tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29059483182037094292024-03-13T20:41:49.185-06:00In the War Between.I had a romance novel inside me, but I paid three sailors to beat it out of me with steel pipes.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger794125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2905948318203709429.post-58859937010890395152014-04-25T17:56:00.001-06:002014-04-25T17:58:30.492-06:00Erasure.There is something about change after someone passes away that feels like erasure.<br />
<br />
For everything I alter, it feels like I am replacing him. This is not unique, I'm sure, but it is something I am gravely unfamiliar with.<br />
When a grandparent passes, a brand new grandparent doesn't comes along to sleep where they slept or take you on their knee as they did or play the card games they played with you. They get to rest as a piece of your history, secure in the one role they will forever hold, sacred and frozen in time.<br />
<br />
This doesn't quite happen when a lover dies when you are 35.<br />
<br />
There is something about change after someone passes away that feels like erasure.<br />
<br />
I switched sides of the bed so no man would ever sleep where Greg slept. I have yet to move his clothes from the wardrobe or take his coats out of the front closet. The office remains untouched. The last note we typed to each other on the typewriter remains since the last 'I love you.' I haven't changed my relationship status on facebook. It has been almost two years and yet, from the outside, he is still here. Still vibrant and alive. Even his laundry remains in the basket, a daily reminder of how he was going to be back home with me.<br />
<br />
And for the most part, I have been at peace with this arrangement. I wasn't in a relationship that required or warranted my alteration of affairs. My heart was at home in the house we built. My life felt less empty with pieces of him scattered around me. I couldn't foresee a reason to change and to be honest, it hurt my heart to believe one day I would have to. Because it would likely be to replace the clothes in the wardrobe... the coats in the closet... the relationship status... the man in my life.<br />
<br />
There is something about change after someone passes away that feels like erasure.<br />
But there is something about denying the love of another that feels like emptiness. <br />
<br />
And sometimes the change on the outside doesn't matter nearly as much as the change on the inside does.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2905948318203709429.post-20852309924380327432013-12-30T15:02:00.000-07:002013-12-31T16:57:45.300-07:00Close Enough: A Catfish Story.I don't blog much anymore because who the hell has the time to write a whole page of banal bullshit, let alone read it.<br />
<br />
But, sometimes a motherfucker gets inspired.<br />
<br />
For the last 3 years, I have followed the lives of people on Twitter, usually a safe arm's length away from the realities that lie behind the cleverness, the wittiness, the deadpan, and the drama. But lately the full frontal catfish nature of the internet has played me.<br />
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Now, I didn't know @nikkolascage or @theokayest as well as a lot of people thought they did. But, then again, who the hell did. I read the continued drama between her and a gentleman from Edmonton who moved to Calgary, desperately deluded that he would meet her and they could finally fall in love and be together. I caught the flashy ass and tit pics, and the KCCO hashtags. I smiled at her saucy posts and laughed along with her. She seemed so fantastic, I recall muttering to myself 'how can this chick be that hot AND this smart? What an asshole.'<br />
<br />
Indeed.<br />
<br />
Want the real story? Ask <a href="http://ryncstar.wordpress.com/2013/12/29/real-live-catfish/">Ryncstar</a>.<br />
<br />
But this whole situation that has unraveled in the past two days has gotten me thinking about what the internet offers us, and the way it changes us. <br />
It allows us to reinvent, lie, design a person that may not be ourselves. But that is okay because with a quick account change or deletion, we exist again. And THIS time, we will be grander. Realer. Better.<br />
<br />
I see it all the time. Some people even have numerous online accounts or personas, neither intersecting with the other, because one life wouldn't be comfortable with the world created by another. World's collide.<br />
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We take 30 pictures just to post a decent selfie. We gloss over the bad to illuminate the good or victimize ourselves with the tragic to get attention and sympathy. We are like these bush league directors of our online lives trying desperately to make a decent movie everyone is going to watch. We add party pics, and fun Vines, and tag friends, and even throw in a few songs for a killer soundtrack. We paint ourselves a bit happier, a bit smarter, a bit more together, a bit more apathetic, a bit MORE. We are martyrs for giving a homeless person five dollars and phoenix-from-the-ashes for getting out of bed after a break up. We are all fucking liars knee deep in hyperbole.<br />
<br />
And most of our movies still suck.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzXkKkk6i9RZT6ooV-QdBaFfl1ROfONrqK-t1zentpcTCGb1cuhX3ReGbib86WCg87Cs5yrIbclJj61BOPxSq9Q71gHBYS3FaQ0iBb2Umz4W7ooYjKtqopJkbfWSSBVwOCJmkc4PBSeCVj/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-12-30+at+2.49.37+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzXkKkk6i9RZT6ooV-QdBaFfl1ROfONrqK-t1zentpcTCGb1cuhX3ReGbib86WCg87Cs5yrIbclJj61BOPxSq9Q71gHBYS3FaQ0iBb2Umz4W7ooYjKtqopJkbfWSSBVwOCJmkc4PBSeCVj/s320/Screen+Shot+2013-12-30+at+2.49.37+PM.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The blonde on the left? Not @Nikkolascage. But it's a <a href="https://twitter.com/NLarks">Nicole</a> that lives in Calgary, so... close enough?</td></tr>
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So, some people go a bit deeper with artistic license. They take it a bit farther. They flat-line the lies until they aren't even in their own movie anymore. And while I would feel astonishingly violated and victimized if someone used my real life to depict their very own Truman Show, I also feel stubbornly empathetic. I imagine what it would be like to have someone tell me how beautiful I was. Except they weren't looking at me. To have someone comment on how much fun I am. Except they weren't talking about any fun I was actually having. I imagine what it would feel like to try desperately to make connections with people who didn't even know me. Because I had painted myself completely out of the picture.<br />
<br />
By the time they are ever comfortable enough to come clean and make a true connection with the people they had lied to lure in, it's too late. They're a fraud and they will only push people away. And if you are someone who lives almost solely on the internet, pushing the people online away means pulling the plug completely. You're not just breaking up with someone, you are breaking up with your life. And the only thing left that is authentic is your reputation.<br />
And you know what they say... the internet is forever.<br />
<br />
I have been guilty of shining up my life, especially when tragedy strikes. No one wants to hear your sorrowful bullshit and sometimes 'faking it to make it' is all you can muster. I try to balance it out with being honest when I look like hell and feel like hell and behave like an asshole. But at the end of the movie, I still want people to come away thinking I was exceptional, not an extra.<br />
<br />
The difference is when my movie ends, regardless what people will be thinking about me, it will still be me they are thinking about. And I reckon sometimes in our hope to make an impact and not be forgotten, we forget to be ourselves.<br />
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And no amount of false friends or followers will be able to fill the void left by vacating your own life. <br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="30" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/8nVodIKkW_Q" width="560"></iframe><br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2905948318203709429.post-75160624880085346702013-02-04T18:00:00.002-07:002013-02-04T18:00:35.365-07:00Former Mistreatment is Outdated.<div __gwt_cell="cell-gwt-uid-249" style="outline-style: none;">
<b><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #20124d;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i>"Give
it a fucking rest. You don't have to remind everyone of the date and
time of Greg's death. You fucking Facebooked it and less than 6 months
later, you're fucking someone else. Saying pretty words doesn't change
that shit."</i></span></span></span></b></div>
