Posts by urbanharbor15

Morgan Williams3 said:The most honest advice I can give... if you have any means at all, go elsewhere. Get a second opinion outside of the US.

From my own experience, here—specifically in places like New York City or Chicago—you won't find a specialist in this field who actually knows how to treat it effectively. It’s almost like they have some sort of unspoken arrangement with funeral homes... 🙄

Either that, or we just had the terrible luck of running into "those types" one after another. 😢

I get it; lung cancer is lethal enough on its own, but unfortunately, I’ve had similar experiences with American hospitals. At Jordanovac, we were stuck waiting three whole weeks for my mother's official bronchoscopy results just because the doctor was away on vacation... even though both the CT scan and the procedure itself clearly showed a tumor.

Run from American hospitals if you can. Act fast, because lung cancers are usually caught when they've already advanced too far. Good luck.

rustyowl52 said:Thanks! Honestly, I thought my mom was the only one—a total addict. But it's everywhere, in America and all over the world... yet nicotine addiction just gets pushed to the sidelines while drugs and alcohol get all the attention. I don't get it. Why isn't there more focus on prevention, treatment, or actual mental health support for people struggling with this? People just try to quit on their own at home, which is incredibly hard. I can barely force myself to work out alone without a trainer cheering me on, let alone tackle something like this!
Unfortunately, I don't live with her, so it's harder... I'm in a different city, and my brothers are the ones living with her...
I just hope I can eventually accept that this is just how things have to be...

I used to smoke too (back when I still lived with my parents, our favorite thing was sitting on the balcony, having coffee, and lighting up one after another...). I smoked for eight years straight. I finally quit twenty days after Mom was diagnosed with lung cancer, and it’s been four years now since I last touched a cigarette... I don't even miss it. But what I mean to say is, if Mom hadn't gotten sick, I'd probably still be smoking like an absolute idiot. It feels like here in the States, or generally in Europe, it's just part of the lifestyle... it's so hard to stop when everyone around you is doing it. Now, I live on a different continent, and here, smokers are treated like second-class citizens. You can go a whole week without seeing anyone smoke on the street... plus, cigarettes are outrageously expensive here. In an environment like this, it's much, much easier to stay smoke-free.

Wishing you and your mom nothing but the best and plenty of quality time together!

Donna Reyes11 said:I took my mom to the hospital on Wednesday, and after the IV fluids and meds, she perked up just a little bit... but only briefly... She had breakfast at the hospital on Thursday and then fell asleep... forever... Her heart finally stopped on Saturday morning.
I’m surprisingly calm. Honestly, I'm grateful for COVID-19 because it gave us those two months where we were practically inseparable... under normal circumstances, you could never afford that much time with her—just grabbing coffee every day, having breakfast, watching "Marriage at First Sight" together during lunch and dinner... most of our time was spent just being home... the kid wasn't even in school, so he was home with Grandma doing homework and playing chess...
I did my crying a week ago. I said my goodbyes, told her everything I needed to say, heard everything I needed to hear, and in the end, I gave her permission to let go, to find peace and leave us behind.
In the end, there wasn't even any pain... her body just couldn't hold on anymore.
Safe travels, Mom. Let me know you're watching over us sometime!

May she rest in peace, and my deepest condolences to you, Christian 🙂

rustyowl52 said:Thanks... I know everything now... I have to change, I really do. I need to preserve her memory without all this resentment, without these endless questions that will never have answers...

If my experience can offer you even a shred of help—it’s been just over two years since I lost her to the exact same cancer. My mom was a lifelong smoker, too. While she was sick, I was bitter. So incredibly bitter. I’d get angry at her constantly, trying so hard to hide it, but inside... I was just boiling. Now that she's gone, the anger has faded. No more questions. I'm slowly starting to accept things, and sometimes, those happy memories actually start creeping back in (she had such an incredible sense of humor). I think you're in the thick of it right now because every single day you see the wreckage those cigarettes caused, seeing how much her health was destroyed... you're subconsciously bracing for the loss. It’s terrifying, and that’s why the anger is there. It’s normal to feel this way. And one more thing—please, don't forget to look after yourself, both physically and mentally. Being a caregiver is exhausting work. I’m telling you, find even just a tiny sliver of time every day for something that has absolutely nothing to do with cancer, sickness, or hospitals. That was my lifeline when I felt like you do. I started running, eating better, and just putting on some music while walking the dog... just to break out of that atmosphere for a moment.

