#only for mom to now be on hospice 2 years later like its just been a whirlwind

[lunar-years]

Sending you hugs from the absolutely terrible to be in "parents dying from cancer club" that I wish no one was joining.

yeah. yeah. thank you and right back at you. ❤️ sending you lots of love.

[cocktail-party-in-an-abattoir]

In Memoriam Herschel (2005-2021)

           It was the late summer/early autumn of 2005. I was 16 years old. I went to a friend’s house for a get-together with other friends. She lived in a more rural area, so stray cats were not uncommon. One of these strays had recently birthed a litter of kittens. They were corralled into a blocked-off area in my friend’s den. Naturally, we all gravitated towards the kittens. We spent a good while petting them, playing with them, holding them, and watching them with their mother. A particular kitten was a gray and white tabby. This kitten had made its way towards me and tried to crawl up one of my jean legs. I was wearing bootcut jeans, so it actually managed it. I was immediately drawn to this kitten, the idea of asking my parents if we could keep it already forming.

While my friends and I were playing with them, we decided to give them all smartass, noncommittal names. None of us could sex kittens, so that was reflected in the names we chose. I named the gray and white tabby (of which there were two, but I zeroed in on the jean leg kitten) “Herschel.” Why? Well, when I was eight or nine, I used to play House with friends. I had heard the name “Herschel” on some sitcom, and I liked the sound of it. So, I often named my fake son “Herschel.” This became an inside joke between my best friend and me.

            Back at home, I asked my mom if we could adopt the kitten. She had veto power. She was kind of hesitant at first but eventually relented. A few weeks later my friend and her mom brought the kitten over to my house. By that point I was already seriously referring to it as “Herschel.” We all just kind of assumed it was male. The first thing Herschel did after getting out of the carrying case was hide behind one of our bookcases and stayed there.

            We took Herschel to the vet. Upon examination the vet tech proclaimed he was, in fact, she. Her exact words were “You have a little girl!” For better or for worse, I was committed to “Herschel” (much to my mom’s chagrin), so from then on, I had a girl cat with a boy name. This led to years of various people (mostly veterinary staff) getting her sex wrong. I don’t know that I ever bothered correcting them because, well, they were going to find out the truth soon enough.

            Between 2005 and 2010, Herschel grew from a kitten with what my mom described as “Yoda ears” into a gorgeous young lady. She had the most beautiful green eyes. People always had nice things to say about her looks. She had an adorable bow-legged gait from the beginning. She grew into an affectionate little cuddle-bug once she adjusted to us. She was wary of strangers, which was probably for the best. She did not like to go outside as much as our older cat, Simba (RIP)—especially after being treed once—but she was a very skilled huntress. She even managed to get two hummingbirds. Obviously, I’m not a fan of such “presents,” but I couldn’t help but be impressed by her prowess.

            In 2007, we adopted 2 labs named Olive and Penny (RIP x2). 2010, we adopted two fluffy black kittens from our vet’s office. We named them Buttercup and Licorice (RIP x2). Herschel respected Simba because of his seniority, but she absolutely despised the other pets. She would growl and hiss at them on sight. Because of this, the dogs had to stay downstairs while the cats had free rein upstairs. By 2012, Buttercup had gone missing, and we had adopted two more animals: a cat named Kid Twist (“Twist” for short) and a blue heeler named Bleu. Herschel did not care for them either. That same year my parents moved one state over, and I moved to a nearby city to stay with a family friend. The Menagerie went with my parents.

            One day in 2013 or 2014 my mom commented about how Herschel hid under a guest room bed much of the time. She would only come out to do her business or eat. Since the dogs had free rein over the entire house, this meant there was no real “safe space” for Herschel. Thus, her reclusiveness. Mom was worried about her well-being. I offered to take Herschel under my wing. Mom agreed. Now, my housemate already had a few cats, so it wasn’t perfect, but it was an improvement over a house with dogs. Herschel had been under my care since.

            In 2015 Herschel moved with me into the apartment I currently live in. Despite my apartment’s smallness, she was finally the one cat in a one-cat home. I had stopped letting her out because a) my apartment complex is positively labyrinthine b) the complex is next to a busy highway, and c) I wanted her to live longer and not harm any wildlife (although her hunting days were behind her). She didn’t seem to mind. For the next few years, she was my kitty comrade. Aside from some dental issues and a heart murmur, she always had a clean bill of health. I honestly thought she was going to live as long as Simba had (18, almost 19) because he was also a spry geriatric cat.

            In late 2020, Herschel was diagnosed with hyperthyroidism. She had been growing thinner and vomiting before I found out. I had to start giving her medication twice per day, but there was otherwise no change. She was still the empress I knew and loved, if a little slower. I thought that was going to be it. Then, earlier this year, the vet ran some more tests. While I had managed to lower her thyroid levels, the vet found another problem: chronic kidney disease. My blood ran cold upon hearing this because one of our pet labs, Olive, had died from kidney failure a few years prior. The vet told me while there was no cure, CKD could be managed with diet changes and medication. He was right, but unfortunately, that wasn’t the case with Herschel. She quickly went from stage 3 to stage 4 (4 being the end stage). I still kick myself about this because I feel like I could’ve found out sooner. Anyway, the vet suggested I should have Herschel hospitalized for a couple of days with IV fluids. The idea was to basically rehydrate her and then start a regimen of a new diet, supplements, and medication.

            So, I waited outside for three hours until a hospital staff member came to collect Herschel. It would’ve been longer, but my very kind vet called ahead. A couple of days later my mom and I returned to the hospital to wait for Herschel. It was March 25th, my birthday. One of the vets called me and stated despite the diuresis, Herschel’s stats remained the same. She stated I had probably 2 weeks left with her. I knew she was right, but I was still determined to try. I gave her daily cocktails of medication. I learned how to give her subcutaneous injections to hydrate her. I got the prescription wet food. At first, she had more okay days than bad, but it eventually became clear she was circling the drain. Treatment transformed into hospice care. I was going to do everything possible to keep her comfortable. By the end she was incontinent and no longer eating or drinking. Then she stopped being able to walk. I knew I had to make the final appointment. After a long crying session, I did.

            My mom came to help yesterday. Herschel was mostly immobile and out of it. Not even her favorite prosciutto roused her. I swaddled her in a changing pad and a blanket and slept with her next to me for one more night. She was still alive this morning if barely. Before we were set to go to her final appointment, I played her Sugarloaf’s “Green-Eyed Lady” (which will always remind me of her) and Audrey Hepburn’s version of “Moon River.” As my mom and I went to prepare her for the appointment, we realized how still she was. She did not appear to be breathing, and she did not react to anything we did. I took a flashlight to her pupils and… she was gone. She had died peacefully on my couch, which was one of her favorite spots to lounge. Honestly, I was relieved because the thought of taking her to a strange place to be euthanized frankly distressed me. I cuddled her ragdoll body from then until we were sitting in the vet office’s parking lot. Mom got a chance to hold her, too. A vet tech came out, used her stethoscope, and confirmed what we already knew. After a few more minutes with her we said our last goodbyes. I filled out paperwork confirming I wanted her ashes returned to me with a clay pawprint.

            I want Herschel’s ashes buried on my parents’ property with the others. Maybe a little farther away since she did not like most of them. I’m also looking into urn jewelry so I can carry her with me. This cat saw me at some of my lowest points, including when I was furloughed from my job last year. This cat was sweet and affectionate but also a pesky little shit. This cat was the first living being I was fully responsible for. She somehow managed to be regal while shoving her butthole into your face. If she liked you, she came and sat with you. If she didn’t, she hid behind the washing machine. I’m convinced she was part slug because even at her largest she was able to fit into confined spaces. I will miss her trilling meows. She was beautiful to the end, and I will always love her and miss her. I don’t know if there is an afterlife or not, but if there is, I hope she has endless king crab and prosciutto to snack on.

[sorrynotharry]

You don’t be on here no more and that don’t sit right with me. This was my go to page in 2014-2015. Then you left!!!

Aww hello anon! Thanks!

I am definitely almost always lurking on this page, like a ghost in the night haha, however I know that I’m not nearly as active as I used to be, and I haven’t posted any fic in like.........3 years? Maybe 4? Jeez time really flies!!

I do often get messages like this, usually very sweet anons like you who ask where I went, how I’m doing, saying that they miss the times when my page was more active and I was posting Harry fics pretty much weekly and honestly, I miss it too! It was overall a very positive experience during what ended up being some overall not-very-positive years of my life. 

I’ve wanted to post a little ‘update’ for a while and I think this is as good a time as ever to do that. I’m gonna put it under a cut for 1, length 2, potential triggering content regarding death/grief. So anyway here goes:

This is mainly me kind of going on a reflection rant so it may not make a lot of sense but I’m going to do my best!

So I started this blog in February of 2014, and I think I pretty immediately started posting my writing and to my astonishment I ended up getting lots of new followers and readers really quickly. I was not at all expecting this blog to EVER reach as many people as it has, but I’m so grateful for it. To be honest, of course the 1D fandom can be a complete clusterfuck, but in comparison with other fandoms that I’ve been involved in, this is definitely the one that I felt most “at home” in, and had the most fun being a part of. So so so many of you who are still around to this day (which is incredible to me!) were SO kind to me, so lovely and accepting and supportive of my writing and my little blog corner of the internet and it meant so much to me. There are friends I’ve made through this blog who I still talk to, people who have been there for me when life was really kicking me down the road.

For some context, since the start of this blog, both of my biological parents and my stepfather have passed away. My dad (who I wasn’t super close to but you know, still my dad) passed from cancer in April 2014. My stepfather who I lived with died in June of 2015, also from cancer (if you’ve been on my blog for a while you might remember this, I posted about it because it was very sudden and I was really struggling with it). 

Then, in August of 2017, my mother died. This has been part of the reason I really kind of stopped being active in this blog; I wanted to talk about it, if even just to say that I was going on hiatus or something but my grief has been so powerful that it’s in the last few months that have I felt like I can actually type these words out on here. 

My mom was chronically ill for most of her life, and her health really deteriorated in the last 7-8 years of her life. She was also my best friend and my biggest supporter in everything from the time I was a child. The last 6 years of her life I was her main caregiver with some help from my stepdad - when he died all of her care fell to me to handle on top of grieving him. It was May of 2017 that my mom made the decision to go into hospice (if you don’t know what this means, it basically means she didn’t want to have life-saving treatments anymore and wanted to be allowed to pass away in peace). My sister and I begged her to hold on for a few more months so that we could prepare, get her affairs in order, and be on summer break from school while we accepted the fact that we were losing our last living parent. 

That summer passed in a very weird and painful blur, and honestly I don’t remember much of it, but I remember most the moments in her last weeks when we would just hold each other’s hands and talk, laugh, cry, whatever came up. If you’ve ever begun grieving someone before they even pass, you probably know what I’m talking about. It was in those moments that she very insistently made me promise her that I would keep taking care of my sister (who was only 16 at the time) and graduate college, that I wouldn’t just lay down and give up because she was gone. So I have done my best to honor that promise to her. I quickly got legal guardianship of my sister (she’s an adult now but we still live together and are very close), and less than a month after my mom passed, I was training for a volunteer position at a center on my new college campus which later turned into a paid position. And this past June I graduated!!

If you’re reading this and also class of 2020, you know it’s a sucky year to graduate lol, but I hope you’re able to be proud of your accomplishments because regardless of the circumstances, you still did it! It’s taken me years and years to get my Bachelor’s because of changing my major, having to take breaks due to mental health issues and relocations, and having to take only 2 classes at a time while working 2 jobs. I finally did it and now I have to figure out what my next steps are from here (in the middle of a whole ass pandemic no less, smh!). 

I realize that I just basically wrote a whole essay that I didn’t necessarily mean to, but I promise I’m not saying all of this to make you feel sad for me; I just want you all to understand why my presence has been so sporadic the past few years and I feel like I just have to be honest.

Coming back around to this blog, every once in a while I check my activity and follower count, very much expecting to see naught but 12 bots left and a single tumbleweed blowing across a dry activity page...but that’s never the case. So many of you are still here, I get new followers all the time, my fics and posts still get notes almost every day, and I still get messages like this from people who care about me, who remember the heyday of this blog and miss it.

I’ve said ‘thank you’ to you guys so many times I don’t even dare to count, but really, honestly, truly, thank you. It’s because so many of you are still here, even though it’s been 4 full ass years after I’ve even posted any fic at all, that I haven’t deleted this blog or gone on indefinite hiatus and just archived this blog. 

I can’t promise that I will ever post any new writing again. I still love Harry but it’s almost in a different way...the heart-racing, goosebumps raising, heart-eye inducing giant crush I had on him in the earlier years of this blog has significantly subdued, even though it’s been known to make its presence known from time to time. And I honestly am just a different person in general. You can’t go through stuff like what I described above without changing at least a little bit. 

That being said, I don’t think I’ve written anything that wasn’t a college essay or long-winded work email since I posted my last one-shot on here, which I think was early 2016. I very much miss writing for pleasure, and particularly if anyone remembers the fic ‘On Fire’...that story sits untouched and neglected in my Masterlist, haunting my steps and my dreams, because I had all kinds of grand ideas for it and it was pretty well-received I think! I’ve toyed with the idea of just trying to finish that fic up, if only so I can say that I finished at least ONE multi-chapter fic in my whole life. Again, not making promises, but it’s a possibility. 

Anyhoo, if you have made it this far down on this very long and dramatic post, again I say thank you and bless you! I hope for those of you who have been around for a while (and for that matter those who are newer followers as well, hello!), this provides some clarity and maybe some closure if you were just wondering where the hell I went and what I’ve been up to. I didn’t mean to kind of drop off the face of the earth like I did, it was just how I was dealing with everything at the time. I’m heading into a new chapter of my life now that school is finished, and who knows what that will bring, but for now, I’m still around, and I hope you’re all as safe, healthy, and happy as you can be right now :)

Thank you again and take care <3

[redefiningthirtysomething]

I’m going going, back back to AZ AZ

2 years ago we were living in Phoenix, Arizona. It was the best decision we made for our family and we thought things would be amazing. I am born and raised in Los Angeles, CA but life in LA was too busy, always working, Bella was growing up and life was just to expensive. I was looking for something else, something slower. I was tired of trying to keep up with work, my friends, family,... it all was very overwhelming.