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This comment was left for me by an anonymous source. Of course it was. I wouldn't want to be accountable for this statement either. But I do think it has some merit and wanted to address it. I'm pretty sure whoever wrote this (and I have my suspicions) is not the only one who has assumed the worst of my behaviour in this regard.</div>
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When Greg died, I had the impression that a lot of people expected my grief to somehow equal the amount of love we shared, as if that's even possible. People
judge how people should behave all the time, but it is an interesting
thing when someone dies. There is weird protocol that is laid out but
never divulged. Everyone wants you to feel & act a certain way. People gauge
your mourning period like it somehow validates how you cared for the
deceased. Some don't want you to be happy until they feel you should be,
because otherwise you must not have valued your loved one enough.<div __gwt_cell="cell-gwt-uid-249" style="outline-style: none;">
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<div __gwt_cell="cell-gwt-uid-249" style="outline-style: none;">
Enough. It is impossible to be enough for some people.</div>
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Some expected me not to get out of bed for months. Some expected me not to laugh for weeks. Some thought I would obviously be alone for the rest of my life, eventually dying of heartbreak.</div>
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<div __gwt_cell="cell-gwt-uid-249" style="outline-style: none;">
This could have happened. I could have allowed myself to do exactly what I felt like doing and let my life and my soul just waste away. But I have said it before and I mean it: Greg would never have allowed himself to be with me if he didn't know that I was strong enough to make it without him. In fact, we discussed whether or not he would want me to date/marry/fall in love if he passed away. He was astonished I would have even asked such a question. </div>
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<div __gwt_cell="cell-gwt-uid-249" style="outline-style: none;">
"I would want you to be happy."</div>
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And that is what I have been striving for. Not just for me- for us. For the Sheena and Greg that still exists and is still very real to me. The Greg and Sheena that still have beer at the Druid and laugh and make jokes at our own expense. The Sheena and Greg that embrace even the abhorrent and turn it into appreciation. We were greater than the sum of our parts. And this will be a fiber of my being until I die.<br />
<br />
I will be Sheena and Greg for the rest of my life.<br />
<br />
But beside that, I am still me. I am still the girl that makes off coloured jokes and says shit you should never say at funerals and dinner parties. I am still the one who cries at pictures of baby meerkats. I am still the girl that burns grilled cheese sandwiches. I am still the girl who can't fall asleep without noise. I am still the girl that tweets like it's going out of style and makes friends and thinks people are the most amazing things ever.<br />
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I'm still the girl that loves. Often. Liberally. With abandon.<br />
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And I will continue to. I will continue to love men. And women. And affection. And sex. And this may upset people that can not understand how I can exhibit such behaviour after six short months. People may not understand how I can be happy with another after the relationship that I had with Greg. They have even expressed that they don't understand how I can adore one and mourn the other.<br />
<br />
Let me assure you, I can. And do.<br />
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People do not have to appreciate or respect my fumbling attempt at normalcy. But people are also in the fortunate position to not have to feel the void and longing that sits like a vacuum inside of me every fucking minute I am not asleep or ensconced in the love and support of my friends and family. I am still aching. I am tired of my own voice. I am still in healing and may never not be. But certain things lighten the load of this weight. And the love and affection and beauty of people are invaluable to me.<br />
<br />
So, while I do not feel the need to justify my behaviour, let alone to someone unwilling to even sign their name to such a vile and insipid comment, I do understand that death is a muddled emotional area and insight is valuable. People want to know that Greg's name and memory has not been disavowed. They want to know that he is still as big to me in death as he was in life. People want me to honour him the way he so deserved.<br />
<br />
And I just wanted to assure you all that if he were able, he would ease your minds. He would tell you he is just as loved and brilliant in my life as he was the first day I ever met him.<br />
<br />
And then he'd tell you to see the new Star Trek trailer. It's awesome.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2905948318203709429.post-32287517468937624022013-01-21T12:08:00.000-07:002013-01-21T12:09:24.893-07:00The Balance Between Lazy & Crazy.Kyle Cease discusses the balance between being apathetic & lazy, and being a hyper-dramatic spiritual pixie. Where's the balance? Where's the grey area?<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/E4PlWRn0IiA" width="560"></iframe><br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2905948318203709429.post-32198120608013036672013-01-16T13:03:00.000-07:002013-01-16T13:08:10.136-07:00My Friend Got Me Marijuana.No.<br />
<br />
No, I am not insinuating that marijuana in and of itself is a big fucking deal, in spite of what every asshole with a pot leaf flag and "CHRONIC" tee shirt would have you believe. Pot is pretty close to smoking potpourri if you take away the fact that we have spent billions of dollars on bullshit research trying to prove that it may or may not be the reason our kids are failing math.<br />
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The reason I am writing about this is because it's a big deal for ME. I have never been much of a pot smoker and when I did, I did it poorly. It's like watching a baby use chopsticks- it's clumsy, they're probably going to hurt themselves, and all you want to do is help them. Throw in an analogy about starving to death and it becomes clear the kind of infant I am with a joint in my hand.<br />
<br />
I don't even know how to roll a joint.<br />
<br />
I either smoke too little and feel nothing, or I smoke too much and can't speak. I become self-conscious and panicky. I stop conversing for fear that words will be misplaced or out-dated and people get nervous which makes me nervous and ohmyGod how has only three minutes passed since the last time I checked the clock I am going to be high forever can someone take me home now?<br />
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No exaggeration. Me on marijuana has traditionally been a fucking nightmare.<br />
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But I decided a while back that I wanted some for a few reasons:<br />
<br />
1. Because my sleep was horrific and it was more natural and less addictive than prescription sleeping meds. <br />
2. I may benefit from it's stress-relieving properties.<br />
3. This will be fucking hilarious.<br />
<br />
So, I am kicking around the idea of getting high one night, alone, and blogging the experience for posterity. One of the last times I got severely high, I watched Seinfeld and was astonished at how many inaccuracies and mistakes were in it and wrote them all down to send in to the producers. It was years after Seinfeld was already in syndication not to mention the fact that upon reading the seven pieces of scrawled upon looseleaf the next morning, not one word was legible. I am hilarious when I am high and I feel it would be a tragic disservice not to record it for you all to enjoy.<br />
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I'm not always such a bummer. Sometimes I encourage you to laugh at me.<br />
<br />
I will be giving more updates on when this will be occurring on <a href="https://twitter.com/Arbitral">Twitter</a> and <a href="https://www.facebook.com/Fiercecalm">Facebook</a>, so feel free to check in. Or not, because let's face it, this is a pretty stupid idea.<br />
<br />
See? I'm fitting in with the stoner community already.<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2905948318203709429.post-45262047836464701512013-01-11T11:40:00.001-07:002013-01-11T12:05:41.773-07:00Memory is a Terrible Thing When You Use it Right.I haven't blogged in a while. Dictating and recording a life is a little difficult when you are attempting to survive it. But I do feel remiss. Things have happened. This post won't be pretty, but I will do my best to make it beautiful.<br />