rustyowl52 said:My mom is fighting lung cancer. It’s been a year since the diagnosis... they told me she wouldn't even last that long... but she’s tough, just like all mothers are... none of these tests mean anything anymore. I can see her fading. She can't swallow, she's losing weight—she's down to 43 kg, it's devastating... and she still smokes. I know quitting won't save her now, but it feels like she's just refusing to give us a few more days... why? I can't wrap my head around it. I get angry, I yell, and then I just break down crying... Doesn't she love us? Why doesn't she love herself? She tells me to leave her alone, but I can't... I'm a fighter, and I only have one mother... I think about death constantly because I know it's close, yet I try to ignore it, because she's my mom and it's just not her time... damn those cigarettes!!! I dread every single phone call when I'm not with her... I have people here holding me together so I don't lose my mind, but I feel so pathetic day after day... I see so many others going through this same thing, finding comfort in each other's pain, yet the ache we each carry is so uniquely, infinitely heavy...

I completely understand you. I went through those exact same questions and that same fury with my own mother. At this stage, trying to quit smoking wouldn't help her physically, and it would probably crush her mentally. Just accept that everyone has their flaws, and please, try not to let that anger become a wall between you two. Let her know how hard this is for you, but try not to point fingers. Just spend as much quality time with her as you can. Sadly, one day you'll be sitting there just wishing you could hear her voice for one more second, and she'll be gone... Hang in there ❤️

Donna Reyes11 said:I can barely type... my fingers are shaking. I'm sitting here at my mom's place, just listening to her breathe. It's overwhelming. I feel like I'm crawling out of my own skin because I don't know how to handle this... what am I supposed to do? I keep thinking this might be one of our last days together, or maybe the one before. And she’ll probably just sleep through it. When I try to take her hand, she pulls away... even a touch feels like too much for her. She just wants to be alone. And honestly, that's okay too.

Dear Christian Lopez29, I am so incredibly sorry you're going through this. Looking at your words, it feels like looking back at myself two years ago with my own mother. Sending you a huge hug...

As everyone else has already pointed out, your mother is in those final weeks, perhaps even her final days. I can only imagine the weight on your shoulders. My mother had this one wish: to pass away at home, away from the sterile, cold walls of a hospital, surrounded by her inner circle. My dad and I made a pact to honor that, and we cared for her right until the very end. I was holding her hand when she took her last breath. Forgive me if I'm being blunt, but believe me, this is the greatest gift you can give her—your presence, and allowing her to depart in the warmth of her own home with her daughter by her side. My mother was there when I took my very first breath, and I was there when she drew her last.

Looking back now, I honestly don't know where I found the strength to survive it... but I did. And you will too, I promise. It’s just how life works sometimes. Just talk to her softly. Stay near her. Ease her pain as much as humanly possible (for us, the palliative care team at the Tumor Institute was a godsend—wonderful people). Once the dust settles, you’ll find peace knowing you gave her a dignified exit. Don't be afraid. ❤️

Joshua Kim69 said:My husband lost his fight with small cell lung cancer just three weeks ago.😢
He was diagnosed back in September 2017. He went through six rounds of chemo, which actually shrank the tumor a bit. By late April, things seemed stable, but then—right when he was supposed to start radiation—everything took a turn for the worse.😢
The head CT came back clear, and he was lucid until the very end, though in those final days, he couldn't speak or even swallow a drop of water. They warned me it would be hard, but I never could have imagined just how devastatingly difficult it would be.
I stayed by his side until his very last breath... I know it meant everything to him.

Rest in peace, my love...

I am so sorry, Joshua Kim69... welcome to a club that nobody ever wants to join. Sending you a huge hug. I know exactly how this feels...

Rachel Williams said:It’s been four months since Mom passed... and I’ve only got three weeks left until I give birth. Then, just yesterday, we found out my aunt has lymphoma... everything just keeps hitting at once... 🕺

Man... I really feel for my aunt. Keeping everything crossed that she pulls through this fight. Sometimes you see lymphoma cases that actually have a better shot than lung cancer... just goes to show how unpredictable it all is...

Best of luck with the family... You truly deserve all the happiness in the world, and I really hope everything goes smoothly when the little one arrives...

