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When people ask me how my father is, I don’t know how to respond. The only response I can muster most of the time remains, “He’s still alive”, but I find myself still unable to unpack the many, conflicting meanings behind the statement, and guilty of its evasive, unsatisfactory nature.

Seven years ago, my father suffered extreme dehydration while running a marathon. His heart stopped beating, meaning he was pronounced technically dead, and his brain tissues withered away for fifteen minutes without supply of oxygen from his heart. There were no medical personnel at the scene left to help my…

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