<br />
By now, everyone is aware that the love of my life died June 30th, 2012 at 1:36pm.<br />
Yes. I recall that date, that time, every few hours, every day. And not just because I have his time of death as an reminder on my phone. This tragedy shut me down a little. It changed me. It altered how I see the world. This is assumed. This is obvious. This is not surprising. This is not what this post is about.<br />
<br />
This post is about the miscarriage I suffered throughout the month of December and how I manage to convince myself that there is some reason to still get out of bed in the morning.<br />
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It wasn't a huge surprise. Nothing in my life ever really seems to be. All I knew to do was exhale. What better woman to be growing life inside her than the broken doll that felt life drain from her hands mere weeks before. In keeping with tradition, this development was not a secret to the people in my life. We made jokes. I was self-deprecating. There were deep conversations. There was more laughter. I cried. It was all we knew how to do.<br />
<br />
But at the end of November, I started bleeding. Again, not surprising. I was having trouble keeping myself sustained, I was shocked my body had even gotten as far as it had in growing new life. It was barely keeping the old one afloat.<br />
I went to the hospital. No heartbeat. I nodded. They gave me the list of warning signs and told me that there wasn't anything to do that nature wouldn't take care of on it's own. Come back if you have a fever. Watch your bleeding. Sorry for your loss. I didn't even get a pamphlet. The bleeding continued. Not a lot, but enough. My breasts stopped feeling sore. They never grew in size. I stopped gaining weight. I had no additional symptoms. My body just... quit.<br />
<br />
I knew the feeling.<br />
<br />
Weeks passed. The bleeding and the fatigue and the emptiness continued but never really got any better, nor any worse.Until one night when there was a additional gush of blood. Most normal people at this point would have been concerned. Concerned about their own health and safety. Concerned about the possibility of a mistake. Most people would have asked someone for help.<br />
I, of course, did not.<br />
<br />
Because tragedy was not a surprise.<br />
<br />
So I called and ran over the list of symptoms and the nurse explained that "every woman is different." That was an under-statement in my case. I let it go. I stopped eating. I stopped drinking. My sleeping was a mess. I constantly cried and laughed and felt generally horrible. I had financial setbacks. The holidays were killing me. I wanted to quit my life. Noting out of the ordinary or surprising and yet everything felt too new to predict or control. So I decided not to fight it. And I continued to bleed. Every day.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #660000;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>"How are you feeling?"</b></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #660000;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>"You look tired."</b></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #660000;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>"How are you holding up?"</b></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #660000;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>"Can I get you anything?"</b></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #660000;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>"What do you need?"</b></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #660000;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>"It will get better."</b></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #660000;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>"You are so strong."</b></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #660000;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>"We love you, Bee." </b></span></span><br />
<br />
Between the holidays, my disintegrating new dating life, general pity, and my health, I couldn't decipher when one symptom bled into another only to become actual blood and what, if anything, I could do about any of it. Every fiber of my being was a sullen extension of a dying woman that finished sentences and told jokes.<br />
<br />
After an excruciatingly long and hard month, I was ready for a reprieve. I had Christmas plans, I finally purchased gifts a week before Christmas day... it was almost over. 2012 was almost fucking over. I just needed to hold out a couple of more weeks.<br />
A friend from Prana Holistic here in Edmonton came by one night to give me reflexology. She was aghast at my physical reaction to her treatment and explained that something was definitely not okay. I agreed. Nothing was okay.<br />
<br />
That night I started to get a fever. I made the joke that her witchcraft was killing me and she was fired. The fever hit 103 degrees. Thinking it was sepsis from the miscarriage, I took the necessary precautions. If every woman was different, I was unrecognizable. I was sure this was par for the course. After all, wasn't everything? Nothing surprised me. So I slept and waited. Waited to get better. Waited for health. Waited for the holidays to come and go. Waited for my energy and my life to feel like mine again. I laid there thinking something wasn't right. I looked around and realized that nothing was right. So, I tried to sleep.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #660000;"><b>"How did you not know you were miscarrying this whole time?"</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #660000;"><b>"Didn't you feel something was wrong?"</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #660000;"><b>"How did you not go seek help?"</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #660000;"><b>"We love you, Bee." </b></span></span><br />
<br />
Christmas eve, as I was waiting for my friend to show with eggnog so we could ring in Santa's birthday in style, I began to feel cramping. Not hugely painful, but not quite ignorable either. I said aloud, <i>"Well, that's a feeling I haven't felt before..."</i><br />
But nothing surprised me anymore. I went to the washroom. <br />
<br />
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<br />
I froze.<br />
<br />
All I could see were tiny fingers amongst the bowl of my own blood, waving like a greeting and a good bye.<br />
<br />
I immediately felt the life of us both drain from the room. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #660000;"><b>"How are you feeling?"</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #660000;"><b>"You look tired."</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #660000;"><b>"How are you holding up?"</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #660000;"><b>"Can I get you anything?"</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #660000;"><b>"What do you need?"</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #660000;"><b>"It will get better."</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #660000;"><b>"You are so strong."</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #660000;"><b>"We love you, Bee."</b></span></span><br />
<br />
I could go into detail about retrieving it, mourning it, burying it. And I have considered it. Considered going into all the detail I so desperately longed for when I spent nights on websites and message boards digging for answers. And maybe one day I will. For the woman in small town Saskatchewan or Ontario or Minnesota three years from now who wants to know how different a woman she has to be before something is deemed wrong enough to worry about. <br />
<br />
It was hard to move like a hollow shell through the next few days. I only told the necessary people I needed to and let the rest enjoy their Christmases as much as they could. People asked me how I was doing as the first Christmas without Greg would be the hardest one. I agreed and smiled. I told them I was okay and I wondered if I was lying.<br />
<br />
<i>"Can I be done now?"</i>, I weeped.<br />
<br />
I thought it was over. Except it wasn't.<br />
<br />
I proceeded to have what can only be described as labour alone in my bathroom as my body writhed in pain in an expedited attempt to eject what was left of the life previously distilled. The pain and blood were indescribable. At one point, limp and ruined in a dark bathroom, I gave in to the reality that I may die. I even said good bye. Aloud. To no one. After four hours, I opened my eyes and could actually see again. The bathroom may have resembled a murder scene, but I was still alive. I would like to say I was relieved but something happens when you give up on your own life. Especially after you have witnessed a smaller life give up on you.<br />
<br />