My mom... you know how it is. It was at the exact same time yours was four months old. I finished my PhD on June 20th, and by the 22nd, it had been four months since she passed. When I was standing up there on that stage to receive my doctorate, I could barely swallow... just a lump in my throat...

Joshua Kim69 said:Unfortunately, my English is strictly high school level, so I’d really appreciate a translation since you mentioned providing them for those who might not understand everything. Google Translate makes things look pretty ridiculous...
I hope this applies to everyone out there grieving, not just for a mother.
Thanks in advance.

Here is the translation. 😉 I hope it helps at least a few people as much as it helped me. Hang in there!

I’m old. Which means I have (so far) said goodbye to and watched many people go, people I knew and loved.
I’ve lost friends—best friends—acquaintances, colleagues, grandparents, my mother, relatives, teachers, mentors, students, neighbors, and a whole crowd of others…

I wish I could say that you get used to people dying. But I never could. Nor do I want to. Every time someone I love passes, it leaves this massive void inside me, regardless of how they went. I don't want it to be something "insignificant." I don't want it to be something that just fades away with time. My scars are a testament... a legacy of the love and the relationships I shared with that person. And if the wound is deep, it simply means the love was deep. So be it.

Scars are a testament to life. They are proof that I can love fiercely, live deeply, and be profoundly broken and wounded—and still heal, still move forward, and still love. The new skin that grows back (the scar) is stronger than the ordinary skin that was there before the injury. Scars are a testament to life. They are only ugly to those who cannot see.

As for the grieving… you’ll notice it comes in waves. When the shipwreck happens, you’re drowning, and pieces of the wreckage are everywhere around you. Everything floating by reminds you of how beautiful and majestic the ship once was, and now it’s gone. The only thing you can do in that moment is float. You grab onto some piece of debris and hold on for a while. Maybe it’s an object. Maybe it’s a happy memory or a photograph. Maybe it’s another person also floating. For a while, all you can do is float. Just try to survive.

In the beginning, the waves are thirty meters high and they crush you without mercy. They come every ten seconds, leaving you no time to even catch your breath. All you can do is hold on and drift. After some time—maybe weeks, maybe months—the waves are still thirty meters high, but they come a little less often. When they hit, they still smash and exhaust you. But in between, you can breathe. You can function. You never know what might suddenly trigger the grief. It could be a song, a picture, a crossroads, the smell of coffee brewing… and just like that, a wave hits and pulls you under. But between the waves, there is life.

After a while—and this "while" is different for everyone—you realize the waves are twenty-five meters high. Or fifteen. Even though the waves still come, they arrive with more space between them. You can anticipate them. On anniversaries, birthdays, Christmas, or when you’re flying into O’Hare. You can foresee them, and most of the time, you can prepare. And when they wash over you, you know that eventually, somehow, you will swim to the other side again. Soaked to the bone, spitting out water, clinging to some tiny bit of wreckage, but you will make it out.

Believe what this old man tells you. The waves never stop coming, but somehow, you won't want them to either. You just learn how to survive them. And more waves will come. And you will survive those too.

If you’re lucky enough, you’ll end up with plenty of scars from all that love... and a whole lot of wreckage, too.

Joshua Kim69 said:Unfortunately, my English is pretty much stuck at a high school level, so I’d really appreciate a translation—especially since you mentioned translating for those who might not follow everything. Google Translate can be... well, let's just say it's pretty ridiculous sometimes.
I hope this applies to everyone who is grieving, not just for the mother.
Thanks in advance.

No worries, I'll get to the translation later today once I'm back at my computer. Doing this on a phone is a total pain. And yes, it counts for everyone... because grief is universal. 🙂

Rachel Williams said:I consider myself part of the "expat community" too, though I'm not quite as far away as you—just living here in Austria. I used to have this habit of calling her right after work or after seeing my doctor... we just seemed to click on that level. 🕺
When you stumble upon this on Reddit, I think others will find it just as interesting as I did, so I'm posting it here. 😉

We really are alike... even though we haven't met, I feel for you. Sending a digital hug your way :hug:

Here are those screenshots from Reddit. I found them late one night back when I was bracing myself for the hard days ahead, while Mom was still alive... ever since then, whenever things get heavy, I read these words and it somehow makes it a little easier to bear. If anyone needs a translation, just ask and I'll do it.