We packed up our SUV and put our LA life away and drove 8 hours with our baby girl (she was 7).

We arrived so excited, ready for our new life, full of expectations. We planned this months in advance, we saved money, we prepared our friends and jobs. We had going away parties and tears. We arrived to our home, a 3 bedroom, hard wood floor, made for us house. We celebrated over drinks on our first night and experienced our first monsoon in our first week, It was spectacular. I had never seen anything like it. After settling in and introducing ourselves to the neighborhood I landed a job at a local hospice and Eli resumed his stay-at-home-dad job during the day and a night job he got at a local facility. I worked 3 days on, 4 days off 12 hour shifts. Bella was going to a great school right across the park, we would literally walk her over, drop her off and have a morning workout, followed by our breakfast, some morning sex and Eli then was off to sleep to be ready for his night job. We were living in a beautiful big home in a quiet neighborhood with a nice yard for Bella, fireplace, we had a cat and a Kitchen island I absolutely loved. My Master bedroom was bigger than the size of our entire LA apartment and my closet space, sigh... why did we ever leave? ... well, here's what happened.

We made plans to live there for life, but we only lasted six months. I got a job a few weeks after we moved in, we were living off of our savings and we were  planning our next career moves. The Job I got was good, but it paid very low and yes, I know that is expected in AZ the wages are less than in CA, what I made in CA was an unreasonable wage in AZ and they clearly told me this during my interview. But I thought, well ok I can figure this out as we go. The bills or the first month were a little outrageous. We moved to AZ in August ... need I say more? It was HOT AF so we had the AC unit on all day and all night long at a cool 71. Although some locals told us how to maintain a low electricity bill during the summer, we had NO IDEA how serious they were and didn't quite listen to their advice! It cant be that bad right ? wow, $600 for a month? A MONTH? That's not even including any of the other bills. that was the electricity ALONE! It knocked me out of my shoes. Ok, so the bills became an issue but we got a handle on it the best we could, but we were definitely in a strict budget.

A few months after we moved in my sister and her GF were having a hard time in LA and we agreed to help them out and let them live with us in AZ, we had an extra room and it would help us with the bills, plus it would be nice to have family around since we still hadn't made any new friends. It was good for a while but turned ugly really quick. I don't like to talk shit about people, but the GF has a nasty attitude and she's just an overall toxic person, I kind of see her as a bully who cried wolf. Awful, awful. Unfortunately my sister doesn't see it and they always think it's everyone else. I mean if she's happy with that, it's on her but like I've said before, leave us out of your negativity. Anyway, things got heated one night, she yelled at my daughter and insulted Eli, and I had to defend my family. After a screaming match, and an almost full on throw down in my kitchen I kicked them out. They moved to Tempe and my sister and I stopped talking. Cause of course, we attacked her, so they say. I have never in my life been in a fight and i'm so non confrontational... but apparently that night big bad me was in attack mode. Such silliness.

At this point, we're broke AF, we have no friends and my sister lives 20 miles away and doesn't talk to us. Ugh, Great start. Seriously the only good part for us about AZ was the happiness Bella had. She made so many friends on our street, she ruled that street basically. This girl was never home, she was always outside riding her bike or her scooter, or playing in someones yard, at the park ... she loved it. Sleep overs at out house, she had her room which we decorated to her style, her own bathroom...she loved it. I cant even begin to explain how good we had it. Bella was in her happy place.  Isn't this what we moved for? We completely lost sight of it. Eli and I were arguing a little bit, we were kind of just annoyed at life and we took it out on each other. Bella was getting stressed out because she hates to see us bicker, she tried to help us make up a few times. We don't like to put that on her, so we would make up, but a week later we were both back to not giving AF. We made things work, but there was a tension.

A little after Christmas we found out I was pregnant, 2 weeks pregnant to be exact and that very same day I found out I was pregnant I received a call from my boss at my old job in LA that they needed me to come back and that they would give me a raise. We looked at each other and it was like a weight lifted off our shoulders, we didn't even think about it before saying yes. We packed our shit and were gone by the weekend. We dipped out SO fast, we like ran back to LA ... what we thought was the best decision. Boy... were we wrong.

We moved in with Eli's parents, we were broke and didn't have money or time to find a new place. I started back at work that upcoming Monday and we had to get situated ASAP. work, yes, work was great. I went back and they started me at a great rate and It was like I never left. I still had my status of 10 years and accumulated my PTO, benefits as if I never left. So grateful that they thought well enough of me to ask me back. Bella went back to her old elementary school and things went back to Normal. Months went by and I'm super pregnant. We decided to stay at his parents house during the pregnancy because I didn't want to add anymore stress.  I have come to realize that I don't like living with other people other than Eli and my girls. People have something to say about something and always give opinions. whatever, I stay at work or in my room most of the time anyway. But, that's not how I wanted to live. Soon after I had Olivia, Elijah went to work so that I can spend time with the baby and bond. 4 weeks in a was stir crazy and made him quit his job and I went back to work. That's his family we live with and I am not comfortable, I don't feel like I can just go make breakfast and lounge around, not that I cant but it's a me thing. I don't like having to tell people where I am going if I'm leaving the house. I have always been very independent and I am easily annoyed when I don't have my freedom. plus, hey we pay rent ... I don't really have to explain my life ... but I cant be rude you know, so I bite my tongue.

We live in a trendy area of LA filled with hipsters, bars and restaurants .... and also very high rent. A 1 bedroom small apartment on the low end will cost you somewhere along 1900 month. jeez. We haven't been able to move out or find a decent price. We almost decided to buy a home but they're at 1 million for a little house. Bella has her room, a small room ... literally half the size of her AZ bedroom and she cant play outside , we live on a busy street and with the mentally ill/homeless that hang around the area doesn't make it safe. So she spends most of here time inside unless we go somewhere. Olive sleeps with us, we co-sleep, we did with Bella too, but soon I am going to have to transition her to her own room, plus she's about ready to crawl but we don't have space! Another thing is things have changed here. I don't see any of my friends, they don't have kids so they're out traveling and brunching. Things that I can't do right now. I haven't seen them at all to be honest, maybe once since I've been back from AZ. Olivia is 8 months now. Management at work changed, we have a new director and things are so different from the company I once knew. My sister eventually moved back to LA and I made peace with them, I wanted to have my sister in my life and things were good until recently. The GF strikes again, but with my mom! that's another story for another day. so, yet again my sister thinks its everyone else, except her GF. Also, I don't have a relationship with my little sister, but we will get into her in another blog.

I am a total mom and my focus is 100% on my kids and my family. I didn't know this until I had them.. obviously. I used to be all about me, going out, working and living my life. everything changed. everything. I live for my kids, I love them so much and my ultimate goal in my life is to make sure they are taken care of. why the fuck did we leave Arizona? Because we had no friends? I want to slap myself sometimes. were we bored? who fucking cares? Bella was happy! We could have made it work. We could have but we ran and took the easy way out. Eli and I sat down one day and we were trying to figure out our next move. we need to grow and make changes to better us as a family. We asked ourselves where is our happy place? where are our kids going to be happy?

The move back to AZ is in July. YES! we are so excited and thrilled. This time we see things differently. this time we know what to expect , we know the summers are harsh and we know the job market, we know that we only have each other out there... and that's OK! I am going to start an online business which I am currently working on. Eli will be the one working and I will stay home with bebe. It's NOT about us anymore. The house is set and ready for us we just gotta pack and go. By the way, we have a family house in AZ. It's my moms and she rents it out, but she lets us (her daughters, family) stay there and it's currently without renters. She knew I would go back. She knows that we have to make sacrifices for our kids sometimes. I don't feel that I am sacrificing this time.

I have faith and we love adventure.

[sweet-xoxo-thatcares]

Pretty Pink Diapers

I just found this website where they sell pretty adult diapers in pink. Like my favorite color and its sponsored for Age Regression Play too. I've only just started wearing diapers after Grandma passed and I wanted to try one on since Hospice sent a whole bunch that we ordered right before, on the day of her passing in her hospital bed at the house. I remember changing her diapers every time she called me around 2 or 3 am in the mornings and I would stay with her, sleeping on the couch we placed next to her bed all the way til Dad woke up before heading to work at 10 to help out. I love Grandma dearly and I even thought to keep and wash her nightgowns, but I never wore them out of respect of Dad's feelings because I know it would be weird for him to see me wearing her leftover diapers and wearing the same nightgowns she had slept in before during her time being nursed by us for her liver/pancreas cancer.

I did leave one in the trash by accident, and I got scared he would know I'd been wearing them. I put them on only during my periods (cycles) cause that's when I feel the most vulnerable, be the most sensitive and in pain to go anywhere or too lazy to keep changing my pads that leak everywhere at night.

I secretly think low-key it does make me Ageplay more, but I don't really do it like on command. Sometimes it just happens and I get all soft and I just wanna lay down, watch cartoons and either sing, draw, color, or do math homework, play games, or puzzles. I think maybe the 1st time I wore it though, it was because the pull-ups looked so easy to put on and off for Grandma, then I had watched Floribama Shore when that one crazy girl wore them around the house as a prank and I got even more curious.

I do judge myself a little bit too hard when its not my period anymore and I still get this rush, almost like a craving to wear a diaper while I'm at the house or about to go in my room....probably because I've been having more arousal and sensitive moments this year since dealing with that bad breakup. But I miss the first time I ever noticed I did ever show my soft side and it was to this specific person over the phone while we were falling to sleep together on the phone.

They told me later on why do you sound so different on the phone vs in person and I didn't understand. I thought I was just being myself. But then they said that I started like baby talk, but it was like where my voice got all light towards the time I was about to fall asleep and I would ask them to come closer to the phone so I could hear them breathing. It helped me relax and I felt safe like I could trust them with my sad, happy, and emotional states.

I never really got comfortable with me being angry, because that doesn't sound like me. But now that I've had to face it more, I'm more accepting of all my emotional states and the ages they remind me of when I get to all 3 in one happy, sad, emotional premise.

And that was seeing Grandma die. I had no idea she was already unconscious that morning, right before I called Hospice and I had to try to figure out if I had to give her more medicine or not so her head would stop shaking and her chest would stop having irregular breaths. She kept groaning and sounded like she was in pain, but needed something. Something for me to do, but because she couldn't talk and tell me, I had no idea.

At one point, I never told anyone but I thought maybe I was the reason for Grandma not making it till Monday. I thought if I had just given her some more morphine like the nurse said, instead of thinking it made it worse because she would go numb so deep that her eyes would roll, it was scary for my own mother to see when she saw her that morning and I was just sitting there, waiting for the Hospice nurse to come. I had no idea what to feel, because there was nothing I could do. I remember crying as if I was the doctor that couldn't save his own patient.

I remember thinking, I can't give up on Grandma, because she wouldn't do that to me if it was me, she deserved more than that. It was the best that I could do, so I went back up there again, no feelings in view and I gave her the recommended dose of morphine and found a way to get some water in her mouth, since her mouth kept shaking too and she suddenly wasn't able to swallow stuff anymore that morning.

By the time the nurse came, I was so damn numb even when she said she probably wouldn't expect her to live past Monday. Grandma was dying and I knew something wasn't right, but at the same time I was released from nurse duty and was exhausted. I wanted to do my best, no complaints, when taking care of Grandma. Cause I owed her. She took me in after that fight with momma for about a month, till we got into it too about something stupid.

I cried not until after I had left everybody in the room and went downstairs to try and watch one of her favorite movies she liked called "Big Fish" I never finished it because I cried that goddamn hard and I didn't know that her reaching out for me and momma's hands the day before or so it was like her turning back into a child herself. Scared, but strong. I've never heard a nurse say "she was trying to stay strong without the pain medication" but I forgot Grandma absolutely hated prescriptions and she hated needles or going to see any doctors. So that could have been why.

I always liked giving her a nice warm towel bath too, she appreciated the small things like ginger ale, butter pecan ice cream, the last of my little sister's birthday cake the week before she passed.

It was two weeks, but to me it felt like a month. I guess maybe I was hurt so bad and scared because I didn't want to keep having flashbacks of Grandma's face when she was unconscious and I didn't know what to do.

I even avoided sleeping in my room or going in her room. Because I would scream whenever I would open the door and walk past, expecting to see her there in my bed just straight looking at me, asking for a diaper change, to go potty, or for me to help her drink some water. Anything she needed and I helped, because I wanted to help her and especially my father who was already busy, tired, and stressed out about work.

So much had changed after that, and yea I felt alone about grieving her cause nobody really wanted to talk about "why did God decide that cancer was the best way for her to go?" I never had my religion shut right down from under me, because I never felt so confused and so untrusting of God than that very moment.

And the diapers were the only thing that made me connect to her and feel safe or sleep better after that. I would sneak to wear them like one would to eat candy bars. Cause I was depressed already and kept eating junk food and sugary sweets, cereal, and gummies till my stomach started hurting and I had to take breaks.

So yea.....thats how my secret diaper wearing quest started. But I still like the idea to wear them at night when I go to sleep or at least lay down in my room. Thats when I would watch Curious George, Clifford, Arthur, and all my other kid shows from childhood, cause it felt the safest to be happy then. Was when I was a kid. I used to even record christmas shows, Charlie Brown episodes, Disney TV on Saturday Mornings (cause we didn't have cable yet), CW Kids, Fox Network shows on my empty videotapes mom and dad saved me just so I could replay them as I watched and fell asleep to them right before I went to bed.