The last few weeks I have experienced the typical physical, emotional, and hormonal adjustment period. Nothing surprising. I have had support. I have had love. I have had moments of laughter and joy. As with the tragedy of Greg's death, I feel I owe my sanity and my soul's armor to those around me who refused to let me whither and die. No matter how many times I decided to give up.<br />
<br />
Because that is what I have realized. Life doesn't have boundaries. It can't be contained in a dying body, or a forming child, or a listless woman in a pile of tears on the floor. It resonates and undulates in everything and everyone. The life force from my friend's fingers into my feet; the life force in the soup or slurpee brought to my door at midnight; the life injected through the hugs, the tears, the kisses, the gestures made by even people I have never met. Life has changed forms a lot in the past six months, but it hasn't left me. It hasn't quit.<br />
<br />
And neither have I. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #660000;"><b>"We love you, Bee." </b></span></span><br />
<br />
So for now, I will let the woman who still looks at the pictures of her
dead child every day look inside for a while at the life she has left. I will let her feel the love and the life that has kept her afloat while surrounded by death and the disintegration of the world she knew. <br />
Maybe she can heal first
before she attempts to heal the world. Or recreate it.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Maybe she can start to surprise herself. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2905948318203709429.post-54178028695794982922012-10-17T16:15:00.000-06:002012-10-17T16:15:14.044-06:00What Not to Listen to When You Are Low.<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/-Z7zThqVBhU" width="420"></iframe><br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2905948318203709429.post-48174047493055424412012-10-17T03:07:00.002-06:002012-10-17T03:07:47.183-06:00FollowFriday Says What.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg4pRVvqDYaLaWHeUeXBB7Yd5TbJbYlbc6Hzw_VLNWfZr9eGvqWT-pnzVa_08vN8BqLtgtycFyTw9hEijK2bkVhvLvkEavAArXSpTGoSNlSSkHE_3VQsZrf2455ECbyECrysFSeV7f40Dz/s1600/Picture+2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="321" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg4pRVvqDYaLaWHeUeXBB7Yd5TbJbYlbc6Hzw_VLNWfZr9eGvqWT-pnzVa_08vN8BqLtgtycFyTw9hEijK2bkVhvLvkEavAArXSpTGoSNlSSkHE_3VQsZrf2455ECbyECrysFSeV7f40Dz/s640/Picture+2.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.followfriday.com/followfriday/arbitral">http://www.followfriday.com/followfriday/arbitral</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I rank 435 in Canada and 48 375 in English ranking.<br />
They tweeted to alert me of this.<br />
<br />
If anyone has any idea what the shit this actually means, I would be grateful.<br />
I'd like to know if I have won free tickets to Honeymoon Suite or something. <br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2905948318203709429.post-32773835149536259502012-10-09T13:46:00.001-06:002012-10-09T13:48:08.321-06:00Words with Sadness.I remember being about 23 years old and writing pages and pages of nonsense. I would start by writing words and incoherent sentences. Sometimes without spaces between the words, because they didn't make sense anyway and it added an interesting element to my experience. I would get about 2 or 3 pages in before a theme would begin to form. Words became sentences and sentences became thoughts and thoughts would become ideas and all of a sudden I would have 7 or 8 pages of back to back scribbling and the world would make sense again.<br />
<br />
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<br />
I wrote a lot back then. I don't write as much now, because it's not 1997 and my typing skills have far surpassed my handwriting. I don't know if typing would have the same affect. I don't know if there was something more personal about holding a pen and feeling the paper press beneath the weight of the words. Like hanging up a cell phone after an angry call, it will never replace the satisfaction of slamming a receiver down and storming away in a huff.<br />
But maybe I could give it a try. See if the damage might come out to play in an environment where music isn't blasting, beer isn't flowing, and people aren't coaxing the laughter out instead. I don't wish to ignore my grief. I don't want to make my despondence feel unwelcome. I just don't know how to talk to them very well anymore. I haven't been this kind of sad in a very very long time. Like learning another language, if you don't use it, you lose it. I have lost my ability to talk with my sadness. To suss her out and make her okay again. <br />
<br />
Perhaps the tools I used then will work now.<br />
Perhaps not.<br />
<br />
But I figure I have to try something.<br />
<br />
You can only drink Gin & sing for so long.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2905948318203709429.post-14715118052836406602012-10-08T14:27:00.002-06:002012-10-08T14:27:54.303-06:00Paper Faces.This guy chose my Twitter avi to use for one of his Paper Faces, using the Paper app on ipad. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifR0zOAq1Q-wQq95uB3SCU1lSoRNw7hjOOgfzrnStI_b4hZSHgQGcCfXmhIUjnjZYfm-dHrWZCTOPQrFtM07_1KyKOIPFFQKSvw0hjKnTh209Rd-V43AeJNd4QycpTMUTgAgz5fpl5tp6P/s1600/paperfaces-arbitral-twitter-lg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="432" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifR0zOAq1Q-wQq95uB3SCU1lSoRNw7hjOOgfzrnStI_b4hZSHgQGcCfXmhIUjnjZYfm-dHrWZCTOPQrFtM07_1KyKOIPFFQKSvw0hjKnTh209Rd-V43AeJNd4QycpTMUTgAgz5fpl5tp6P/s640/paperfaces-arbitral-twitter-lg.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://mademistakes.com/articles/paperfaces-portrait-gallery.html">http://mademistakes.com/articles/paperfaces-portrait-gallery.html</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
I have this app.<br />
I can not do this.<br />
<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/1VpNH3EQUg8" width="420"></iframe><br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2905948318203709429.post-28706038585257126122012-10-08T13:15:00.001-06:002012-10-08T13:24:18.287-06:00To Be Grateful.This year will go down in my history as the hardest of my entire life. Learning what it means to have a part of yourself die with the last breath of the most important person to create the world as you now know it is a lesson I will never master.<br />
<br />
While I carry an ache now all too familiar and constant, I am filled with gratitude that is immeasurable. The support and love I have felt has been stunning & overwhelming. Recalling the battalion of lovable misfit brats that Greg & I have amassed over these last four years reaffirms that our love was bigger than we ever were.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #660000;">"I don't know how I am going to do this..."</span></span></b></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #660000;">"With an army behind you." </span></span></b></i></div>
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<br />
This Thanksgiving, I am grateful for you.<br />
For your texts. For your messages. For your calls. For your time spent. For your tears. For your music. For your arms. For your poetry. For your laughter. For your talents. For your sincerity. For your care. For your words. For your generosity. For your brilliance.<br />
<br />
For loving us.<br />
<br />
I would not be who I am today without you all.<br />
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<br />
<br />
I love you.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2905948318203709429.post-6443769240516482702012-09-26T14:53:00.002-06:002012-09-26T14:57:49.276-06:00Hunted.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV3KFR9G3KvTzv2WB2xw2CZPsWh0b7sIPO4HLEkY5OqzUt-FF6EjGtRbC9AWQ8XmadvmTC7sfjCuypZblWZcCZfKIKZpxHtlOYB84p3Cjz9IffoD17phMDlh4a38GokVbV1Kp2eS8L4vya/s1600/IMG_0133.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV3KFR9G3KvTzv2WB2xw2CZPsWh0b7sIPO4HLEkY5OqzUt-FF6EjGtRbC9AWQ8XmadvmTC7sfjCuypZblWZcCZfKIKZpxHtlOYB84p3Cjz9IffoD17phMDlh4a38GokVbV1Kp2eS8L4vya/s400/IMG_0133.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">As I wander through this apartment</span></div>
<div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">it feels like walking through time</span></div>
<div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Not forward, as most believe</span></div>
<div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Not sideways, as I believe</span></div>
<div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">But backward </span></div>
<div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Every morning the world looks imposing</span></div>
<div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Like I am getting further away</span></div>
<div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">By mere inches</span></div>
<div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Things seem to weigh a bit more</span></div>