😛

Rachel Williams said:I totally get where you're coming from... It won't be exactly a month this Saturday since my mom passed, and honestly, the grief is just hitting me full force right now. Everything feels heavy... I can't just call her after an appointment to vent, or ask for some stupid cooking advice, or even just yell at her because I saw an owl in the neighborhood... I know I’ll eventually learn how to live with this void. I know she’s watching over me from somewhere up there, probably laughing at my clumsiness and all my nonsense, but that doesn't make it any easier... And on top of everything, all I hear from neighbors and acquaintances is, "Oh, it's such a shame she didn't live to see her grandkids..." 🙂

Yeah, it’s the exact same story for me—both of our families left at the same time. I can only imagine how draining it is for you, having everyone constantly bringing up that grandchild... it never stops. As for me, I’m just sitting here with this gnawing regret about moving back abroad—I'm living in Australia now. Life here moves along like I never even left, which feels completely surreal. The memory of Mom only exists inside my own head now. Like those moments on the subway coming home from work, just chatting away to her... honestly, sometimes I almost wish someone would remind me of her, instead of it just being me and Dad on the phone...

Eventually, you just accept it. You learn how to live around the edges of it... Life changes you forever, there's no getting around that. But you just keep moving forward anyway...
Hang in there. Just let her rest in peace... and give yourself all the time you need to grieve.

I was visiting a friend the other day, and there it was sitting right on the table—Supportive. I just lost it. I burst into tears right then and there. I really thought I had finally pulled myself together, but it seems I'm still not quite...
But those moments that catch me off guard and leave me in tears... they're becoming a lot rarer these days...
Hang in there, girl! :-*

Reddit thanks to Angela Wright and Robin Diaz4... 🙂
The tears just come out of nowhere... one minute I think I’m finally doing okay, and then suddenly, they're just flowing... I stumbled upon this beautiful response on Reddit about how to deal with grief, and honestly, reading it helps me so much. Once I figure out how to grab the screenshots, I'll post them here...

My dear mother would have turned 64 tomorrow. Tomorrow also marks exactly one month since she passed away.

I thought I was holding it together, really... but as time crawls on, this emptiness just grows. This heavy, hollow sadness that we’ve lost her forever. It still hits me out of nowhere, that sudden, jarring realization that she’s gone. At work, on the subway, even while brushing my teeth... it just strikes me.

Damn this disease.

Angela Wright said:urbanharbor15 and Rachel Williams, please accept my sincerest and deepest condolences.
You did everything right. You should be proud of yourselves and your mothers. They gave you one final life lesson—the departure of a parent, the loss of a mother. With that, your journey into adulthood is complete. It’s only when we lose our parents that we truly grasp the realization and maturity of a life fully lived.
Let them rest in peace now, and move forward carrying those beautiful memories. That is what they would want, and what they deserve.
May they rest in peace, and I wish you peace in your hearts.

Angela Wright, I wanted to personally thank you for the support throughout my mom's illness—from the moment she got sick a year and a half ago until her passing just now. Your posts to other members here regarding lung cancer, and even some directed specifically at me, helped me more than I can say in accepting everything with Mom. I know you lost your own mother too, so all I can say is a massive thank you.🙂

Thanks to everyone for the messages of sympathy...

Rachel Williams, I hope you're holding up okay. It's been two weeks since my mom passed. My dad and I are hanging in there; the images of her final moments are slowly fading, even though we think of her every single day. I helped Dad clear out the closets, rearrange the apartment a bit, handle the small things... and next week I'm flying back to another continent after five months away. I'm just proud I was there with my dearest when she needed me most.

Joshua Kim69, wishing you and your wife strength in your fight...

Rachel Williams, I am so incredibly sorry... I just know those two are somewhere now, finally free from all that pain... I'm glad you were able to be home with your mom. It means everything during times like this...

Thank you everyone for the kind words. We laid Mom to rest yesterday. Since I’m not exactly a religious person, I asked her if there was anything beyond this life—just a tiny sign, even the smallest one, to let me know she was okay and that she made it where she needed to go. As we were lowering the casket into the grave yesterday, this white bird—maybe a seagull or a dove—just started circling right above us...