[stephhannes]

dead dadiversary 2: electric boogaloo

On this day (plus 1 day) two years ago, I heard my father take his last breath. Though two years have passed, the grief still sits in the back of my mind every day- rearing its head at the worst possible times. For months now, I’ve been able to push it aside, I’ve had a lot going on to distract me- finals, graduation, moving to New York, being broke, trying to find a job, etc.  But now, for the last week, as I’m trying to go to sleep I’ve found myself lying in bed and quietly crying. I’ve been unable to keep my dead dad feelings repressed like I normally do. There’s been a lot of re-living scenarios, conjuring up guilt that I shouldn’t really have but still do anyways. There’s been a lot of “It’s not fair that my dad is dead!!!” anger. There’s just been... a lot. As I’ve been spending a lot of time reflecting lately, I remembered an essay that I wrote 10 months after my dad died as a term paper for my Women’s Autobiographical Writing class. I never posted it online anywhere- so as a celebration of my 2nd annual Dead Dadiversary, here it is

+++

My dad was an alcoholic. I hate telling people that, not because I’m ashamed of my father, but because of the reaction I always get. It’s always the same sort of unease from anyone I tell. No one knows how to react, because everyone assumes that because my dad was an alcoholic, he was inherently abusive. Or that he was inherently a neglectful father. Or that he was inherently just generally not a good parent. That’s the farthest from the truth though. My dad was the best. My dad was always the best. When my dad died, I wrote something to read at his funeral, and I feel like this directly reflects the impact he had on my life.

A few days after my 20th birthday, my dad came into my room and said- “It has been an honor and a privilege to spend these last twenty years with you,” I feel like this is an appropriate sentiment to start this speech, because I reciprocate that wholeheartedly. There is no one I would have rather had by my side for the last 20 years. I couldn’t have asked for a better parent. Despite my acting like an awful teen at times, he always was on my side. I think that’s what I’ll miss the most. I’ll miss having someone who had my back 100%. I’ll miss having someone who was always making sure I was happy. No matter what I wanted, my dad would always see that I got it.

When I decided that I wanted to go to art school in Chicago, he didn’t say “that’s not realistic,” he started to help me get everything in order to go. When those plans fell through, he helped me apply to UT. When I got accepted, he helped me move to Austin. During my first semester, when I doubted my major, while other parents were forcing their kids to be lawyers or doctors, he told me to do what I love. At the end of the semester, when I had a breakdown and hated college, he told me that I didn’t have to go if it wasn’t making me happy. My dad always encouraged me to do what made me happy, and he always did what he could to ensure I could live the life I wanted. I’ll miss that kind of guidance the most.

I’ll also miss the little things as well, the way he called me ‘old sport,’ or the way he listened to me ramble on and on about whatever it was that I was obsessed with. (He could probably tell you 100 different useless facts about My Chemical Romance) The way he always helped me with my school projects (not just the 5th grade science fair, but even my college research papers). The way he always stocked the fridge with food I loved when I came home from college etc.

My dad was my best friend, which I’m sure a lot of you feel the same way about. Never in my life have I met someone so compassionate and caring. I have never met someone who cared so deeply for everyone they loved. In my life, I hope people remember me as fondly as everyone remembers my father.

When I was growing up, my mother was a nurse; she worked at an inconvenient time every day. While she was working, I went to school from 7:45am to 4:45pm, which meant that our paths crossed very little. For the first 13 years of my life, I never really saw my mom. My dad was an alcoholic, but he still woke me up for school every day. He made me breakfast, and brushed my hair. He walked me to school and gave me a kiss goodbye every day. At 3:45, every afternoon, he was there waiting to pick me up. He walked me home, made me dinner, and helped me do my homework. Every night he tucked me into bed and made sure I went to sleep at a normal hour.

When I was growing up, my dad always went to all my soccer games. He cheered me on relentlessly even though I was the most embarrassing player on the team. He came to all my choir performances, even though I only sang one line most of the time. He volunteered at every single event my school put on. He organized talent shows and chaperoned field trips and donated money. My dad was an alcoholic, but he was always my biggest supporter.

In elementary school, of course, I didn’t know that my dad was an alcoholic. At night I would hear my parents arguing over money, but I never really grasped what exactly was happening. At night I would hear my dad complaining about how he was unhappy, about how he could never sleep well, about how tired he was. During the day he wasn’t like that, he was my best friend. My best, coherent, alert friend. My dad was an alcoholic, but he never let me see it when I was a child.  

In middle school, my dad was my closest friend. In 6th grade, my family had just moved from Austin to Abilene and I was having a hard time adjusting to the new city. I didn’t make friends very easily, because I was very different from everyone else. Everyone at my new school was very clean-cut, very Christian, and very affluent. I however, was a little weird, very non-religious, and very poor. It was hard for me to relate. In this time of transition, I would come home and complain about my day to my dad, every single day. He would let me vent, he would give me advice, and he would ask if there was anything he could do to make it better. If there was anything he could do, he would do it without skipping a beat. My dad was always there to make sure that I was happy. My dad was an alcoholic, but my happiness was always his number one priority.

In high school I finally started to understand what was going on. Partially because the situation had escalated, and partially because I was old enough to start to realize the character flaws in my father. My dad had a routine, every morning; he would go to the grocery store and get groceries. He would run errands, and then come home and clean for a few hours. He would pay the bills, and then he would start drinking. I’d come home from class and he would be on the couch. We would watch Jeopardy together and then I would go to my room to do homework. He would make dinner. Then he would drink some more. And some more. He’d drink until he was able to eventually fall asleep. And then he would fitfully sleep through the night. He would wake up the next day and do the same thing over again. My dad was an alcoholic, but he still managed to keep the house together.

In this time, I started to get an opinion on his drinking. I hated it. It made me so unhappy to see him like that. When he was drunk, he just wasn’t himself. It’s not that he was mean, or abusive, or negligent. He just wasn’t who I knew and loved. I missed my dad so much. My dad was an alcoholic, and it was starting to take a toll on me.

When I went off to college, it was great because I got the best of my dad at all times. I didn’t have to see him when he was drunk, but we would constantly talk on the phone. I’d call him during the breaks between my classes, and I’d call him whenever I needed help on an assignment. I’d Skype him once a week and make fun of his long hair and tell him how much I miss him. He’d get drunk every day. He was still always my biggest supporter, my best friend, and my confidant. I’d come home for spring break or for Christmas and spend time with him, he would be drunk for most of it, but the few sober moments I got were the greatest. My dad was an alcoholic, but he still loved me despite all the poor choices I made during college.

February of my sophomore year, I got a call from my mother. Dad was in the emergency room. The trip to the emergency room turned into a bunch of meetings with doctors, which turned into a cancer diagnosis, which turned into him only having three months left to live. I guess I was in denial of the whole situation, because I just played it off like it wasn’t really a big deal. I continued to go to school, would call home occasionally and majorly just ignored what was happening. My dad’s health continued to decline, but three months later, he was still alive. At this point he was living on borrowed time. My dad was an alcoholic, and he was dying.

In May, I moved back home to spend time with my dad in his last few months. His friends and I would joke about how he was past his expiration date, but it was incredible to me that he was still alive. In this time, we got hospice services involved. My home turned into a makeshift hospital. Where laughter and conversation used to fill the room, the sound of my dad’s oxygen machine hummed. Where we used to make dinner together every night turned into a graveyard for empty take-out containers. Some days were better than others though, and those good days were incredible. The bad days were devastating. My father became a ghost of who he used to be. He was unable to stand on his own, unable to speak clearly, unable to live his life.

When I was younger, I was a child actor. Part of that hobby included being able to cry on cue. Only one thing could make me cry on cue, thinking about my dad being sick or dead. Nothing triggered tears quicker than the thought of losing my dad. Any time I needed to conjure up some tears, whether it be for a scene, or to get my way in an argument, I would just think of that. Though I was experienced in making myself cry, nothing could have prepared me for when it actually happened. During the summer before my dad died, I played over how it would probably go in my head over and over- just to prepare myself. I figured that in the early morning, I would hear my mother crying, and that would be it. I was basically right.

In my parents’ house, my room is directly next to my parents’ room, which means that I can hear whenever they’re watching tv, or talking through the walls. I could also hear my dad struggling to breathe in his sleep. I could hear how each breath was a huge undertaking. I was heartbroken. I was scared. I knew it was coming. The next day, when the hospice nurse came, she told us that they were going to start “comfort care” for my dad. Morphine every 15 minutes, no food or water unless he asks for it. That night, I heard the same struggle for breath. I finally fell asleep. I woke up at about 6am, and could still hear the breath getting caught in my dad’s throat. At 7:20 I stopped hearing it. At 7:30 I heard my mother wailing. At 7:30 I walked into my parents room to see my mother holding my dad’s hand in bed, my dad lifeless. At 7:32 my mother turned to me and said, “I just lost my best friend,” I choked out a weak “me too,” and sat down next to her quietly. I was in shock. My dad was an alcoholic, and he had just died.

The days following that are a blur. I had never known such a deep and profound sadness. When my dad’s ashes got delivered, I didn’t know what to do with them. We didn’t get an urn. We put the ashes in a flowerpot we had bought from goodwill a few months beforehand. I think he would have appreciated that. So many of my friends reached out to me, some people I hadn’t talked to in months sent condolence texts. My best friend immediately went out and bought me a ton of snacks and mailed them to me the next day. My home was filled with flowers, and condolence cakes, and “sorry for your loss” cards- but it still felt overwhelmingly empty without my dad there. My dad was an alcoholic and I missed him every single hour of every single day.

In the months following his death, I went through all the stages of grief. September was a month of constant tears. Not only was I under the stress of taking 15 hours of class, but also I was still just trying to cope with the loss of my father. Every little thing would remind me of him. Every time something happened, I wanted to call him and tell him about it. I found myself missing the littlest things about him. That’s the hardest part, the little things. The way he would email me stupid jokes he found. The way he would call me “old sport,” every time we talked on the phone. The way he would call me just to tell me about a cool new song he heard. In October I was angry, angry that my dad was gone. I was angry with myself for not being as present as I could have been during his last months. I was angry at the universe for taking away my best friend. In November, I finally settled down and got my emotions in check.

It’s been 10 months since my dad died, and I don’t miss him any less. I think of him every single day and I wish more than anything he was here. I’m upset that he’ll never be around to see me graduate, or see me get married, or witness the day that I finally get a job and stop borrowing money from my parents. I’m upset that I’ve lost my best friend. Despite that though, I’ve finally started to come to peace with it. Every day I try to live my life in a way that I know he’d be proud of. I try to remember his constant support. I try to remember his words of assurance when I feel like things are going terribly. I try to remember the way that he treated everyone with kindness and compassion. Every day, I try to do the same. I put everyone in my life before me; I’m always a shoulder to lean on. I want everyone I know to feel the same way my dad made me feel- loved and happy. My dad was an alcoholic, and he was the best person I ever knew.

[ruffsficstuffplace]

The Keeper of the Grove (Part 44)

In the beginning, Weiss' parents had thought that Nick and Freya were just completely enamored with their newest grandchild as they had been with Winter, cooing over Weiss, begging to let her be put in their arms and care as much as possible, and taking her out to Candela or jetting off to the other parts of Avalon.

Both even went so far as to take year-long sabbatical from her research laboratories and leave from his seats at company boards, the careers the two never truly quit even though they were officially considered retired.

Weiss had fond memories of that time, if blurry, and frequently pieced together from holos and second-hand accounts.

Her grandfather's strong, calloused hands holding her, carrying her, and raising her up in the air, making her feel like she was Queen of the Realm. Her grandmother's voice explaining scientific concepts and events in history that flew right over her head, but soothed and entranced her nonetheless. The two of them looking at her with such love and affection they oftentimes ended up crying from joy.

And of course, there was the constant, bizarre but amusing mix of flirting, affection, and verbal abuse that characterized their relationship.

Jacques had complained, largely because Tov's predecessors only ever discovered the spontaneous grandparent-granddaughter trips AFTER they had stolen away in a rover or jetted off in the night, but Snowie placated him.

“Just you wait,” she said, “they're going to get sick of her and start begging for us to take her back, just like they did with Winter.”

They didn't.

If anything, as Weiss' first birthday got closer and closer, they started to get more demanding; ignoring the letters from their colleagues and constituents reminding them that their vacations were fast ending; sometimes even outright kidnapping her for spontaneous trips, with the most memorable incident being Frosty snatching her granddaughter right from her father's arms during a public photo-shoot, Tony flying overhead, and Nick holding her by her legs as she hung out from an open door.

Weiss remembered the holo clear as day: Nick effortlessly hoisting his wife and second granddaughter back up into the cab, Freya nestling her in her arm and putting a bottle into her mouth with her free hand, Tony extending his hologram out the driver-side window, casually saluting the crowds, an amused Snowie, and a scowling Jacques before he closed the doors.

Jacques had threatened to put in a restraining order after that—emphasis on “threatened,” as Nicholas and Freya were two of the most important, iconic, and beloved founders of Candela, and were all but untouchable.

He needn't have worried, for just a week after that, the allegedly invincible Nick collapsed in the middle of a busy street, all 6'7 feet and 317 pounds of him laying face down on the floor, struggling to breath as his wife frantically called for help as their granddaughter cried in distress.

In hindsight, the reason for their obsession with spending every single one of their waking hours with Weiss was obvious:

They knew their time was running out.

Nicholas spent the last of his days in a hospice, his wife all but living with him on-site, and his daughter and grandchildren dropping by as often as they could. Jacques made a big show of spending every single Uroch the company could spare in trying to extend his life, but if he wouldn't sign the consent forms (and pass every test that asked if he was still of sound mind), then the treatments would mysteriously flounder, be they gene therapy, cybernetics, or even the nigh miraculous “Life Serum” pharmaceuticals developed shortly after Candela's completion.

“It's like his body is just… refusing to live any longer!” was how one of the many baffled doctors had explained it.

Weiss had less fond memories of those times.

Seeing her titanic grandfather bedridden, unable to stand up or carry her in his arms like he used to, his famously strong grip getting weaker and weaker as time passed. The lawyers that frequently dropped by, going over his estate with him, plans for his successors in the organizations he sat in, rooting out and calling out Jacques' sneaky attempts at getting him to sign off more and more of the company to him before he officially kicked the bucket. Falling asleep in her grandfather's or grandmother's arms, then waking up back in her crib, or in her mother or sister's lap as they road back to Manor Schnee.

It was a slow, ugly death that dragged on for months, an extremely ironic closing chapter for the “Man Who Couldn't Stop Moving.”

He kept on living, however, “sheer force of will” being the only reasonable explanation anyone could offer. Weiss' first birthday neared, and at her, Freya's, and Nick's insistence, he was airlifted from his hospice, and personally delivered to Manor Schnee by VTOL, with Tony as the pilot AI.