<div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Lifting them becomes more difficult</span></div>
<div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">By mere grams</span></div>
<div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Time that used to feel so weightless</span></div>
<div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Time that used to feel so expansive</span></div>
<div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;">
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<div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">It is hunting me now</span></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2905948318203709429.post-19127371780004104072012-09-21T03:45:00.000-06:002012-09-21T04:09:59.661-06:00Interview With Sheena: Chapter 1.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpCGyDm9cKGY-F9qXzMCDW4ztTaYyVcKzKhBpycLRgrA5DkhdEN8twGUPX1NS2xxE8HS0KiBYKbkDGPKPCiaAQc6ZDOsaCRcnfoDMQ55mEs7pU5V6T3HzSGZUGqC0PQYjyQzdtS4QqV0Yo/s1600/vintage_microphone_buckle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpCGyDm9cKGY-F9qXzMCDW4ztTaYyVcKzKhBpycLRgrA5DkhdEN8twGUPX1NS2xxE8HS0KiBYKbkDGPKPCiaAQc6ZDOsaCRcnfoDMQ55mEs7pU5V6T3HzSGZUGqC0PQYjyQzdtS4QqV0Yo/s320/vintage_microphone_buckle.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div style="color: #660000; font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
"So, what gets you up in the morning?"</div>
"Worry. That is the simplest and most clear answer I can give you. Worry about whether it will be another wasted day. Worry about the things I am ignoring that will be of detriment to the future me that, unless I quit life, will be forced to deal with my fears. Worry that I will slip into the depression everyone expects of me. Worry for my family. Worry that I am creating, out of a good intention that I told Greg on his deathbed, a lie: that I would be okay."<br />
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<div style="color: #660000; font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
"What are you excited for?"</div>
"Not much. Initial excitement soon gives way to terror as the rest of my life unfolds like a map that has been rammed haphazardly into the glove compartment. And as anyone who knows me can attest, I am not good with direction at the best of times."<br />
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<div style="color: #660000; font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
"Any events coming up?"</div>
"Music shows. Amanda Palmer at the 29th of this month in Vancouver. Matt Anderson. Dan Mangan. Gaslight Anthem with Hotwater Music. A best friend's wedding. Football games with my dad and pub nights with friends..."<br />
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<div style="color: #660000; font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
"So...?"</div>
"Oh, my dad just set me up with a therapist. That is something to be both terrified and excited about. Like any relationship."<br />
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<div style="color: #660000; font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
"None of this sounds like you are planning your next move in life."</div>
"That is not an accident."<br />
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<div style="color: #660000; font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
"You're not?"</div>
"No."<br />
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<div style="color: #660000; font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
"Not to judge, but what is stopping you? What is the hardest part?"</div>
"Fear makes my decisions for me right now. Not making a decision is making a decision. So, not checking the mail/ phone calls/ voicemail makes a lot of decisions for me. Not checking the bank account keeps the laughter around a bit longer. Hiding creates a cocoon. My next life is a horrifying endeavor. Imagine the strength most people need to clean out a storage closet. I need to clean out my life."<br />
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<div style="color: #660000; font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
"What do you miss most about Greg?"</div>
"I can't answer that. Their is no hierarchy of love, nor pain. Heightened emotion creates action, and action builds the elements of your life. My entire life is absent from a huge life force that helped to design the blueprints of a building now crumbled to the ground, with all of the architectural plans disintegrating with it."<br />
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<div style="color: #660000; font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
"That sounds brutal."</div>
"It ain't easy."<br />
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<div style="color: #660000; font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
"How are you feeling? Does anyone ask that? Is that a stupid question?"</div>
"It's not a stupid question, though it is an idealistic one. It assumes I have an answer or, even less likely, will be able to articulate it. I am numb. Or distracted. Or hidden. Or destroyed. I am only sad alone, though. Very very few people see me at my worst. It is not a natural role for me."<br />
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<div style="color: #660000; font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
"What is your natural role?"</div>
"Life of the party. Fun beam. Cockeyed optimist. Love addict. Inspirational speaker and motivational role model. Okay, those last things are kind of a joke, but only kind of. My brother used to refer to me as a muse. He said my talent was making others better people."<br />
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<span style="color: #660000; font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">"And you are not this now?</span><br />
"I am not comfortable being a source of inspiration for people, as I am not confident I am a role model for anyone. Being "strong" or "inspiring" to people now seems to mean that I am not suicidal or a drug addict or a cutter. The intention is the same, but the filter through which I communicate has changed. There is a prism of sadness, and grief, and regret, and pity that changes my intent. It is not my current strength, let's leave it at that."<br />
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<div style="color: #660000; font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
"So you don't make people feel better anymore?"</div>
"Usually it is by being the emotional barometer of the room. At the funeral, the wake, pub nights... if I am able to look like I am okay, maybe everyone can believe it WILL be okay, and thus, they can be okay, too." <br />
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<div style="color: #660000; font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
"Do people still come to you with their problems?"</div>
"Often. Sometimes too much. Sometimes selfishly, saying things like 'We are totally sharing in our grief...' when I assure you we are not."<br />
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<div style="color: #660000; font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
"You are not sharing the grief?"</div>
"No. Not being able to see a guy that you saw at punk rock shows 6 times a year by accident is not something that can be shared with a woman who had her entire life pulled out from under her and has spent the last few months hiding under it."<br />
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<div style="color: #660000; font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
"It does seems a bit insensitive."</div>
"You have no idea."<br />
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<div style="color: #660000; font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
"Examples?"</div>
"No names, but I have had a girl say that her pain was paramount because I was prepared, where as she was SHOCKED. I had another compare the death of her 15 year old boyfriend to Greg's death because she also considered him the love of her life. As though a 15 year old and a 35 year old would have the first fucking thing in common when it comes to love, let alone the destruction of a life build on plans and dreams and hope. Hope means something different at 15 than 35. Trust me. I was 15."<br />
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<div style="color: #660000; font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
"Ouch."</div>
"The cake was probably a girl telling me that they know how I must feel because they, too, understand my despondence due to working in a warehouse/trade with men who don't believe in the plight of the female tradeswomen."<br />
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<div style="color: #660000; font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
"They compared the death of your fiance to their male dominated job environment?"</div>