I truly believe your mom is in a much better place now too, Rachel 🙂

Thank you all for the support... I’m checking in with some heartbreaking news. At 1:05 last night, I lost my most precious rose, my dearest Mom. She took her last breath while I was holding her hand, stroking her frail, exhausted body... Things really took a turn for the worse over the last few days—fever, confusion, staring into space, sleeping more than usual. Then, in the final 48 hours, the pain became unbearable, and nothing we tried could touch it. She also developed terminal agitation; she was in such agony, calling out, moaning, crying, begging us to move her every couple of minutes. The emergency responders and the palliative care team arrived to give her an injection, which calmed her down slightly. Around 4 PM, she stopped talking. Her breathing became loud and rapid, like she was gasping for air. She slipped into a sort of semi-coma, her eyes rolled back, and I could feel her slipping away, even though she kept drifting back to us while Dad and I held her... Later, there was the death rattle, foam at the mouth, and her breathing just got shallower and shallower until it slowly faded out...

Forgive me for being so blunt... I wanted to be right there by her side when she took that final breath—after all, she was the one watching me take my very first... The images haunt me, and I just hope one day I can forget them...

But despite all that suffering, I am so incredibly grateful we made sure she could pass away at home, surrounded by those who love her most. Holding her hand in her warm little bed felt so much more right than if she had been in some sterile hospital facility...

I love you, Mom

Quote: my Soul

Rachel Williams said:After three and a half years of fighting, we’re finally reaching the end of the road. If it were "just" the lung cancer, I truly believe Mom would have had much more time—that damn thing has barely budged since the beginning. But then, this past summer, they diagnosed a wild breast cancer that has already metastasized everywhere. And all this happened because they only just got around to ordering a PET scan... a scan we had been begging for for nearly a year once those breast markers first started climbing, even though the mammogram showed absolutely nothing. When we finally secured the referral to MD Anderson Cancer Center, the doctors there were actually shocked that no one had sent her there sooner. Starting tomorrow, Mom is officially being admitted to the hospital. We’re just waiting for the end now... If I lived in America, I don't think this would even be an option. But living here, dealing with a high-risk pregnancy while being two states away from her... the most I'll be able to do is visit occasionally or call her cell phone. How I’m going to pull myself together mentally at the end of this... only God knows...

Both my mother and I have come to the exact same conclusion: having a high-quality primary care physician is everything. My mom spent four agonizing years being bounced around from one specialist to another, dealing with nothing but dismissals, until they finally diagnosed her with lung cancer. By then, of course, it had already reached Stage IV. Everyone kept insisting her cough was just acid reflux, or that the scarring on her lungs was left over from tuberculosis—which she’s never even had, but apparently, doctors know better than she does... And when the nodes in her neck started swelling? One doctor would say they were just swollen glands, another would claim it was just fatty deposits. Depending on who was looking at her, the answer changed. But her GP never backed down. She kept pushing for more tests because she wasn't satisfied with what her colleagues were finding; she was certain they were missing something. And she was 100% right. For every brilliant doctor working in our hospitals, there’s a criminal element just waiting to take your money—people who aren't fit to treat a child, let alone an adult. As for the pulmonary clinic over in Blackout... I wouldn't set foot in there if my life depended on it. Not just because of how they "treated" and "diagnosed" my mother, but because their incompetence is just the final straw for us. Based on everything my family and I have been through, we're done. I wouldn't recommend them to anyone, much like I wouldn't suggest Jordan... and honestly, the same goes for the MD Anderson Cancer Center...

I am truly sorry that you and your mother ended up in this position... It’s heartbreaking. My mom and I are facing the exact same reality—terminal stage, lung cancer, just waiting for the end. We’re planning to keep her at home for her final days; even though the thought terrifies me, we want her to be surrounded by the warmth of her own home until the very last moment. I can't even imagine what you're going through with a high-risk pregnancy on top of everything else... hang in there. Because of my mom's situation, I ended up moving halfway across the world, 10,000 miles away from home... I'm still trying to wrap my head around it all...