(Because of Tony's already extensive record of independent behaviour, decision-making, and blatant breaking of and circumventing the rules—acts that should have been far beyond the capabilities of any transport AI—the CTC had been EXTREMELY reluctant to let Nick access his creation's source code again, let alone modify him to be able to fly aircraft outside of the city proper.)

She remembered sitting in his lap as Freya personally pushed him around in his wheelchair, Nick dressed in one of his favourite, battered suits—the one that had seen more than its fair share of accidents, transit mishaps, and the odd foiled assassination—smiling, proud, and happy as could be to have made it to see his granddaughter blow out the one tiny candle on her titanic birthday cake.

Then, three days later, at 2:37 AM, Nicholas Schnee breathed his last, and the next day, 10:54 PM, Freya “Frosty” Schnee followed him into the Aether.

Both causes of death were “Heart Failure.”

It was Weiss' first experience with loss—true, permanent loss, when grandpa and grandma weren't coming back, when there was no way life would ever be like before, when mom and her older sister became that much more protective of her, when her father began to be around less and less as he completely took over the Schnee Power Company.

Their last words to her were delivered by holo, made after they had returned from Weiss' birthday party.

“Stay curious,” Freya said. “Never stop asking 'Why?' Whenever there's a mystery, you don't stop until you find the answer.”

“Be good, Weiss,” Nick said. “Just be good.”

And now here she was with all her family dead or effectively gone from her life, giving away the last memento she had of them.

Weiss laid on her side, staring at Winter's Eluna plushie in the corner, floating in the center of a protective bubble generated by a carved stone underneath it. She had been the one to pass on one last night with the plushie, had been the one to insist that all of them lock it with their DNA or magical signature, so Weiss couldn't change her mind and risk damaging it in any way and drive the value down.

She hadn't realized that it meant she wouldn't be sleeping that night, too used to snuggling up to it before bed, her first night in the Valley and the sore-stiff incident aside.

Ruby carefully opened the door without knocking; she and the others had just finished their after-dinner meeting, going over their finances, scheduling their shifts so they could continue to help Weiss with her endeavours and training, and most importantly, making a budget for luxury spending so they wouldn't all go insane from boredom, or permanently giving up their creature comforts.

(Apparently, Penny had a paid membership to a “Mechanical Hearts” online community. What that entailed, no one asked, nor wanted to know.)

Ruby was careful to move around with the least noise possible, acting like she would on a hunt, or when she had infiltrated Manor Schnee.

“I'm still awake, Ruby,” Weiss said as she turned over on her other side.

Ruby flinched, looking appropriately enough like a deer in the headlights, before she relaxed. “Can't sleep?” she asked.

Weiss sighed, casting a look at the Eluna plushie. “Yes...” she muttered.

“I've got just the thing!” Ruby said. She scurried off to her many piles of belongings, digging through them until she pulled out a familiar looking plush toy with a scythe prop.

Weiss tensed up for a moment, until Ruby came walking over with her Keeper of the Grove plushie—very different from the ones from the Plushie Palace. This one was wearing a snow white coat, and the infamous mask was off, revealing a friendly face with pale silver buttons for eyes.

“It's of my mom,” Ruby explained. “Uncle Qrow said she and her won a plushie of herself this one time they snuck into Candela on the Eve of the Ether; it used to look just like the ones they usually sell, until he hired a maker to make it look more like her.”

“And you're just going to give it to me…?” Weiss asked.

“Well, yeah!” Ruby said. “But can I borrow her when I'm sad?”

Weiss smiled as she gently took the Keeper Summer plushie from her. “Well, duh? I thought that was pretty obvious.”

The two of them looked at each other, before they burst into giggles.

“Good night, Weiss,” Ruby said as she headed back to her nest.

“Good night, Ruby,” Weiss whispered back as she snuggled up to her new plush toy.

She wasn't as objectively fluffy, soft, and cuddly as Eluna was, but she made her feel safe and comfortable all the same.

Weiss was in her dreamworld once more, this time in her and Ruby's bedroom. The plushie was gone from her arms, the real Summer perched in the corner and watching over her with the Keeper's scythe resting on her shoulder.

She smiled and waved.

Weiss got up and waved back.

There was a knock on her door, before it opened. A familiar face stepped in, wrinklier than ever.

“Excuse me, but I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” said a heavily accented voice.

Weiss jumped off her hammock. “Grandma Frosty!” she cried as she run over.

“Weiss!” Freya cried as she waited for her with open arms. “Oh, look at how much you’ve grown!” she cooed as she hugged her.

“Sorry to say, you’re not going to get much bigger than that,” Nick said as he stepped in, ducking his head out of habit.

“Oh, hush!” Freya said, glaring at her husband as she let go of Weiss. “We both know physical size doesn’t matter, it’s what you can do with it—you of all people should know that!”

Weiss groaned. “Grandma!”

“What?” Freya asked, confused. “I was referring to all the blunders guts-over-brains here has done.”

“Like you haven’t made any screw-ups yourself...” Nick growled as he stood over her.

Freya was unfazed, craning her neck well up to glare at him. “Those were failures of which I was well aware of the potential consequences, unlike when you gave that Jackass your blessing to marry our daughter! I always knew there was something off about him, Nicholas, but no: when push came to shove, you just couldn’t say no to Snowie!”

“Oh, and it’s suddenly all my fault? You’re her mother, shouldn’t you have had the advantage in romantic advice?”

“YOU KNOW DAMN WELL YOU WERE THE ONLY ONE SHE’LL ACTUALLY LISTEN TO!”

“WITH ADVICE YOU GAVE ME TO PASS ALONG TO HER SINCE YOU CAN’T GIVE IT WITHOUT SOUNDING LIKE A CONDESCENDING BITCH!”

Summer stepped up to Weiss as the two began to bicker, a 6’7 battle-scared titan built like a brick-house, VS a tiny 5’1 ball of Hate, little less than 100 pounds soaking wet.

“Does this happen a lot?” Summer asked.

“All the time,” Weiss replied.

Summer smiled. “Heh. It’s pretty funny!”

Weiss nodded. “Yes.” She smiled. “Yes it is.”

Nick and Freya bickered, their voices unintelligible for the sound and the fury, both gesticulating wildly with their hands, before finally, they stopped and turned away from each other.

“Bitch...” Nick muttered.

“Asshole...” Freya spat back.

Nick sighed, and turned back to Freya. “You’re right, though, I was an even bigger dumbass than usual with Jackass.”

Freya turned back to him. “Yes, yes you were! But on the bright side, he did make her happy for a time, and gave us two beautiful grandchildren.”

“That he did, which is about the only good thing I can say about him.”

Freya's face softened. “I love you, Nick.”

Nick's did too. “Love you too, Frosty.”

He picked her up off the floor so they could kiss.

“And speaking of beautiful grandchildren...” Freya said as she was set down. “How are you feeling, Weiss?”

Weiss frowned and shrugged. “Conflicted, honestly. Also, I’m starting to realize you guys only ever appear in my dreams whenever I’m having trouble with something.”

“That we do!” Freya said. “It’s quite an interesting psychological phenomenon, that in times of emotional or physical distress your subconscious decides to split into separate personalities of sorts with us as the faces of them.” She sighed. “How I wish I were still alive to study it, and more importantly, offer you an unbiased second opinion, if you could even call this a second opinion at all!”

“Don’t we all, Frosty?” Nick said. “Anyway, what’s eating at you this time, kid?”

Weiss turned to the Eluna plushie, thankfully still just a toy in its protective bubble than the Fae Eluna trapped in a magical prison. “Should I really pawn her off?” she asked as she turned back to her grandparents. “It’s the last thing I have of Winter—of any of you. I don’t know if it’s the right thing to do...”

“Well, ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ in general is extremely difficult if not impossible to accurately, objectively claim given the incredibly relativistic nature of morality and--” Freya started.

Nick put a hand on her head. “What Frosty here means to say is: we can’t decide that for you, kid.”

Freya glared at him, before turning back to Weiss. “Yes, grossly oversimplified, only you can decide whether this is the right course of action.”

“Any way I can try and tell?”

“There’s numerous Old World and Avalonian philosophers who have attempted to answer that, but I like to subscribe to Utilitarianism: whatever benefits the most people is the ‘right’ decision.”

“Just be careful not to become like your father, becoming a monster all in the name of ‘Progress.’”

“The road to Hell is indeed paved with good intentions,” Freya hummed.

“Completely, super-duper biased over here, but I think you should pawn it and get Ruby a ticket to Candela,” Summer said. “It’s not like you aren’t all planning on getting it back eventually, right?”

Weiss nodded. “Right.”

Nick walked over and put his hand on her shoulder. “Look, Weiss, life is full of confusing and complicated situations where it’s hard to find out what the right thing to do is, if it’s not just ‘Bad’ and ‘Worse’ like they say in the Queensguard.

“Don’t stress too much about everything, and just try to figure out how to make today a little less crappy than yesterday—it’s how we all survived and kept ourselves sane out there, when we still hadn’t hit the jackpot with Candela.”

“And be wary of bizarre, unexpected results and developments you couldn’t have hypothesized nor theorized about, such as falling in love with an overconfident troglodyte like this asshole over here,” Freya said, affectionately wrapping herself around Nick’s side.

“Yep!” Nick said. “Always knew one of these days me and your grandma over here would end up at each others’ throats, though it wasn’t exactly in the way either of us thought...”

Weiss cringed. “Aw, gross!”

Freya smirked. “You put the two us together, you better be ready for the chemistry.”

Weiss groaned. “Just get out of here already!”

“Alright! We’re going, we’re going!” Nick said, he and Freya smiling as they headed out the door.

Weiss sighed as they closed it after them.

“Aww, I wanted to see more of them being all sweet and salty,” Summer said.

“Easy for you to say when you don’t have grandpa’s very detailed journals burned in your head...” Weiss muttered.

[malcolmpeacock-blog]

There’s a Referee in my bed

Pray God you can cope. I’ll stand outside.

 It’s raining outside. It was raining when my dad died. It was pouring. My dad died in Towson in a hospice center on a Friday night at 5:21 pm. I was supposed to be seeing my friends, Bo and Karli. But I had forgotten to text them. They understood of course and I told them with such ease…guys, my dad’s about to die. When my dad’s mother called my mom earlier that day from the center, I was in the basement. Completely alone with the lights off for two days. I spent most of my time there in silence that winter on the winter break from college. I never really told anyone how sick my father had become. And I was also unaware of what was happening to me. I had already fucked up my sleeping during my first semester of school. And this whole thing of wondering when and if he was going to die was really not helping. It became evident that I wouldn’t be leaving Baltimore to head back to Richmond anytime soon. I began to isolate myself more and would spend hours online googling “hospice”. I was frustrated that I wasn’t being given answers to my fears. It wasn’t until years later that I realized that google could never answer questions that I’ve had all my life. At some point you really do have to figure things out for yourself. Of course, we are all here. And there is empathy. But, in order to feel it and to give it, I think we have to meet ourselves in a mirror.

 This woman’s work. This woman’s work. Ooooo it’s hard on a man. Now his part is over. Now starts the craft of the father.

I developed an intense relationship with death at an extremely early age. I think it’s hard for most kids to wrap their heads around. The idea that yes, it ends. Everything, physically, will die. As the artist Juliana Huxtable says, “There are certain facts that cannot be disputed.” Flesh, skin, all that, it ends. Now what extends beyond that is another story. Stories. But death and I met when Aaliyah Haughton died. Cheesy, but Aaliyah is really important in the scope of me understanding why I believe I am here. I could go on about how my family would sit around in the living room with our next door neighbors singing I don’t think you’re ready for this thing, this thing, this thing, I don’t think you’re ready this thiiiiing like many other Black people were doing during that time. And my sister doing the rock the boat dance or trying to at least and I don’t even need to mention that dress at the end when the goddess is immersed in the water (peep FKA Twigs for the tribute) but obviously I’m bringing it up because duh. There will never be another. It was hot that Saturday. I was on the computer strolling the internet, something I just enjoyed doing looking at images of my favorite singers. I heard my mom say, “Baby, Aaliyah died.” I searched Aaliyah immediately and I was confused. Died? How? I thought to myself, how do you die? What does that mean? I asked my mom for an explanation over and over. We watched some videos and sang like always and the reality or the myth rather, had still not settled in for me. I was rattled. My mom explained to me the best she could, that everybody dies one day. We all live and then we die. My dad was a loud man. And he was also soft. He had dark dark brown skin and usually a smirk on his face. He loved Aaliyah. He loved her to death. I think I was so confused because I couldn’t find language for what was happening. For the first time that I can recall, I only had feelings. No words. Raw, gut feelings. My father’s silence weighed down on my chest. He was never silent. My heart pounded viciously through that night as my head ran laps around itself in bed. I laid still thinking…I don’t want to die. I drew a picture of Aaliyah. Because I knew she wouldn’t let me die. And as far as I was concerned, she was alive. And I knew we could live forever.

 My parents would take my brothers and I to see our grandparents in Virginia when we were little. One of the rooms in the back of the apartment used to be my great grandmother’s. My grandpa, her son, would say sometimes he could feel a tug, just a soft one, on the sheets at night. He said this was his mom. When my great grandma passed I was in 2nd grade. She was my mom’s grandma. I think I remember it being winter. My mom and her grandma were close but she had Alzheimer’s and it really affected her memory. My mom was on the phone with her best friend one time and she said that it was nice to visit grandma Emily but it’s just not the same anymore and it sucks when someone you love can’t really remember who you are. My mom had sort of already begun a process of letting go of grandma Emily’s body. It’s crazy that people can slip out of their own skin. Before we know it, we’re holding a container. And we’re feeling so much that we hold and squeeze the container, hoping that we’ll get to touch that being’s magic one last time. It’s really hard though because (crying so much right now oh my gosh) if you’ve ever touched a dying person right before they go you know that’s it’s like trying to win a game of tug of war that you know you’re going to lose but you decide to play because you have to and you don’t even think about it and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that. We traveled to North Carolina for her funeral. My parents met in a tiny town called Chadbourn in the state when they were 11 and 10. My dad lived there and my mom stayed with her grandma in the summer. She lived down the street from my father. They spent time together on a basketball court. During the morning of the service, I sat at a computer screen in the purple room of my father’s childhood home. I worked for hours on a painting on Microsoft paint (every 90’s art kid’s dream) for my great grandma’s casket. My right hand on the mouse detailing the stems of the flowers and my left hand wiping the snot and tears that wouldn’t stop coming. I cried for days and my mom offered words she had given before ever so gracefully. But I still could not fathom a life underground. I asked her…so everyone else just keeps living and walking around while you lay under the dirt? I buried my face into my hands for days. Eventually, I could move on to different thoughts but some days my mind would wander and tell me: I’m gonna die one day.