"It's ongoing, dude. Some days I have to defend my absurd tweets with the hashtag #widowtweets because people believe they have a more depressing story. Like the traffic ticket they got that day."<br />
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<div style="color: #660000; font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
"I don't have words. I just... that is nuts."</div>
"They say the stages of death include anger. I am in no way angry at Greg, or 'God', or the care of the medical team at the UofA, or Life, or any of that shit. What I am angry at is the insensitive and narcissistic characters I am coerced into dealing with about this tragedy."<br />
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<div style="color: #660000; font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
"Have you gone off on them?"</div>
"Not yet."<br />
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<div style="color: #660000; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
"Yet?"</div>
"Yet."<br />
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<div style="color: #660000; font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
"I would be excited to witness that."</div>
"A few close friends who have been present for many of these situations have shared in your enthusiasm. They feel I am long overdue."<br />
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<div style="color: #660000; font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
"Can we continue this later? I have a feeling you are getting sleepy."</div>
"I am. But I would like that."<br />
<br />
<div style="color: #660000; font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
"Thanks, Sheena."</div>
"Thank you."<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2905948318203709429.post-83853096411424656192012-09-19T02:25:00.000-06:002012-09-19T02:39:29.503-06:00"I look at myself, I did not see me anymore..."<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikubXXBovNKPQAmZ9GLpycmHdV0OZlEySl2po4KXzBVx9zI-fTbHnR_CM87yw_xKtGu7tT8UzmVfU4YxVoigSD7jn6_nVgb7h5zsyl6XoiUAF-tG1_9_D6nLOzloGfD8vbL036MiHJ9wcH/s1600/Picture+7.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikubXXBovNKPQAmZ9GLpycmHdV0OZlEySl2po4KXzBVx9zI-fTbHnR_CM87yw_xKtGu7tT8UzmVfU4YxVoigSD7jn6_nVgb7h5zsyl6XoiUAF-tG1_9_D6nLOzloGfD8vbL036MiHJ9wcH/s640/Picture+7.png" width="618" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[131].[1][2][1]{comment10151222602545056_8772774}..[1]..[1]..[0].[2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[131].[1][2][1]{comment10151222602545056_8772774}..[1]..[1]..[0].[2]."><span id=".reactRoot[131].[1][2][1]{comment10151222602545056_8772774}..[1]..[1]..[0].[2]..[3]"><span id=".reactRoot[131].[1][2][1]{comment10151222602545056_8772774}..[1]..[1]..[0].[2]..[3]."><span id=".reactRoot[131].[1][2][1]{comment10151222602545056_8772774}..[1]..[1]..[0].[2]..[3]..[2]">"At the twilight, a moon appeared in the sky;</span><br id=".reactRoot[131].[1][2][1]{comment10151222602545056_8772774}..[1]..[1]..[0].[2]..[3]..[3]" /><span id=".reactRoot[131].[1][2][1]{comment10151222602545056_8772774}..[1]..[1]..[0].[2]..[3]..[4]">Then it landed on earth to look at me.</span><br id=".reactRoot[131].[1][2][1]{comment10151222602545056_8772774}..[1]..[1]..[0].[2]..[3]..[5]" /><span id=".reactRoot[131].[1][2][1]{comment10151222602545056_8772774}..[1]..[1]..[0].[2]..[3]..[6]">Like a hawk stealing a bird at the time of prey;</span><br id=".reactRoot[131].[1][2][1]{comment10151222602545056_8772774}..[1]..[1]..[0].[2]..[3]..[7]" /><span id=".reactRoot[131].[1][2][1]{comment10151222602545056_8772774}..[1]..[1]..[0].[2]..[3]..[8]">That moon stole me and rushed back into the sky.</span><br id=".reactRoot[131].[1][2][1]{comment10151222602545056_8772774}..[1]..[1]..[0].[2]..[3]..[9]" /><span id=".reactRoot[131].[1][2][1]{comment10151222602545056_8772774}..[1]..[1]..[0].[2]..[3]..[10]">I looked at myself, I did not see me anymore;</span><br id=".reactRoot[131].[1][2][1]{comment10151222602545056_8772774}..[1]..[1]..[0].[2]..[3]..[11]" /><span id=".reactRoot[131].[1][2][1]{comment10151222602545056_8772774}..[1]..[1]..[0].[2]..[3]..[12]">For in that moon, my body turned as fine as soul.</span><br id=".reactRoot[131].[1][2][1]{comment10151222602545056_8772774}..[1]..[1]..[0].[2]..[3]..[13]" /><span id=".reactRoot[131].[1][2][1]{comment10151222602545056_8772774}..[1]..[1]..[0].[2]..[3]..[14]">The nine spheres disappeared in that moon;</span><br id=".reactRoot[131].[1][2][1]{comment10151222602545056_8772774}..[1]..[1]..[0].[2]..[3]..[15]" /><span id=".reactRoot[131].[1][2][1]{comment10151222602545056_8772774}..[1]..[1]..[0].[2]..[3]..[16]">The ship of my existence drowned in that sea..."</span></span></span></span></span></span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPZ-2liHUilPtZo1RphOsOI0SEwSjIvFTfZKL5NQZXW2-suX8MSgvmP5whvnkAXGCzbeKDhOhXt2jqUxg8wuleZHqwaS_RQzloiCfIKOUgWpFJUZSfYO1fGU6K0KL8knib5Ws5Jb8wijIG/s1600/Picture+5.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPZ-2liHUilPtZo1RphOsOI0SEwSjIvFTfZKL5NQZXW2-suX8MSgvmP5whvnkAXGCzbeKDhOhXt2jqUxg8wuleZHqwaS_RQzloiCfIKOUgWpFJUZSfYO1fGU6K0KL8knib5Ws5Jb8wijIG/s640/Picture+5.png" width="546" /></a></div>
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<div style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>"Better by far you forget and smile</b></span></div>
<div style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Than you should remember and be sad.."</b></span></div>
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Thank you, friends. Friends who somehow know I am up at 2:30am in need of sweet words.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFaezrpoCKbZXxkkBTmt8YVqj4lR00UfjVFWtdOmaBvM-AXEm01_K45jxUdNOZSwH-yA81P3ztfCb2x2x8DdyDqN_D4iQJauAoMnXeCBmFLfPkh-G09vsHKRCYv2ChI5hZI0TfEU8f-H19/s1600/kills-us.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="512" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFaezrpoCKbZXxkkBTmt8YVqj4lR00UfjVFWtdOmaBvM-AXEm01_K45jxUdNOZSwH-yA81P3ztfCb2x2x8DdyDqN_D4iQJauAoMnXeCBmFLfPkh-G09vsHKRCYv2ChI5hZI0TfEU8f-H19/s640/kills-us.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://twitter.com/Mike_FTW">https://twitter.com/Mike_FTW</a></td></tr>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2905948318203709429.post-20480776308526740612012-09-17T14:48:00.001-06:002012-09-17T14:48:20.936-06:00ProjectBee.So, one night, high on Temazapam and loving the world, I decided to start ProjectBee. I thought that due to the overwhelming support and adoration I have received from people all over the world, it would be a fantastic gesture to connect with them in a small way. And who doesn't love snail mail? Might as well use it while we got it. <br />
<br />
So, I sounded the alarm (put it up on Twitter and Facebook) and the response was overwhelming. Levels I will have a hard time keeping up with. But I am up for the challenge. All I ask is that you all have patience with me. It may not be the grand opus you were hoping for, and/or it may take a bit longer than expected, but please know that this is important to me. And soon your mailbox will be full of bees! <br />
<br />
But in a good way. <div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfP_XyW8i_px5hOoKcqCyNjy_VvSZKCTo8HNZwE_X4Gux7C2I3q6vlgLtwz-fMMeu7_pICTTBoBDw7VdnpBZBPLChFDNwhfbp_NBNcNIQ1Che28Trcd9DGY_LHO1jNZDBJIDTWr2SMC8rP/s640/blogger-image-14141521.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfP_XyW8i_px5hOoKcqCyNjy_VvSZKCTo8HNZwE_X4Gux7C2I3q6vlgLtwz-fMMeu7_pICTTBoBDw7VdnpBZBPLChFDNwhfbp_NBNcNIQ1Che28Trcd9DGY_LHO1jNZDBJIDTWr2SMC8rP/s640/blogger-image-14141521.jpg" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2905948318203709429.post-84884412119910312352012-09-17T00:08:00.001-06:002012-09-17T00:08:54.126-06:00Eggplant of Love.<div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3QC8mXt9AE_gvpE0pmY8ATyW1TwiyEio9Mav56ZCL3WRpXsp1da3jGdzWNIdxSs4CYEX0dbtJxE2e8__iHKjGZkZjQrQQYKak2NlMgpq1qFYoOtFTmuMO6OBV0RYQj_JfL2Hm48X_6-Uf/s640/blogger-image-809729854.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3QC8mXt9AE_gvpE0pmY8ATyW1TwiyEio9Mav56ZCL3WRpXsp1da3jGdzWNIdxSs4CYEX0dbtJxE2e8__iHKjGZkZjQrQQYKak2NlMgpq1qFYoOtFTmuMO6OBV0RYQj_JfL2Hm48X_6-Uf/s640/blogger-image-809729854.jpg" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2905948318203709429.post-83037402689852903882012-09-13T14:26:00.000-06:002012-09-13T14:26:41.978-06:00"You're my new favourite..."I do not pity my situation. In fact, I do not pity anyone's situation. More often than not, I am that annoying bastard that sees the opportunities and the silver linings and the possibilities that unfold in front of us all when adversity strikes.<br />
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I mean, sure, I probably drink too much, but I am overall a pretty emotionally stable and mentally solid individual.<br />
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<br />
But I am struggling. And not in the way most people have probably expected.<br />