I agree, you absolutely need a solid, high-quality primary care physician. My mother had such a run of bad luck because her regular doctor went on maternity leave, leaving a rotating door of young, inexperienced residents to cover the shifts. It was a mess. To make matters worse, after she suffered through three repeated bouts of pneumonia, I flew back to the States, picked her up, and took her straight to a private clinic like Mayo Clinic. We specifically sought out an older pulmonologist, Dr. Slavko Miklic, but honestly... he seemed more interested in me than in my mother’s medical history. He kept making comments like, "Ma'am, how do you have such a beautiful daughter?" Disgusting. I really shouldn't have to mention that... In the end, his big diagnosis was that Mom had mid-section syndrome, and his "brilliant" solution was that we had to pat her on the back three times a day to drain the mucus. Seriously?! He didn't even think to order a CT scan to figure out why a long-term smoker like my mother was dealing with recurring pneumonia. Once I started digging online, I realized that recurrent pneumonia in smokers is a massive red flag that demands serious follow-up. The specialists at Johns Hopkins figured out what was actually happening immediately. I have to give credit where it's due—MD Anderson Cancer Center is top-tier, not just for their expertise, but for their actual compassion and humanity toward patients. Especially their pain management clinic and Dr. Tomislav Bosnjak... he is truly a wonderful, kind, and patient man, both as a human being and a physician...

ruggedfox11, what Jane said was just beautiful... I actually broke down in tears reading her response. And if I can add one thing... nobody truly knows what might have happened if your loved one had been given that antibiotic. Maybe it would have bought him a little more time, but who knows if it would have just led to even more suffering down the road. It’s impossible to say...

Since we're already wading through these heavy topics, does anyone have any insight on how to handle it when a terminal patient is spiraling emotionally and mentally? My mom is on benzodiazepines (Xanax), but death absolutely terrifies her. She’s developed this paranoia; we can’t even bring up the subject of dying without her shutting us out completely. We even called in a priest—a dear friend of hers—to try and talk things through, but nothing seems to touch her. I think she just can't bring herself to surrender, so she's stuck in this constant state of agony where her body is failing her, yet she's white-knuckling it through every second. Dad and I are ready to just let her go so she doesn't have to suffer needlessly once there's no hope left for recovery, but she just can't seem to "let go"... Does anyone have any advice? Should we keep trying to talk to her? Heavy sedation isn't an option right now... how do we make this easier for her?

Michelle Perez40 said:Hi there,

I am so incredibly sorry you're going through this....
It’s hard to draw any real conclusions from what you've shared here.
I'm not sure if Mom is currently undergoing any active treatment? If she is, then just ask the oncologist everything that's unclear during her next session. They can see free fluid in the abdomen via ultrasound, and you don't need a long hospital stay for that kind of scan.

Sent from my TA-1032 using Reddit

Thanks for getting back to me...

No, she isn't on active treatment anymore since the disease progressed while she was still doing chemo... So, all care now is strictly palliative, mostly focused on pain management.

I don't think an abdominal ultrasound is even an option right now. Her condition is such that she’s bedridden 90% of the time; we had to call an ambulance just to get her moved when it became critical. We haven't even bothered with more CT scans because there's no point... the strain of just getting her to the hospital would be too much. I guess I was just wondering if that fluid could be water—since people always say that when fluid builds up in the lungs or abdomen, it's a bad sign, like it's pointing toward the end?

Hi everyone on this thread

My mom has lung cancer that has spread to her esophagus, abdominal lymph nodes, and bones (at least, that’s what we know), and she's in a terminal stage. For a few days now, I’ve noticed the right side of her abdomen is quite swollen and feels harder when I touch it. She’s also complaining about shortness of breath—though the primary lung tumor was surgically removed, so I doubt that's the cause—as well as feeling bloated, like she swallowed something huge when she hasn't...

I'm wondering if this could be fluid buildup in the abdomen (ascites)? Her feet and fingers have been slightly swollen over the last few days, too. I've been reading about this online, and it seems like in some cancers, this signals the end is near... should we be preparing ourselves? On top of that, her pain is worsening rapidly; every 3 to 6 days, we have to increase the dose of her pain patches and other medications just to keep up. If she isn't in pain, she’s just sleeping, and she’s lost a lot of weight. Last night, she became confused and didn't even recognize me as her daughter... I'm terrified this might be related to her liver.

I really don't want to put her through the agony of hospital trips if it’s truly not necessary, because that’s what she fears most, so I decided to check here first... Thanks

Thanks, Angela Wright. We actually saw the gastroenterologist yesterday, and they recommended the exact same enema approach... so I went ahead and arranged for a home health nurse to come by our place.