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On the very last day of her life, my sister got stoned. It was early in 2014 and I had been staying with her for over a week as she succumbed to the cancer that had defined the final three years of her life. She was well loved in her Seattle neighborhood and beyond, and there had been a steady stream of friends stopping by that I met and quickly came to treasure myself. That morning, though, she told me she could no longer take visitors. As much as I hated to do it, I spent the day turning people away at the door. They were understanding. But it still hurt.

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