<br />
I have spent the last 4 years taking care of someone else. It was not one sided, as anyone who spent more than 2 minutes around us would have immediately realized, but I think one of the reasons that Greg & I worked so well together is that we found a beautiful agreement: you take care of me and I will take care of you. At the end of the day, everything and everyone was taken care of and we would fall asleep content with the life we had and excited for the life that was consistently evolving for us.<br />
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I didn't realize that this was a bit of a cop out for us. It kept us from having to make ourselves the priority in our own lives. <br />
<br />
Now that I am left on my own, I realize that taking care of myself and my future is not the reason I do anything.<br />
Anything.<br />
<br />
I get up because if I don't then my family will think I am sinking. I go out because if I don't then my friends will worry about me. I laugh hard and often because I am afraid that one day I might forget how. I have bills in stacks. I have calls to make. I have voice mails left unheard. I have mail left unchecked. I have dishes left to do.<br />
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And some days, I get a bit of a lift and I do these things. I do them before anyone really has a chance to realize anything was wrong.<br />
<br />
Someone asked my friend how I was doing.<br />
"She's good..." she replied.<br />
<br />
I was livid. This is not just a lie, but it is also so destructive to what I am trying to remind myself... that I am NOT okay. That this is NOT normal. That this life is NOT going to sustain itself for much longer.<br />
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I have had a couple of amazing people surface and resurface into my wee tangled life as of late that remind me that there is not only pain elsewhere in the world, but also brilliance and love and excitement and hope. Small gestures like a hand held or a compliment or a 6 hour phone conversation like I am sixteen again... there are joys. There are genuine moments of feeling beautiful and adored and loved and desired and included and necessary in someone else's life again.<br />
<br />
Is this selfish? Maybe. But it might be necessary.<br />
To remind me that I am not half of something.<br />
<br />
Just a whole something that hasn't realized it yet.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2905948318203709429.post-72630722764226610892012-08-28T01:44:00.001-06:002012-08-28T01:47:49.187-06:00And this is just a glimpse into what can happen when you let yourself be vulnerable and you let your life expand.Even if the part of your life has some sadness in it.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu3-ZK0o4lbAybrFCzrJ79k77-7tN5Rs_SzBQS0TQj2OtqCZpHaoh6R2YIekXhCg3CKjE7x-aOHxxkO3ZdNgaC0M7UtwQBQ_R7MySO5lilmegykrnjomVygNAiGh5wRb5kYg3GBEGLm_OX/s640/blogger-image--84156017.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu3-ZK0o4lbAybrFCzrJ79k77-7tN5Rs_SzBQS0TQj2OtqCZpHaoh6R2YIekXhCg3CKjE7x-aOHxxkO3ZdNgaC0M7UtwQBQ_R7MySO5lilmegykrnjomVygNAiGh5wRb5kYg3GBEGLm_OX/s640/blogger-image--84156017.jpg" width="613" /> </a></div>
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Thank you, soon to not be a stranger. </div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2905948318203709429.post-58015103115781669852012-08-27T16:46:00.000-06:002012-08-27T17:27:24.827-06:00"Life is Slippery. Here, Take My Hand."If I put this entry off any longer, I will never write it.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnc1R6J_vQQNc5omXkMfD_dts714QLNcDuIFEsNuaZ8brHLLHMf4wZvaQmH1ORUWoeV9td77Ze8eQ0bZgwgXnpVsTQcobml7pUbjcqtfIU0RtNJHlFtjcomkKPyAAm8nE4gBscU_OzfI5k/s1600/lifeisslippery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnc1R6J_vQQNc5omXkMfD_dts714QLNcDuIFEsNuaZ8brHLLHMf4wZvaQmH1ORUWoeV9td77Ze8eQ0bZgwgXnpVsTQcobml7pUbjcqtfIU0RtNJHlFtjcomkKPyAAm8nE4gBscU_OzfI5k/s1600/lifeisslippery.jpg" /></a></div>
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I still don't really know what story I want to tell here. The one about the love I had with Greg, the one that tells the tale of his last days, or the one that describes how it is getting harder to get out of bed every day rather than easier. I feel I may run out of words. Or will.<br />
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So this will be part one. The days leading up to his death. The technicalities. Some of the answers to the questions such as 'how did it happen?' and 'how did he go so quickly, he was doing so well?' The moment of his death is a chapter all its own, and I will do my best to summon the emotional strength to delve into that pool one more time for you.<br />
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On Monday the 11th he was having a lot of trouble breathing. After seeing his doctors, they upped his anti-rejection meds and steroids and the line between his sickness and his side effects started to blur. It was a hard week. He barely slept. He had to sit down from breathlessness from just going to the washroom. He didn't eat. He was miserable and uncomfortable all the time.<br />
"I have a follow up appointment on Tuesday, Mee. Let's just give it the weekend for the meds to do their thing..."<br />
So we did.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtDxwASQoG8tigl4_IDr7aOsWsG-1uLfPrvO5iMLHqa109mJftUdlx-htjtBagozQZKXGsUbdbaSft32EUPpKho5zatdJ7LzAUTiieEIk5xwEXsMPEs_pvPoqSx88qf4sql0kW0UBqztB1/s1600/Picture+1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtDxwASQoG8tigl4_IDr7aOsWsG-1uLfPrvO5iMLHqa109mJftUdlx-htjtBagozQZKXGsUbdbaSft32EUPpKho5zatdJ7LzAUTiieEIk5xwEXsMPEs_pvPoqSx88qf4sql0kW0UBqztB1/s400/Picture+1.png" width="391" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The last photo he ever took with the caption "Good morning sunshine #nofilter #rejection?"<br />
<a href="http://ink361.com/#/users/1125425/photos">http://ink361.com/#/users/1125425/photos</a></td></tr>
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On Saturday evening while he was sitting at our kitchen table, I caught an expression on his face. One I had never seen before.<br />
"Baby, are you scared?" I asked him.<br />
He started to tear up and he nodded.<br />
"I just don't want to leave you." <br />
Leave me. Not die. He was never afraid to die. But this was the first time I had ever seen him afraid that he might not make it. And it terrified me.<br />
<br />
On Monday I came home from work at 10am. He was having what I can only describe as an escalating panic attack from not being able to catch his breath. I called the ambulance. Once they came I packed his overnight bag, as I always did when he had to stay at the hospital, and went to meet him in Emergency. On the 15 minute drive to the hospital I saw three dead animals on the road. I started to cry.<br />
<br />
When we got in to see him, there was something not quite right. He was agitated. He wasn't faintly smiling like he always did. He looked worried. These are things Greg almost never expressed when he was in the hospital. It was always much more important for him to feign casual comfort for the emotional stability of his family. He would always fake a smile, crack a joke, anything just to see me smile, too. And he could barely look at me.<br />
"It's just because he hasn't gotten any sleep and he has been miserable this entire week," James said. I nodded.<br />
But that wasn't it.<br />
<br />
By the next morning the doctor decided it would be best to sedate him while the body healed. This is also known as putting someone in a medically induced coma. It was for the best, they said. It will just be for a couple of days, they said.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh50c-WAg21wGVRfp5mheiHnMMENl7y2pLREhqJU33kEwlm6VHBYUq95U3MArRHdbIoC9Epdj4sFqXuwI0Ka-m8lsnfdSMsLpORBtge37yk6NvIz3v2d7Dj4vgtSuGKryLCwy7jFIyfTZbg/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh50c-WAg21wGVRfp5mheiHnMMENl7y2pLREhqJU33kEwlm6VHBYUq95U3MArRHdbIoC9Epdj4sFqXuwI0Ka-m8lsnfdSMsLpORBtge37yk6NvIz3v2d7Dj4vgtSuGKryLCwy7jFIyfTZbg/s400/photo.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This was the last text I ever received from him.</td></tr>
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<br />
That was the last time I saw him awake. The last time I told him I loved him and knew he could hear me. The last time I felt him squeeze my hand back.<br />
<br />
In lieu of telling the same minutia of medical and emotional drama that followed the next 2 weeks, I will share with you excerpts of the Evernote I was sharing with Greg titled "The Hospital Diaries." My plan was to document life as he slept so when he awoke he would have stories and something to fill in a few of the blanks he may have. Excuse the typos. I have left it unedited for posterity.<br />