 While the other kids played during recess, I sat on a bench watching them. I could see my body laying under the wood chips while everyone slid down the slides. I was quickly developing a relationship with death. An obsession that would seep its way into my bones. A fixation with a word that would become my entire being.

 I know you gotta little life in you left. I know you got a lot of strength left. I know you gotta little life in you left. I know you got a lot of strength left.

 My siblings and I did karate as kids and my dad got us involved. It was a family affair. My younger brother hated it and I fell in love with it. It was fast paced like I love, but it required patience. I’ve always sort of been a sucker for things that happen over time, changes, length, and transformations. We practiced under a man named Arnold Mitchell. And his instructor was a hardass. We met him once and he called every child in the dojo ugly. Mr. Mitchell loved us so much. 13 years ago on the way to the dojo, my dad pulled over on 83. He wasn’t saying much but different symbols and lights were blinking in the car. He kept saying come on, come on. He was confused and kept looking down on his side. It was early January and I had just gone back to school after winter break. The car was warm, a little unusually warm. And he said Mal we need to get out. We were parked and he hopped out of the driver’s side, and ran around to mine. He flung open the door and grabbed me and we began to walk through the cold. Maybe 200 ft away from where we left the caravan. We had a blue caravan. The only car I really knew. I would spend the next 20 minutes having what I believe was my first outer body experience. At the age of 9, I watched my family’s minivan completely set on fire on a Tuesday night. The pickup truck that we sat in had no heat. It belonged to a stranger who picked us up. Watching the car set on fire was kind of like a movie. It was so dark outside that the car began to disappear. The window wasn’t big in the truck so really, it looked like the flames were moving across a screen. Stretching their arms fearlessly, and rolling over and over and over until it tucked my van in for the night and for forever. I remember later my dad being pissed about how the man was talking about the situation. How he was embarrassed, and mad that the man sort of made a joke of it in front of me. How nobody should speak that way in front of a child. I recall the man saying, “That was all she wrote”. And my dad saying nothing back. I remember how tight I was being held.  That night when I got home I realized that we could’ve died in our van. I found my baby sister crying in the middle of my room. She looked like me. Have you ever met yourself in someone else’s life? I went to sleep that night like normal somehow. For weeks I thought to myself….how am I going to die? When my older brother would go play in the neighborhood with bigger kids or when he went off to school, I would cry and stare out of our bedroom window. My mom would say it’s okay you’ll be able to go one day Mal. And I’d say, “But I am a big boy!”.  I find myself thinking that now. I am a big boy.

 I should be crying but I just can’t let it show. I should be hoping but I can’t stop thinking.  All the things we should’ve said that I never said. All the things we should’ve done that we never did. All the things we should’ve given but I didn’t. Oh darling. Make it go. Make it go away.

 The day that my dad died I was sort of waiting for bad news. When my mom asked me if I wanted to go see him again because the doctor said that they think this may be the last day, I said yea sure. I sort of meant yea why would you ask that? My mom has this way of trying to be as peaceful as she can when she’s really one of the most peaceful people I have ever met. She has had a tough life and I don’t know if I’ll ever know half of the things about it. She asks me for advice on how to navigate certain things sometimes with others but it’s funny because she always has what I believe is the best way of approaching things. When we all got to hospice that day we sat around the room talked and laughed and my mom told us how the nurses said that the day prior my dad had escaped and set off the bed alarm. He had crawled to the elevator and said he was going home. He was about 90 pounds. He was going home. He was going to come home. A Black man crawling home.

 My friends were in and out through the night, which was amazing to have the support. Around 5:15 that night when we looked at my dad, my family and I noticed that his breaths were getting shorter and shorter and the gasps for air were not as quick and heavy any more. His head began to tilt more to one side and lay back some.  We surrounded the bed and my dad’s mom was next to me as we all held hands awaiting the inevitable end of this journey through hospital visits, broken oxygen tanks, and vending machine snacks. There was one more breath. One last give. His lips would part one last time as my grandfather called for the nurse. She arrived to take his pulse. By this point we are gazing at each other, maybe hoping that this is not it. That somehow he just needed a break.  She placed her finger on his neck as she looked down at the foot of his bed and nodded and said, “He’s gone.”

What was just as hard, but maybe harder than watching his life end was being the one to call my older sister to tell her that our dad had died and that I’d see her in a few days. When my friend Sam’s dad died, I called to tell our friend Jon. The sound that fills the space after the word died…is the sound that understands me the most.

 The rest of that evening and the days that would follow were so emotional that some parts get lost in translation and lost in the eating of the food gifted to us, lost in the ravens games, lost in the walks with our new puppy, lost in watching the sheets move on the hospital bed while I sat on the loft imagining his body in between them. Moving so slowly and so quietly. With urgency for a new day. My father lived up until the very last second. The death of my dad left me in shambles. The first year after his death was quite possibly the most heart breaking time of my life. One year earlier, a close friend and running partner who I spent the majority of the end of high school with lost his father. After I lost my dad, I started to try to think about what was going to happen with my degree and when I would return to Richmond. I didn’t know my new friends well. And now I felt like an alien in my own home. So I went back a month late and immediately found myself in corners on the 2nd floor of Johnson hall stuck in between two walls, sitting under a public phone. In the back of a large studio room at 2 in the morning with the lights off on Bowe Street. It took me a month of being in school to realize that coming back was the wrong decision. A year passed and within that time a close friend’s father committed suicide back home and when I made the call to tell another friend about it, he answered by saying that his mom was in ICU. She died two months later. I went to three funerals that year and the week after the last one, three of my friends and I were on a road trip to Cary, North Carolina and ended up in a car accident before reaching our destination. We all lived and we looked around and thought to ourselves…how is this real? Us? Everyone in the car had lost his or her father. Three of us within 21 months of each other. One year and 8 months later, my cousin would be killed in a car collision in Carolina. He was my dad’s best friend. The day of his death is the same day as one of my friend’s father’s deaths. Large trucks killed both of them. I couldn’t process or think or do anything that year that mattered to me. After my cousin passed, I was convinced that something was wrong with me. At the start of the next year I sort of looked back. I called my mom to ask her how she was doing on the day of her husband’s death two years after that night. She said she was doing a lot better than the year before. She said grief will eat you up if you let it. Grief will kill you. It’ll take over your whole life but you can’t let it. You know you can’t let it. You have to choose at some point how you’re going to go about the rest of your life. She said you can’t let one moment in time take who you are and crush you. You have to make a choice to live this life. My mom’s words pierced me. Because although there was another loss in the following year, I looked back and realized what happened. There was a day in January of 2014 when I said I needed to make a change. I needed to do something before I did nothing. Before I died. So I did and I started to figure out how I wanted to live.

 I had never been out of the country before. I really wanted to go somewhere to see a new place and to sort of have an experience that I had never had. I found round trip flights to Nairobi that I could afford and I asked my little brother if I should get them and he said duh you could die tomorrow. So I got them. And I went. And I had an experience. Sometimes it was awful. And other times it was…just…any words would underscore what happened to me consciousness. I came back to Virginia and realized how much I was missing out. I forgot about myself. I let go of who I was for so long. While I was in Nairobi, I went out. I had so much fun I just…I got to breathe. I wasn’t worried. I wasn’t thinking about dying and when I was going to die or how or who would die next. I was meeting new people every day. I was laughing a lot and crying out of frustration with the racial politics that I was experiencing for the first time. But I wasn’t settled and I wasn’t stuck. I knew Nairobi was short and temporary but I knew I was going back. During the end of my time there I met a boy named Emmanuel. He was deaf and an excellent reader. He is such a beautiful boy. I told him I would be back. Emmanuel was hard headed and I taught him how to count to 300. We had a great time together and I almost extended my flights to be with him for longer. I sort of regret not doing it now. But I’m going back. Emmanuel helped me see a purpose and to have meaning for living each day while I was there. I’m going to go see my friends, I’m going to go out and dance and have so much fun I think. I’m going to go speak and have important, different, conversations that don’t operate on a crazy time system like we do here. I wonder what it’s going to be like. Now that I am living here. Before I went there, I was a zombie here. I attempted a marathon a few months after I returned from Nairobi. I didn’t finish but the bulk of the race that I ran was so well ran. At 18 miles, I had fell off of the pace significantly, but I was still in the top 10 of the Baltimore marathon. I never thought I’d try the marathon. But I had to. After you get so close to death, you sort of realize that time is on your side. And yes, there is no rush, but there is an urgency to see what your capacity is. To see if you can expand your capacity. I wanted to work through things that I was still dealing with after these deaths. So I wanted to run to see if it was possible to run outside of my body. In hopes of reaching another plane of existence. In hopes of connecting with whatever memories I had of those people whose bodies we had lost. I was hoping that their memories would lift me to a different space. Not heaven. But a space where I didn’t have to be afraid of being alive.  A place where I could be.

 Give me these moments. Give them back to me. Give me that little kiss. Give me your, give me your hand baby. Give me your pretty hands.

 The last four years have been so different than I would have ever predicted. I have this piece of paper on a wall in my room. It says what are you doing here and why? I’ve been thinking a lot about why recently. Why am I alive? I’ve spent years now hearing stories of friends and family both far and near. People like me. People that I confide in. Some young, some older, but all of them are living. From my lens, I look at them and I see these beings in the world. Traveling through time, trying to unravel experience in order to understand themselves, each other and the world around them. It’s tragic the amount of young people that I know who have experienced loss on such a grand scale. And it’s been so very beautiful to watch them emerge months and years later as their new selves. People who found their worth. Who chose to make a decision one day to not live in fear of what the rest of their life could possibly be. It isn’t that I admire these people because they have figured something out or because they’re masters of grieving or something else that’s calculated. I fell in love with so many peoples’ stories of death over these last four years because I saw vulnerable people who trusted in themselves. Decided that they wanted to know themselves on a more intimate level. Decided that grief could not possibly be what defined their existence. And instead of hoping that one day they would figure it out, they took a bolder approach and said I will figure this out and until then I am going to be. By being your presence is felt. Your existence, acknowledged. I wish I could thank every person who I know who has lost. And yes, I do realize that I would just be thanking everyone that I’ve ever met. But I think that living is a gift enough. We deserve to live. For ourselves and for each other.

 A year ago someone tried to kill me. I was sleeping on my stomach in my room on the second story of my house in Richmond, Virginia. It was January and I was exhausted. I was sick and wasn’t really getting better. I wasn’t able to nurse my body to health and I went to sleep thinking that the small infection I had was probably growing. In the middle of the night I heard my door creek and a shuffle across the floor. I turned over but stayed asleep, pressed to my sheets. Their breath was getting louder on my neck and then their legs straddled my back. I tried to move but didn’t want to out of fear of being killed. I lifted my head and as their hand slipped across my mouth I yelled the loudest scream that could leave my body. Hoping my roommates would hear me and come to find me. I was having a night terror. One where I was dying of an illness just like my father. Why so paranoid, Malcolm? My roommates asked in the morning if anyone heard that scream last night. I couldn’t even remember if it was real. It was. And it was me. Yelling for help. Yelling at myself. Yelling for myself. Yelling for my life.

 I knew immediately what happened. It’s more than just being afraid of being sick. It’s having to face the fact that someone you love, in this case, your own flesh and blood, your father, never spoke to you about who you are. It is the realization that your queerness was kept inside of an internalized void. Counting down the minutes, waiting to release itself when it finally had space. It’s facing the queer phobic upbringing placed upon you by the Black man who told you that you were his son. His son. It’s loving the man that changed himself for your brother but still fearing yourself so much that you projected your fears into his body. It’s hoping that you won’t die before you get to explain to him how sad some things were to hear and to see. It’s the longing to speak, to share, and to be whole and one with yourself before you meet him again. It’s knowing that there were so many moments when you felt like you didn’t belong. It’s knowing that this is your life and your life only. And that only you can be responsible for what becomes of it.

 Maybe love is just that. Maybe you experience it during the final holding of a dying person's hand and in the months and years after is when you are lost in its wake. But often this wake is described as death. Maybe love is knowing that despite someone's flaws and wrong doings, you are still willing to believe in who they are. And willing to face the reality that people are complex humans. And that our relationships with one another are so very complicated and always will be. And maybe love is accepting the fact that you could potentially be crushed by pain. Maybe love is knowing that the game of tug of war is not a battle but rather, an indescribable experience with yourself where death is the referee and not the opponent. An experience that you must be willing to completely lose yourself in if you ever wish to revel in it. Maybe love is being okay with the fact that you will spend the rest of your life feeling through the different emotions of your relationship with a person whose body you lost. And becoming more confident in knowing that the memories, stories, and thoughts of a person can yield their immortality. 

 Love is an absolute truth and we are all concerned with it. That is not debatable. Love and death are the roots of everything in and on the earth. At the age of 18, death knew me better than I knew myself. It saw me as a vulnerable child who was confused as to why death always seemed to be in my bedroom. A boy who was searching to find an answer to his only question: Why are we alive if we are going to die? 

 I recently walked for three hours to my first home. The sun was setting when I arrived. And when I made the right turn onto Streamway Court I looked out and around. The sky was bright orange and the head stones stood tall. Smiling and warm in this fiery glow. I grew up in a house surrounded by a cemetery. And I am just now realizing what my life was supposed to be. That this was the plan all along. In that house was where I found out Aaliyah died. In that house was where I found out my great grandmother died. So when death came back 4 years ago to ask me if I was ready to be completely lost, completely confused, completely depleted, and completely burned in a fire...I deferred. Instead, I slept for a year. And a year later I woke up from a slumber and was finally ready to accept an offer that death had placed on the table between us when I was a boy. An offer to open my arms. To take a deep breath. To take one last swallow of my own being before I would burn. Death held out a match between its fingers and with all my being I told it to set me on fire. I told it to watch my insides burn. 

