1-woman show, I was no longer doing because now I had people for that.
So I reflected on this and made a statement out aloud, 'I wish to meet real people again and do more counseling and hopefully help them'
Almost immediately afterwards, a young doctor I knew back in Philomena's phoned me to get an appointment for postpartum counseling. I loved the experience of holding a baby again, helping her figure out feeding issues.
And a few days after that, out of the blue, a guy from Pune called me up to ask me about testing. But because I was in this new primed plane now, I asked him, 'tell me more. What got you interested in this test?'And that led to a 45 minute conversation during which he shared his story of assault, his reluctance to be intimate with his wife and finally agreed to come to Bangalore for an extended workup, testing and counseling.
Yesterday RK referred another patient from Delhi for counseling.
So, my wish came true!
----------*------------------------------*------------------------------*-----------------------------*------------*----
Interestingly enough, yesterday night I heard Jim Carrey in an interview with Oprah mention that he had written a cheque to himself, when he was poor and still an aspiring actor, for $100,000 'for acting services rendered' and he gave himself five years to accomplish this. And he did.
So, looks like Kalpavriksha works for monetary success too.
'Ask and you shall receive' has been described in the Bible, Quran and recurs in multiple texts in Hindu philosophy. I'm sure the same is present in the texts of other religions too.
It took me a long time to realize what this means. Some years ago, I had written a blog post (which I feel too lazy to ferret out) on my God of Small Things . I'd described how, if I would ever express a little wish out aloud or with some degree of ferventness, such as 'God, I wish I had a whole crate of alphonso mangoes all for myself' or 'Wouldn't it be great to be able to read this out of print book?', I would usually be granted this wish. It wouldn't be immediately, or even in the same form that I might have thought of, but ultimately, I would get whatever I had wished for.
I never thought then that it would work for bigger wishes too- mainly because I was never in the habit of making such wishes. I would never, for example, say 'I wish to become a doctor' or 'I wish to make a lot of money'. This wasn't out of a lack of desire for either of these things, but I felt uncomfortable saying these- did I really want to become a doctor? Did I really wish to make a huge amount of money? What was considered huge, anyway?
Over the years, and after multiple long conversations with a lot of people, including my friends, I realize that my original God of Small Things is the same Kalpavriksha which is the same universe that gives you what you most desire. Paulo Coehlo says this in his so-famous-that-it-is-a-cliche book 'The Alchemist'- And, when you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it
So recently, I had a chance to test this out. A few months after I started MSCH, I decided I would no longer continue working as a lactation counselor at St.Philomena's. I felt it was too distracting, the benefit-to-cost ratio wasn't really leaning in the benefit angle any more, for multiple reasons. But about two weeks ago, I realized my personal connection with patients had drastically reduced. I wasn't there entering their data, I wasn't speaking to them about the need for some tests, I wasn't there when their blood was being drawn and I wasn't even there to give them their reports and explain what that meant. All the things that I'd enjoyed in the initial stages of my company, when it was just a 1-woman show, I was no longer doing because now I had people for that.
So I reflected on this and made a statement out aloud, 'I wish to meet real people again and do more counseling and hopefully help them'
Almost immediately afterwards, a young doctor I knew back in Philomena's phoned me to get an appointment for postpartum counseling. I loved the experience of holding a baby again, helping her figure out feeding issues.
And a few days after that, out of the blue, a guy from Pune called me up to ask me about testing. But because I was in this new primed plane now, I asked him, 'tell me more. What got you interested in this test?'And that led to a 45 minute conversation during which he shared his story of assault, his reluctance to be intimate with his wife and finally agreed to come to Bangalore for an extended workup, testing and counseling.
Yesterday RK referred another patient from Delhi for counseling.
So, my wish came true!
----------*------------------------------*------------------------------*-----------------------------*------------*----
Interestingly enough, yesterday night I heard Jim Carrey in an interview with Oprah mention that he had written a cheque to himself, when he was poor and still an aspiring actor, for $100,000 'for acting services rendered' and he gave himself five years to accomplish this. And he did.
So, looks like Kalpavriksha works for monetary success too.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)