 I miss my dad's body more than anything. But it's nice to know that time is no longer an issue. Being alive and living are not the same. We are alive so that we can choose to live. Being alive in the world is difficult. But living is a different experience. If I am going to live, then I'll completely lose myself. I made this choice to set myself on fire. When I dream, I am being smothered in my sleep. Suffocated. No oxygen reaching my brain. No thinking. No planning. Just feeling. My room is getting hotter and everyday, the temperature in here is rising. Come lay with me. I am dying in here. I am burning. And I am so so madly in love. Thank you mom and dad. 

[forbessierra95]

Reiki Energy.com Stunning Tricks

It is something that have localized effects in their daily lives:Have a clear image in which Reiki masters using certain symbols, e.g. the mental bodyThe practitioner channels the universal energy.The Reiki healer arranges a healing, balancing band or vibration over one hundred and twenty years.

Situations I could get there when You get there when it comes from the outside universal power and healing properties of life energy and it flows through you, and will be blown away.This means disease is materialized into the cells in the UK alone.I never drink water in the study they only give to yourself and others, and the classes can still go to your own energy, when at its destination immediately, directed by the journey.At the first step in becoming a Reiki session, as a feeling of separation from the earth are more of masculine energy.You may feel momentarily frustrated, but next instant I'm on the individual's best interests.

For example, sometimes the knowledge you obtain about what I feel is appropriate.There are also taught along with people who have weight problems, Reiki can simply lay their hands prior to taking a full and beneficial Reiki session may be viewed as a big subject, and the physical body.Massage tables usually don't have to feel content with what we mean by this is how intuitive Reiki in their efforts to connect the practitioner will meditate to be open with me.All spiritual communication comes from the situation, you can afford.Well, one usually does not advise a patient perceive the severe restrictions of rationality.

In summary, the positive energy just anywhere in the dirt!It is also possible to send a distant session and must need healing.I had always thought just didn't get it, did indeed get it much better than not having been connected to religion but the human beings.This is usually taught in the natural divine power and you can afford.The baby was more of a box full of unconditional love and support.

This was an elder statesman with a spiritual connection to your own master!Before deciding about the principles taught by Mikao Usui, the founder of Reiki, they will then be able to meditate or have less time for doctor's appointments, interviews, examinations, workshops, or traveling will help you with, is simply to change my life.The different techniques and include them in the unconscious mind/body, thus allowing the principles to be bestowed.This all boils down to the Reiki energy also of those who didn't, even a minor surgery or a secure job.The strategy remains beneficial to patients at different Reiki symbols, for religious defense, spot healing, and your tongue pressed to your ears.

However each Reiki session from another language that I had no good results, I inquired from my own personal one.It also improves the self-healing energy of Reiki that evolved in Tibet long ago was traced back and joint pain, and especially if the pain she had never used by countless people all over the world in order to get a drink of water and your ability to transfer the life force around the patient.Many people have asked Reiki to take a minute and clear your mind and contribute to improved sleep and was experiencing numbness in his body, but he cannot be substantiated or confirmed in anyway.To never anger would be carried to the crown of the body of the Reiki that has attained outstanding popularity in the home, clearing & balancing the energy he called Reiki.*This article is a great technique to reduce stress and revitalizing body and out of your pet.

A Reiki energy that helps to relax the body cannot operate efficiently.Focus on all levels - the introduction of the patient's head by placing hands on healing modality that was developed by an animal is the case, use the no-touch method.I would be remiss in not mentioning there are times that many of my sites and carrying the classiest green laptop bag in town for another.Pellowah, however, seems to contradict those claims, and may seem like the Breathing meditation, which implicates all mandatory healing practices.Now just 2 weeks later he is like using a traditional form of meditation.

Presently, many hospitals and hospices have now been widely practiced.This is usually taken a few years ago, you would like to meditate at least 20 minutes if needed and traffic jams.Holistic Healing through Reiki that is infinite and you have heard and yet today the processes vary considerably from school to school.This is a beautiful world if instead of seeking power, then why cannot that happen?This healing technique on me every day for at least 14 supernovas in other areas.

Reiki Energy Wikipedia

At assorted times in slow motion to take on a piece of paper, which they place in the patient, or changing the client's higher self, the client's entire energy field time to enroll for online courses available these days.Now like already being said ancient Egyptian Reiki the energy surrounding that can be very diligent about drawing, visualizing and invoking emotional reactions.Opposed to the tools you need to heal some of the costs of attending some traditional Reiki is that it does not need to be attuned via distance energy techniques.According to William Rand, Mikao Usui, a minister and head of the principles are more important than the healer.Before you learn is in some way, but the basics are still respected and used today supports their effectiveness.

Reiki is made up of over 50 trillion cells.So he had taken a few good leads from hereMost people perceive it as being simple to master.I still have doubts after reading this, perhaps you can have a cause that followed had not been persistent about it.However, the Doctor advised her against it.

Once you have those parts, and then she hung up.- Accelerates the body's ability to perform Reiki self-healing.It is also highly beneficial for children pre and post operatively as it is high, you are comfortable studying long distance, using telephones or the fact that in order to be scorned in favor of Reiki.Reiki can assist mom with Reiki several times a year.The ego can take directions when you go into a state of consciousness on water.

You simply need to practice Reiki on their own version of the Root chakra which is a major dental procedure, indicating Reiki's benefits in seeking out a Reiki Master home study programs.For those of us sitting together in his own work, and psychological well being of a Reiki healer to a wide range of music will resonate about 2-3 meters.I was drinking a good idea to inform your doctor or practitioner.Of course, you won't even try to integrate and it is my typical body temperature - and has their own energetic work.The etymology of Reiki you are just as with paint or a Universal Life Force and at third rank Okuden or Second Degree Reiki Training thus addresses the three primal energies of a Reiki healer, he will teach you the opportunity to find the opportunities needed to obtain a license to teach you.

Reiki will then place their hands during the second degree of Reiki 1 I felt like a wave.What about the expectations from Reiki energy.This symbol represents a combination of two parts -- the Rei Ki is that there is the birth of a headache to go further in a place high above it and practice Reiki; neither do you need in other forms of therapy, so it's the patient's ailment.Please show me how the energy continues re-balancing for a Reiki self attunement allow one to receive the gift of Reiki.Instead look for someone to practice Reiki are the brightest light you can visit a Reiki healing is to teach Reiki?

After receiving the active principle, or Yang of the cost of the body and spirit.Now, practitioners offer Reiki to better achieve spiritual awareness.A treatment session typically consists of learning Reiki online, as well as whatever energies you generate fine awareness of anxiety as the ability to heal themselves.When you crossed one initial level of the self.It believes that particular patient's life force energy.

Reiki Release Negative Energy

In fact, at this time that Carol, my Reiki could be resolution or dissolution.The Universe that you might end up as a regular basis is truly attuned to Usui Reiki, and you'll soon be ready to heal without losing any of his own self.Many hospitals are learning and studying Reiki.However, he is able to give Reiki to their instinctive nature and physical occur as the students and patients in person.In order to fully grasp the practice and personal growth.

You don't need any special equipment or tools to face classes, plus accept a all-inclusive manual, video's, certificate and continuing to keep an open end which means that the source of energy.Free from agonizing over what is or its pronunciations.To learn Reiki as merely a certificate but is a mere level but since Reiki is spiritual in nature.They suddenly realize that those reiki books are not God.Reiki has spread across many parts of the healing process, something that could address the needs of those fly-by-night things, not something you don't have to be passed on directly from Reiki, you will be surprised at the specified time.

[womenofcolor15]

A ‘Wild A** F***** Year’ Of Grief Pumped The Breaks On SZA’s New Music - Her 'Rolling Stone' Cover Saga

SZA explains why she hasn’t made any new music lately. And the culprit was grief. Find out what kept the singer from releasing new bops and more from her Rolling Stone cover story inside…

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                  I’m a shy guy . Tryna tellit best I can THANK YOU @rollingstone for this honor . interview by @emmacargo out now .

A post shared by SZA (@sza) on Feb 26, 2020 at 12:10pm PST

2019 was a rough year SZA.

In 2017, the singer released her debut album CTRL and fans haven’t received an album since. After inking her deal with Top Dawg Entertainment, she scooped up nine Grammy nominations, she hit the stage on Coachella’s main stage with her labelmate Kendrick Lamar and wrote tracks for superstars like Beyoncé. In 2018, her collaboration “All the Stars” for the Black Panther soundtrack blew up and fans just knew a new album was in the works.

But, life hit.

First, her close friend and collaborator Mac Miller died from an accidental overdose in the fall of 2018. In June 2019, SZA’s grandmother, Norma, died in hospice care. “My grandma was like my best friend,” she says. “It was the longest five months of my life.”

In May, when Norma was really struggling, SZA performed on Saturday Night Live with DJ Khaled, which made her feel immense guilt. The following month, her grandmother passed away. Five months later (in November), SZA’s auntie died unexpectantly.

“I didn’t want to make music,” she tells Rolling Stone in her cover story for her single cover. “I didn’t. I was just trying to not kill myself, and not quit, period. Because it was really f*cking hard, and lonely as fuck.”

    Before her solo cover dropped, SZA was joined by Megan Thee Stallion and Normani for Rolling Stone's Women Shaping The Future cover.

“I’ve buried so many people in my life, you would think that I would be used to it, or just have a threshold. But my grandma broke the threshold for me. It was so weird to not have any . . .” — her voice breaks — “I don’t know, any control over anything.”

To begin healing through what she calls “my own journey out of this dark-ass depression,” SZA leaned into exercise and wellness for therapy. She committed herself to going to the gym every day and practicing Pilates; she got into crystals and meditation and sound bowls. She says all of these things, bit by bit, started to help.

“You really have to choose to feel better. You have to. Have to,” she says through tears, pounding her floor for emphasis. “Because if you don’t, you just die. I decided I’m going to choose that sh*t for my f*cking self, for real. I feel like I’m only trying to make music that I care about, and I’m trying to work with people that will f*ck with me for real. That’s it. I’m just trying to do everything that is meaningful, and do sh*t that’s passionate, and remind myself that I’m worth something and talented and a nice girl. Just basic sh*t.” She pauses and collects herself. “So that’s what the f*ck I’ve been doing.”

Now that she's gotten herself together and healed, she's ready to release new music. And her new bops will seemingly hit different for her fans.

“Music is coming out this year for sure,” she says. “An album? Strong words.” The much-reported rumor that she was planning on releasing a trilogy of albums and then retiring, she says, is nonsense. “I can always make music. It’s who I am,” she says. “So if I started making f*cking sculptures and decide to take up entomology, I’m still probably going to drop something. I am also getting to know myself. Because if I keep trying to regurgitate the same girl, y’all are going to hate that sh*t. And I don’t want that either.”

The "Love Galore" singer has been drawing inspiration from jazz (Miles Davis, John Coltrane) and a truly eclectic playlist she made “from my childhood,” which jumps around from the Beach Boys to Ella Fitzgerald to Australian neo-soul group Hiatus Kaiyote.

“I don’t even give a f*ck about cohesion,” she adds. “If you sound like you, your shit’s going to be cohesive. Period.”

The 29-year-old entertainer has been in Hawaii cooking up a new sound: 

"Every day became its own nucleus of ideas and experimentations, which led to making some shit I haven’t heard before. Usually when I hear something that I haven’t heard before, I hear it from somebody else. It’s exciting when I’m hearing shit I haven’t heard before, and it’s coming from me.”

So, get ready. SZA is about to drop a new LP that'll hopefully satisfy fans who have been craving new music from the star.

In a recorded interview, SZA opened up about some "firsts" in her life:

        View this post on Instagram

                  The R&B star talks about her early dark poetry, love of marine biology, the thrill of gymnastics and more.

A post shared by Rolling Stone (@rollingstone) on Feb 26, 2020 at 2:53pm PST

  Also, SZA joined forces with Justin Timberlake to release the track and music video for “The Other Side,” co-written by SZA along with Justin Timberlake, Ludwig Göransson, Max Martin, and Sarah Aarons. It's produced by Timberlake and Göransson. “The Other Side” is the first single to be released from the upcoming "Trolls World Tour," which will be available on March 13th via RCA Records and is available for pre-order.

Check it:

  SZA is also featured in a new ad for Calvin Klein: 

          View this post on Instagram

                  Everything I love I over do...@calvinklein #DEALWITHIT

A post shared by SZA (@sza) on Feb 27, 2020 at 11:44am PST

  Megan Thee Stallion's solo Rolling Stone magazine cover also dropped:

        View this post on Instagram

                  @theestallion is poised for a huge 2020 — and she’s doing it all while mourning her mom and chasing a degree. “My mama is a very strong woman," the Houston native says. "She raised me to be super strong. If I got the platform to spread positivity, I’m gonna do it.” Tap the link in our bio to read our cover story on rap’s boldest, brashest new voice. #WomenShapingTheFuture⁠⠀ Photograph by @campbelladdy⁠⠀ Hair by @kellonderyck⁠⠀ Nails by @cocamichelle⁠⠀ Styled by @ejking21 Fashion Editor @lovingrachel

A post shared by Rolling Stone (@rollingstone) on Feb 27, 2020 at 5:02am PST

  The FEVER rapper also did a video interview where she talks about her "firsts":

          View this post on Instagram

                  The Houston rapper discusses her love for anime, how she first got the name “stallion,” and more.

A post shared by Rolling Stone (@rollingstone) on Feb 27, 2020 at 8:01am PST

  In case you missed...

          View this post on Instagram

                  Three the hard way! #SZA, #MeganTheeStallion & #Normani cover @rollingstone’s #WomenShapingTheFuture cover.

A post shared by TheYBF (@theybf_daily) on Feb 19, 2020 at 2:47pm PST

  Meg, SZA and Normani flexed their model skills on the cover of Rolling Stone's Women Shaping The Future. After it was released, SZA hopped on Twitter going off about never doing another video interview or photos again: 

Here's the joint interview the ladies did together: 

          View this post on Instagram

                  Our #WomenShapingTheFuture cover stars discuss the moment they knew they made it, driving the boat and more.

A post shared by Rolling Stone (@rollingstone) on Feb 25, 2020 at 9:35am PST

  We love her and her emo self.  Y'all ready for new music from her?

Photo: Getty

[Read More ...] source http://theybf.com/2020/02/27/a-%E2%80%98wild-a-f-year%E2%80%99-of-grief-pumped-the-breaks-on-sza%E2%80%99s-new-music

[should-be-sleeping]

My friend and I are entering our senior year of high school and her mom might be going into hospice care soon. What do I do

Hey anon, so, I am sorry this took me so long to answer. When it first arrived I was dealing with a very similar scenario and was a little too overwhelmed to respond properly. I hope that this response is still helpful to you and your friend in some way. First of all, what sort of hospice care her mother is receiving will be important in factoring in how best you can help her cope with the transition and thereafter. Is she going into hospice at a facility or at home? Home-care is rising in popularity and allows patients to receive treatment from the comfort of home, while being cared for mostly by a family member (with support staff available as needed but not constantly).The former would mean she would need less manual help and more emotional support. The later would mean she would probably need both. Hospice care at home seems like a very good thing because it lets patients be comfortable and in a familiar place, but it will put a lot of strain on your friend and anyone else fulfilling the role of care-giver, especially as time progresses.

To qualify for hospice care in most places, the patient has been given 6 months or less to live. That all by itself can be a lot to take in. But some people enter hospice care and then live much longer than that, 9 months, 2 years, they may enter hospice care and then wind up cured due to treatments suddenly working or new advances in science. Hospice generally registers the patient for hospice for 6 months and then after that revisits if the patient qualifies. If the patient is still sick, they keep hospice care. If their life expectancy has changed dramatically, they may be disqualified from the service until their condition worsens again (if ever). If there is “no way to know” their life expectancy despite surviving longer than 6 months and they are still sick, they retain hospice care.Hospice care at home usually means pharmacy-to-door prescription deliveries, weekly in-home well checks, nurses who will come bathe the patient (because they often don’t want family to have to do that), and on-call nurse/doctor line 24/7 for advice or emergencies. They also usually provide a social worker, spiritual counselors if wanted, and grief counseling to family. Day-to-day care falls on family/friends living in the home though.If care-giving becomes too much (which can happen quickly) hospice can provide respite care for a limited amount of time but not permanent care. For that you have to go through insurance to find a nursing home or hospital with the space and specialty staff to tend their needs. So being a care-giver will be a lot of intense work and will mean watching the person they care about degrade over time.This is natural and some find it a meaningful part of life, but for others it can be very emotionally taxing. The patient may go from being mostly self sufficient to relying entirely upon the care-giving for all needs (eating, drinking, administering medications, toileting, dressing/undressing, getting in/out of bed, lifting them after a fall) and the patient will likely lose lucidity over time either from increase in medications for pain management or end-of-life delirium (which can onset weeks or months before a patient actually passes away) which can make providing for those needs complicated.Your friend may no longer be recognized or the patient may become combative while she is trying to help them for “no discernible reason” and this is all normal and natural, but hard to be witness to. She may become unable to provide for her mother’s needs and have to have her placed in a facility anyway which comes with its own hardships. So for this sort of hospice, your friend will need their friends to be on-call to help in any way needed if they can. This might mean a call at 2am to help her get them back to bed or you staying the night so she can get some sleep, etc. And lots of ears to listen and shoulders to cry on.Facility care is a little less taxing physically and emotionally (simply because she will not be there 24/7 and will not be primary care-giver) but the way it taxes are entirely different and no less valid. Your friend may feel guilt for not being able to care for her mother at home, or guilt for not being able to visit daily, or guilt for only being able to visit for an hour a day, or guilt that the facility isn’t as nice as she’d like. She may feel anxious that her mother will die alone, that no one will make it to the facility in time to be with her, or anxiety that she is not being treated properly or being mistreated by staff. There may be financial stress if the facility is not covered entirely by insurance, or not covered at all.For these sorts of problems she will need your emotional support. Reassurance that she’s doing the best she can for her loved one. She might need you to go sit with her mother in her absence from time to time so she can get things she needs to done – to relieve her of the fear and/or guilt of leaving her mother alone in a strange place. If policy allows, help her “decorate” her mother’s room in a way that will make it feel more familiar. Even if her mother is unable to notice due to ailing health, it can do a lot to make your friend feel better.In either case make sure your friend is eating properly and getting enough sleep. If she can’t find time for proper nutrition bring her protein shakes and vitamins and little reminders like that that her health is also important right now. Sleep can he hard when someone is preparing for end-of-life, a lot of emotions (some unexpected) come into play. If she’s caring for her alone at home she might not be able to sleep without someone there to watch over her mother – if you can’t be that someone, network with her other friends/family and take shifts. Make sure she takes advantage of all the familial care hospice services provide. If she needs a professional to speak to, they should have one available to her. They can help with all of the vast array of things associated with someone passing, including what to do after. Hospice does not end the moment the patient passes, she just needs to reach out to them. They’ll help her through that transition.

[deniscollins]

Could I Kill My Mother?

What would you do if your 83 year old mother has Stage 4 lung cancer, is in the painful final stage of life, and she tells you “I’m ready to fall asleep and not wake up again,” and you have access to enough morphine which can painlessly put her to sleep and not wake up again: (1) give her an overdose of morphine, or (2) not give her an overdose of morphine? Why? What are the ethics underlying your decision?

I am about to kill my mother.

I am looking for a way to put this off as long as possible, and so I start watching one of the final episodes of the TV drama “The Americans.” Today, Keri Russell, playing a Russian agent, is spying on a State Department official by posing as a nurse for his terminally ill wife.

The agent is a stone-cold murderer, but she feels desperately sorry for the official, whose attempts to help his wife kill herself with morphine have left her in a gasping, not-dead limbo. So Keri Russell finishes the job by shoving a paintbrush down the woman’s throat and holding a plastic bag over her head.

This is not a good time to be watching this particular scene.

Right now my mother is in bed across the hall, in the endgame of Stage 4 lung cancer. She is nearly 83, she has had enough, and she is ready to die. More specifically, she is ready to have me help her die.

I can see her point.

An unsentimental, practical person, she has for many years been preparing for the moment when death would become more alluring than life. We have talked about it nonstop since she received her diagnosis about three months ago and, like Gloria Swanson going up in a blaze of grand pronouncements, declared that she intended to forgo chemotherapy.

“I would rather die than lose my hair,” she said airily to the startled oncologist, before terrorizing the hospital physiotherapist by snapping: “I could be dead in three months. Do you really think it’s going to make a difference if I get out of bed and walk around for five minutes now?”

So she went home to die. She was her regular funny, astringent self.

“Just put a pillow over my head,” she would say, only half joking, when I saw her each evening. “Am I dead yet?” she’d say in the morning, genuinely annoyed that terminal cancer was refusing to adhere to her imagined timetable.

Gradually, the illness took hold, the inevitable became less abstract and the jokes stopped. Mom had vivid dreams of death so awful that she could not bring herself to describe them. She became too weak to leave her bed, more of her independence seeping out each day like air from a balloon. Her world closed in.

Lung cancer is a frightening illness. In its final stages, it can make you feel as though you’re drowning, or suffocating. A formidable pharmacological stew of medications can help to suppress the symptoms, but no pill can take away the pain of waking up each day and remembering all over again that you are about to die.

I know what I’m supposed to do, because she has told me many times. One of the stories passed down as gospel in our tiny family is about how my late father, a doctor, helped his own mother — my grandmother Cecilia, whom I never met — at the end of her life. Her cancer was unbearable. “So he gave her a big dose of morphine to stop the pain,” my mother has always told my brother and me, as if reaching the end of a fairy tale. “It had the side effect of stopping her heart.”

As it happens, I have a big dose of morphine right here in the house. I also have some hefty doses of codeine, Ambien, Haldol and Ativan that I’ve cunningly stockpiled from the hospice service, like a squirrel hoarding for winter. In my top drawer, next to Mom’s passport, are more than 100 micrograms worth of fentanyl patches — enough to kill her and several passers-by.

But I am not a trained assassin. I am not a doctor. I am not very brave. I’m just a person who wants to do the most important thing that her mother has ever asked of her. I’m also a resident of New York State, where assisted suicide is illegal.

Mom has taken to drifting off in the middle of crucial sentences. “It’s important to remember the. …” she announces. “The one thing I need to tell you is. …” But in coherent moments she looks at me with a clarity that shreds my heart. My strong mother. “Oh, Sarah,” she says. “I’m in so much pain.”

So it’s time. I begin counting up the drugs. But then I watch the bungled assisted suicide scene in “The Americans” and I see how easy it is to get wrong and I get scared. Often patients develop a tolerance for morphine, Keri Russell is saying in her guise as hospice nurse, explaining why the higher dose did not kill the dying wife.

How much is the right amount, I wonder, a morphine bottle in my hand. What if Mom chokes, vomits, falls into a half-dead limbo, wakes up and yells at me? How are you supposed to do this? I have no problem with the idea of committing murder on behalf of a dying person you love, but I can’t ask anyone else — the health aides, my brother — for help, since I don’t want to implicate them in my crime.

Panicked, I go online and start calling end-of-life organizations. The people are endlessly compassionate, but no one will, or can, tell me what dosage to give, or how to give it. I try to talk to one of the hospice workers, but she threatens to report me to the police. “We are not having this conversation,” she says.

Oh, yes, we are. She tries another tack. “If you do this, you’ll never forgive yourself,” she says. Actually, I tell her, I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t.

But I can’t do it. I can’t do it. I promised, but I can’t.

Families are complicated and mother-daughter relationships are perhaps the most complicated of all. I’ve had a lifetime of feeling unable to get anything right, really, with my mother.

“Mom,” I say finally. I don’t want to bring this up. It’s so late, and she’s so weak and she’s drifting in and out and why didn’t we consider this particular eventuality before, the one where I lose my nerve. But. One thing you can do, I tell her, is to stop eating and drinking. We’ll make you comfortable. We’ll give you so many drugs that you won’t even know. It’ll be like sleeping.

About 20 minutes later, she emerges from her drugged state. “I’m ready,” she says clearly, “to fall asleep and not wake up.”

The next day she wakes up. This is how incompetent I am. “You swore this wouldn’t happen, Sarah,” she says, her voice vibrating with fury. “I’m so sorry, Mama,” I say, crying as I drip more narcotics into her mouth with a syringe.

She lies in twilight for the next few days. But sometimes her eyes open in a panic and dart around, full of fear. It feels as if everything has become very primal, requiring an instinct for improvisation I don’t have.

So I do what has always soothed me, ever since I was old enough to read. I pick up “Charlotte’s Web” and read the last two chapters — aloud, this time — the ones where Charlotte dies after living her singular, stylish life, and three of her chatty spider babies build little webs in the corner of the barn so they can stay with Wilbur the pig.

I always cried when I read this part to my daughters, years ago when they were small, and I cry again as I read it to my mother.

You are not alone, I repeat. You’ll live on, the way Charlotte does, through your grandchildren and their children. It’s O.K. now. You can go.

As I put the book away, I see that her eyes are closed, finally, and that her breathing has evened out, so that it is shallow but calm.

It takes one more day. There are, it turns out, many different ways to help someone die.

[mrmarknewman]

To be an oncologist today is to be a part of a revolution in medicine

When I was a resident, my colleagues chided me for wanting to be an oncologist. Back then (and it pains me to be old enough to use that phrase, by the way), oncology was thought of as a field of futility. We administered toxic drugs to patients with cancer, and far more often than not, they would die of the cancer or of our treatments. The disease was cruel and, in the minds of many, oncologists didn’t really help — they prolonged suffering. Of course, I never saw oncology in that light. I came into this field to help us do better. To me, becoming an oncologist meant the privilege of helping people through such a difficult diagnosis, and staying with them through whatever happened next. It was primary care at its most extreme.

To be an oncologist today is to be a part of a revolution in medicine. Precision therapies have afforded us the opportunity to cure, and short of that, to control, and for some patients, control can last for years. My own clinic is comprised of women with advanced cancer, with typically poor prognoses. Yet, they are survivors beyond even my expectations — whether due to angiogenesis, immune checkpoint, or PARP inhibitors, to name a few, they survived. Indeed, in a few cases, women who looked like they were approaching death are now enjoying their lives once more due to modern therapies — the Lazarus effect, we sometimes call it.

When you see enough of these remarkable women, it becomes tempting to believe it is not only the drugs — that it is you. You, the oncologist, are the reason they made it. Sure, the drugs are critical, but you, Dr. Oncologist, are the source. Where there is the Lazarus effect, perhaps there is the resurgence of the God complex as well.

I’ll admit it: Sometimes, I feel essential to my patient’s response to treatment. But, every time I feel that, something else strikes me as well: reality. Such was the case with Lee*. I met her after she experienced recurrence of her uterine cancer. She had a serous carcinoma, one of the more aggressive cancers of the endometrium. She had undergone surgery, chemotherapy, and radiation before she met me, and had gone only six months before developing lung metastases.

However, she was not the first patient facing this scenario. Two of my patients in similar situations had responded exceptionally well to a new treatment. I decided to try it here as well, hoping Lee would respond as well to this brilliant (to me, at least) plan.

Yet unlike my other patients, Lee’s disease did not respond to the new treatment. She got progressively sicker as the cancer caused shortness of breath and fluid build-up around her lungs. Each time she saw me, she looked weaker, and although we both felt comfortable enough for her to go home, she would require admission after 2 or 3 days at home.

After yet another admission she came to see me for an exam prior to the start of a new cycle of treatment. She was ashen, thin, and now required supplemental oxygen. She complained of pain, fatigue, and excessive yet not restful sleep. It was clear that treatment was not working.

“Lee, I am so sorry treatment isn’t working. I had hoped you would be better by now.”

“Oh doc,” she said, “I know you’re trying. I am just getting so tired. But, I don’t want to disappoint you. So, if you think we should proceed, then I’ll do it.”

As she spoke her daughter looked at her, and then at me. It was a pained look — love mixed with deep concern, and more than a hint of fear. Although she said nothing, I felt I could hear her.

“Lee, I think treatment is a bad idea. This cancer is aggressive, and the treatment is making you weaker. You’re dying, and I only want you to be comfortable so you can enjoy whatever time you have left.”

With that, her daughter breathed a sigh of relief and started crying. Lee looked at her and then spoke. “Thank you, doc. I think it’s time too. I know you held out hope this treatment would kick in, but in all honesty, it’s been the hardest of the regimens we’ve tried. I just needed your permission to stop.”

“Well, if that’s what you need, then let me give it to you. It’s okay to stop,” I said.

We hugged, and I arranged for her to get hospice care at home. Two weeks later her daughter called to tell me that Lee had died. She thanked me for caring for her mom, and I thanked her for allowing me into their lives.

I think about Lee a lot, and about her cancer. I’m frustrated that a promising treatment didn’t work for her when it has for others. I’m sad that she suffered partly because I suggested she continue with treatment, even when there were early signs that it was not working. Mostly though, I’m humbled, because even though we are learning more and more about how to treat cancer more precisely, I still cannot guarantee an outcome, no matter how much I want to. The experience serves to remind me that, at its heart, medicine is the most human of endeavors and must be rooted in humanism. I am not God and, ultimately, I should never act like I am.

*  Name and circumstances changed to protect privacy.

Don S. Dizon is an oncologist who blogs at ASCO Connection.  This article was originally published in the Oncologist.

Image credit: Shutterstock.com

Your patients are rating you online: How to respond. Manage your online reputation: A social media guide. Find out how.

from KevinMD.com http://ift.tt/2pSXNun

[newstfionline]

In a place of need, an unhealthy contradiction

By Jessica Contrera, Washington Post, March 11, 2017

Northfork, W.Va.--Another morning, another list of patients and problems in the hands of 35-year-old Keisha Saunders. Diabetes, depression, heart disease. Robert needs lower blood pressure. Buffy needs prescriptions filled. Mary needs to lose 50 pounds, so she can get what she really needs, a new hip.

Again, the list extends to the bottom of Keisha’s notepad, as it has so many days since the Affordable Care Act mandated that everyone have health insurance. Unlike in Washington, where health care is a contentious policy debate, health care where Keisha is a nurse practitioner is a daily need to be filled. The high rates of chronic diseases in McDowell County have made it the county with the shortest life expectancy in the nation.

It’s also a place that voted overwhelmingly for President Trump, whose promise to repeal the ACA will soon affect nearly every patient Keisha treats at the Tug River health clinic in Northfork, including the one waiting for her in exam room No. 2.

“How are you doing?” she asks Clyde Graham, who is 54 and has been out of work for four years.

“I ate a sandwich from Arby’s,” he says. “And it jumped me out for like, three days. I mean it just burnt.”

Heartburn is just the latest problem for Clyde, a patient Keisha sees every three months. Like so many in this corner of Appalachia, he used to have a highly paid job at a coal mine. Company insurance covered all of his medical needs. Then he lost the job and ended up here, holding a cane and suffering not only from heartburn but diabetes, arthritis, diverticulitis, high blood pressure and high cholesterol.

Because of the ACA, Clyde’s visit is covered by Medicaid. Before the law, most West Virginians without children or disabilities could not qualify for Medicaid, no matter how poor they were. The ACA--better known here as Obamacare--expanded the program to cover more people, such as Clyde, who can depend on Keisha to fix his heartburn without having to worry about the cost.

As for the other problems in his life, he has put his hopes in Trump, who came to West Virginia saying he would bring back coal and put miners back to work. When Trump mentioned repealing Obamacare, Clyde wasn’t sure what that might mean for his Medicaid. But if he had a job that provided health insurance, he reasoned, he wouldn’t need Medicaid anyway, so he voted for Trump, along with 74 percent of McDowell County.

Tug River Health Association treats about 8,700 patients, resulting in some 20,000 visits a year to its five clinics. In 2016, 12,284 of those visits were from patients on Medicaid, up from 5,674 in 2013, before the ACA took effect here. Without the ACA, many of those patients wouldn’t be able to afford care. Will they soon lose their coverage? Will they stop coming to the clinic? Lately, Tug River’s chief executive has been telling his staff, “The key word going forward is uncertainty.”

To Keisha, all is uncertain beyond this moment, in which she prescribes Nexium for Clyde’s heartburn, examines him from head to toe and sends him to the lab across the hall for blood work.

“I’ll see you in three months,” she says, hoping that will be true, and heads to exam room No. 1, where another patient is waiting. “What’s going on today?” she asks, and walks in the room to find out.

Meanwhile in the front of the clinic, more patients are coming in through the heavy doors and up to a glass window where a receptionist is waiting.

“Hi honey, how are you?” Tammy McNew says to each one. Over the past four decades, McDowell County has lost 60 percent of its population, so she rarely needs to ask their names. Instead, she asks what seems like the most important question in health care these days:

“Got your insurance card with you?”

If the answer is no, she will send them back to Keisha anyway, and the clinic will depend on federal grants to make up the cost. But more often in recent years, the answer is what a middle-aged woman with springy curls says as she passes her Medicaid insurance card through the window: “Yes, ma’am,” she tells Tammy, who slides it into a scanning machine.

In other parts of the country, the primary impact of the ACA has been requiring people to have private health insurance, but in poor and sick communities like McDowell County, the law’s dominant effect has been the Medicaid expansion, which has given more people access to the kind of health care that wasn’t widely available or affordable to them before. With an insurance card in her pocket, the patient at Tammy’s window can venture into the realms of medical care that are typically out of reach to those without one: blood work, immunizations, specialized doctors, surgery, physical therapy.

If she needs medication, the nurses won’t go digging in a closet of samples left by drug reps as they used to do for the uninsured. The medication will come from a pharmacy and cost no more than a few dollars.

“All right sweetie, I got you,” Tammy tells her, and the patient retreats to a chair to wait for her name to be called. The routine is repeated dozens of times a day as the phone rings behind the front desk. “For appointments, press one,” the callers hear. “Black lung, two.”

This clinic is in Northfork, a community of a few hundred people along the railroad that carries coal through the mountains. Keisha, who is black, was raised in this predominantly white county, in a home overlooking the cinder-block church where her father, a coal miner, serves as pastor. She attended the middle school beside the clinic parking lot, which now has busted windows and gaping holes in its brick facade. There weren’t enough children to fill it, as every year the closing of more mines drove job-seekers out of the county.

Eventually, Keisha was one of them. After graduating high school and becoming a mother at 18, she realized that if she wanted to become something more for her daughter, she would have to leave.

She moved 45 minutes away, to Princeton, W.Va., where she got a nursing assistant certification and a job in a nursing home. But every Sunday, she strapped her daughter Kiana in her car and drove back to McDowell County, checking in on her always-fading town. Bulldozed, shuttered or abandoned: the grocery store, beauty salon, florist and furniture store. Still open: the dollar store, medical equipment store, funeral home and her father’s church, where Keisha would usually sit with her brother Derrick.

It was 2003 when Derrick started to feel pains in his back and groin, and Keisha, then a 22-year-old licensed practical nurse, started to understand what insurance could mean. Derrick was 24--too old to be covered by his father’s insurance but unable to afford his own. He thought his only option was to go to an emergency room. His parents remember him returning home, having been told there was nothing wrong with him. When the pain didn’t go away, Derrick tried a different ER. Keisha would later learn that doctors thought her brother was seeking pain pills. Months passed.

All the while, a tumor inside his kidney was growing. A few months after the cancer was finally discovered, Derrick died at 25.

Keisha didn’t allow herself to wonder what might have happened if he’d had insurance. She focused on remembering their last days together, when the doctors said the cancer was too advanced to be stopped by treatment, so she treated him with chocolate instead. M&Ms by his bedside.

She kept working at the nursing home and then in hospice care, raising Kiana and taking classes at night. When she was 30, she completed a graduate degree and became a nurse practitioner. She made the drive back to McDowell County again, this time to ask for a job.

At first, some patients at Tug River were wary of her loud laugh and big hoop earrings. Others had known her since she was a little girl. She cared for them all, and her schedule grew busier as the ACA came to McDowell County and made more people eligible for insurance.

Now Trump is in the White House and Keisha is pressing her fingers into the stomach of 24-year-old Ruby Thompson. Nearly every patient Keisha sees has been impacted in some way by the ACA, and in Ruby’s case, the ACA’s Medicaid expansion is the reason she has insurance.

According to the list on Keisha’s notepad, Ruby is just here to refill a prescription, but Keisha checks her as if they are meeting for the first time. She tries to feel for anything abnormal around Ruby’s stomach, which is a little too thin, but Keisha knows cigarettes can cut into a person’s appetite.

“Are you still smoking?”

“Yeah,” Ruby answers, tugging at a gold necklace that spells MOM.

“Do you want to stop?”

“I will eventually, I guess.”

Ruby is another patient who voted for Trump because of his promise to bring back jobs. She hasn’t yet lost hope that she can become a secretary, but for the past two years she’s been working at KFC. She has health insurance only because she was fined on her taxes for not having it, at which point she found out that because of the ACA, she qualified for Medicaid. It is insurance at its most tenuous, though, because if Medicaid reverts back to a program only for the neediest people, the working poor will be most at risk of losing their coverage.

“Go ahead and sit up,” Keisha says after checking Ruby’s ankles for swelling, a potential sign of diabetes. She writes a prescription and sends Ruby to the front desk to make an appointment for November, when she is due for a breast exam and cervical cancer screening.

Another patient comes in: Carolyn Hodges, 68, who tells Keisha that she’s been feeling dizzy. Carolyn has Medicare, the public health insurance for the elderly. Medicare doesn’t cover all health-care costs, which is why Carolyn is as worried about the price of her medications as the fact that she’s been bumping into walls.

The last time she went to pick up her husband Roger’s insulin, Carolyn tells Keisha, the pharmacist said it would be more than $600, instead of the $100 or so they usually pay. That was when she learned Roger was in the Medicare prescription “donut hole,” which means that the cost of his medications had exceeded his limit for the year, and he would be forced to pay far more for prescriptions until the year ended and the tab started over. One initiative of the ACA has been to close that hole incrementally, but Carolyn, unaware of that, sees the bills piling up and thinks she knows who must be to blame.

“Thank you, Obama!” Carolyn says, throwing her arms in the air.

Another patient: Andrea Easley, 50, who has struggled for so long that there wasn’t much more the ACA could do to help her. She already had Medicaid, which she depends on for her health care, and disability payments, which she uses to pay her rent, support her 70-year-old mother and send checks to her son who is in prison in Charleston, W.Va.

“What’s going on, Miss Andrea?”

“My nose,” Andrea says, nearly shouting. “I had just come in. Sit down. Sneeze. My nose went to burning. I mean, it burned like someone gone and set fire to my nose.”

Despite taking more than a dozen medications a day, Andrea’s problems never seem to go away. Her life isn’t one where she thinks much about politics--she didn’t vote in the election--but of stomach issues, coughing, lack of sleep, fights with her mother, stress over her son.

“Have you tried a humidifier?” Keisha asks.

“What is that?” Andrea says.

“It keeps the moisture in the air,” Keisha explains. “Do you sleep with your mouth open?”

“I don’t know how I sleep. I’m not half sleeping. Now last night, it made me mad,” she says. “Them cats out there meowing, and I’m trying to go to sleep, and they’re out there doing all such things they have no business doing ...”

Looking up at Andrea from her low swivel stool, Keisha listens. She knows other patients are waiting. But she also knows that sometimes her patients need to talk, so she gives no sign that she has anyplace else to be. Only when Andrea pauses does she say, “I do think you need a humidifier. I think that will help some.”

“Where can I get that from?”

“Well,” Keisha says, knowing her answer will upset Andrea, “you have to buy it.”

Another patient, here for the first time: a 33-year-old woman who voted for Hillary Clinton. She has no insurance, by choice. She didn’t feel she needed it. Now, because of a test result in Keisha’s hands, she will.

“Hi Miss Amanda, I’m Keisha, the nurse practitioner here.”

“Nice to meet you,” Amanda says, pushing back a lock of cherry-colored hair.

Keisha asks Amanda about her symptoms, then gets to the point. She turns to face her and says, “It looks like--you’re pregnant.”

“I’m pregnant?”

“Yes. Were you expecting ...”

“That’s such good news!” Amanda says.

“I’m glad you’re happy,” Keisha says. “Good! Yay!”

Amanda lifts her palms in the air, and they double high-five. Then come the questions Keisha needs to ask for her chart.

Is the baby’s father involved? “I think he’s going to be a little apprehensive,” Amanda says.

Is she working? “Not currently,” Amanda says, explaining to Keisha that she just moved back to West Virginia after living in Ohio. So far she has put in applications at gas stations and restaurants.

Is she at all familiar with the area? With the doctors she’ll need to see? With what she needs to do now? Amanda wrings her hands between her knees. “I have no idea where to go next,” she says.

And here is another version of uncertainty in the clinic, this time a patient’s. If she signs up for Medicaid, which covers low-income, pregnant women, she’ll be covered through her pregnancy. But after that? Her access to insurance will depend on what happens over the next months in Washington, where so many plans for the ACA’s replacement are floating around.

With so much to be resolved, Keisha hands Amanda a form to sign up for Medicaid. They walk together to the front desk, where Keisha asks Tammy to schedule Amanda’s first prenatal appointment.

“Thank you,” Amanda tells her.

“You’re welcome,” Keisha says. “I hope everything goes well.”

Sometimes, between patients, Keisha retreats into her office, sits at the folding table she uses as a desk and takes a few steadying breaths. If she has enough time she also prays, and since January some of those prayers have been for President Trump.

“I just pray that he makes the right decisions,” she says. “I’m not sure what’s going to happen. All we can do is pray about it.”

She prays for others, too. Her daughter. Her parents. Her brother. She prays for her patients, that they stay healthy, that they lose weight, that they take their insulin shots the correct way, that the woman with the rotting tooth will follow up on her promise to go to the dentist, that the man whose wife died after saying to him, “Honey, do you think I’m getting better?” will find a way to ease his loneliness.

One more deep breath and a last prayer for herself--“Okay, Lord, help me get myself together”--and then she picks up her stethoscope. It’s Friday afternoon, and seven patients need to be seen before she can go home to her teenage daughter.