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<b><span style="color: #660000;">Note: The Evernote audio files are usually just me singing our silly songs to him and telling him I love him through muffled tears and outright sobs until I compose myself and apologize and tell him I will try to do this again tomorrow. It always ended up the same way. </span></b><br />
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<b><br /></b></div>
<b style="color: #660000;">Note: I still have the plastic piece. I sits on a statue of Thor with a lock of his hair. It took me a week to move it from the floor after he died.</b><br />
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And that was as far as I got before it started to become much too scary for me for carry on. I couldn't conceive of documenting anything as just getting through the day was a feat. There were complications, "set backs", improvements, and the unexpected. It was a fucking ridiculous roller coaster and every day became a bit more grim than the last.<br />
Until the Friday when they said that his prognosis had stabilized and his oxygen was excellent. They took the dialysis machine off of him, they had quit his plasmapheresis and it looked like they could start taking him off sedation by Saturday. The family was so excited we went to the Tymofichuk's for a celebratory barbecue. We raised our glasses for Greg and my heart felt lighter than it had in weeks. <br />
<br />
And then James got off the phone with the hospital.<br />
<br />
"Greg had a stroke."<br />
<br />
By the time we got there, the doctors explained that the stroke may have been bleeding for days. The damage was "extensive." They couldn't guarantee that he would have the brain function to keep himself alive on his own.<br />
<br />
I recall standing beside Greg's bed, reading Tina Fey's Bossypants to him and laughing, when the devastating reality was explained to us. Behind me, I heard Marie collapse in wails. I heard Randy, the rock of the family, reduced to tears. I heard James start repeating "no... no..." until they, too, became ruined sobs. I rested my head beside Greg and stroked his hair, softly telling him that I loved him and that I would be okay and that he could go. I didn't even believe that I would be okay, but I knew that the only thing that would keep Greg clinging to this life was his desperation to stay with me and take care of me. I was so intent on making sure he knew he could move on that I don't even think I remembered to cry myself.<br />
<br />
"You have to make a decision..." the doctor said. We knew what she was talking about.<br />
<br />
As soon as it became clear that the Greg we knew had already slipped through our fingers, we left for a sleepness night only to return in the morning with a unanimous decision.<br />
<br />
"I would love that man if the only part of him that remained alive was his left foot but I would never do that to him."<br />
The family agreed.<br />
<br />
We were all together the next morning; Randy, Marie, James, Anne, and his best friend Nathan. The shock and sadness was trumped only by the overwhelming love and support everyone had in that room for each other. And for Greg.<br />
<br />
"Leave it to Greg to wait until we could all be together before he passed..." I said.<br />
"He was always so fucking considerate."<br />
<br />
It was good to hear everyone laugh.<br />
It would be awhile before we would do it again. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>cont...</i><br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2905948318203709429.post-63526377993312474082012-07-27T04:27:00.000-06:002012-07-27T04:27:27.451-06:00It's Official: I am an Annoying Insomniac.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2905948318203709429.post-74267206455448062962012-07-25T14:23:00.001-06:002012-07-25T14:25:27.975-06:00And *I* am the asshole.<div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoDFnIuDheRvRY444OTvYzbAwU6yWgnY_wEhZkgkqMAkykl6KmxSqqAp6-gGpudj5Tf0VtYsC2zVnQXVDburB7tAQFPXftYz5SSTq8Ar2kC70StgRWn5fqgKQFFLcwZIW4xjRFBZGSIuQU/s640/blogger-image-1943386460.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoDFnIuDheRvRY444OTvYzbAwU6yWgnY_wEhZkgkqMAkykl6KmxSqqAp6-gGpudj5Tf0VtYsC2zVnQXVDburB7tAQFPXftYz5SSTq8Ar2kC70StgRWn5fqgKQFFLcwZIW4xjRFBZGSIuQU/s640/blogger-image-1943386460.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW1iMybXo3X7nIdpGoKl2ZZMjN-WGSzlTWpiPmt04ZmnNBblsqdDv-JutnLR1BkM3Oe-Db2RUCckal_iG-F5LKbNtZg_WpdvMQ-pI-i1Pm_5VJL5yqn6EIqIRkN4QfZI_FVdThX_T4kFzl/s640/blogger-image--314832371.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW1iMybXo3X7nIdpGoKl2ZZMjN-WGSzlTWpiPmt04ZmnNBblsqdDv-JutnLR1BkM3Oe-Db2RUCckal_iG-F5LKbNtZg_WpdvMQ-pI-i1Pm_5VJL5yqn6EIqIRkN4QfZI_FVdThX_T4kFzl/s640/blogger-image--314832371.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj53PsENw3XwVBqEbJqgClAEgA_mCWwQrMfd_hrLBcN0yq-egNEDcbyseV3fK9ZSnrGpZyW9gAnWfZje5C4-OFNuAf5AKOKT-o6HkC3BRvHoMQw2kFPd8hnxX2oReisiV62YxUYtHs4vgOR/s640/blogger-image--1928013154.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj53PsENw3XwVBqEbJqgClAEgA_mCWwQrMfd_hrLBcN0yq-egNEDcbyseV3fK9ZSnrGpZyW9gAnWfZje5C4-OFNuAf5AKOKT-o6HkC3BRvHoMQw2kFPd8hnxX2oReisiV62YxUYtHs4vgOR/s640/blogger-image--1928013154.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjngVCPIwR_zSnulb9M9m8S66WJf0e7hDb4IdjdWyXPh0Om8EW_fiT9W1CMvQGn0OWEXnxWgu4KuY18xA5JM3A4xWJnwjmBM4EnEF84fq8hGC1W99mc5oVhyphenhyphenAy5F6Bb7C1yyA45I024YKhE/s640/blogger-image-796160074.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjngVCPIwR_zSnulb9M9m8S66WJf0e7hDb4IdjdWyXPh0Om8EW_fiT9W1CMvQGn0OWEXnxWgu4KuY18xA5JM3A4xWJnwjmBM4EnEF84fq8hGC1W99mc5oVhyphenhyphenAy5F6Bb7C1yyA45I024YKhE/s640/blogger-image-796160074.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUqkfnrmZjMZv8lZv27TeRqVnsvzZdKZvfgorOFV5El_yN_HQItwoT7lfAeDLsaMKw-0sqUn0G4IpzsMtkQy2l8_OlkgtJgbxRD6hkn8Y6PLsOIO_1mx4y7kbpAH-n9NpABiRz6dpTcpay/s640/blogger-image--112973946.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUqkfnrmZjMZv8lZv27TeRqVnsvzZdKZvfgorOFV5El_yN_HQItwoT7lfAeDLsaMKw-0sqUn0G4IpzsMtkQy2l8_OlkgtJgbxRD6hkn8Y6PLsOIO_1mx4y7kbpAH-n9NpABiRz6dpTcpay/s640/blogger-image--112973946.jpg" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2905948318203709429.post-15793429890150295472012-06-27T02:18:00.001-06:002012-06-27T02:18:23.022-06:00Talking About vs Talking TO.This happened.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2905948318203709429.post-33891909694917062132012-06-26T03:46:00.003-06:002012-06-26T03:52:58.585-06:00Note to Self: Letter to Everyone.If you want to be understood- understand.<br />
If you want to be forgiven- forgive.<br />
If you want to be loved- love.<br />
If you want to be supported- support.<br />
If you want to be energized- be the energy.<br />
If you want support- support each other.<br />
If you want to be heard- listen.<br />
If you want to laugh- be funny.<br />
If you want to be accepted- do not judge. <br />
If you want to feel beautiful- spread beauty.<br />
If you want to be healed- heal your loved ones.<br />
If you want to feel flattered- compliment others.<br />
If you want to be reminded that others really do care about you- love them so much that you feel your heart may rupture. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPtxeN3s-gYeBMadi5DI2JiMuD3MCD7LSFXdGqOhkalTMHxNlQaLRdCmnLGJtWSqtrJzDMUMwGf1IM5IjizaUIlFtYdrnV3Hzg8vOPmmqtGKZ8g_7flJlgJTdZNhuTa2ea6ZvPaReT9KLN/s1600/163448_492483278362_1708389_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPtxeN3s-gYeBMadi5DI2JiMuD3MCD7LSFXdGqOhkalTMHxNlQaLRdCmnLGJtWSqtrJzDMUMwGf1IM5IjizaUIlFtYdrnV3Hzg8vOPmmqtGKZ8g_7flJlgJTdZNhuTa2ea6ZvPaReT9KLN/s320/163448_492483278362_1708389_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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If you want the love of your life to come back home healthy and happy and full of hope for the future- give others a reason to live life unabashedly and honestly and fully and beautifully.<br />
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It does not start and end with us.<br />
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Even if some nights if feels that way.<br />
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I owe it to Greg to make sure the life he comes back to is more joyous than the one he almost left behind.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2905948318203709429.post-62654806073926339082012-06-25T02:15:00.000-06:002012-06-25T02:15:00.869-06:00The Vows Of Those Who Are Not Married. And May Never Be.<i><b>"Greg and Sheena have not come together to make a solemn promise or to exchange a sacred vow based upon antiquated tradition."</b></i><br />
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I have never been a marriage girl, but I have always had the heart of a child, and the devotion of a warrior. I have imagined what Greg and I might say to those who have witnessed our love these past 4 years, and what vows without vows might sound like.<br />
A wedding without a wedding.<br />
A ceremony without tradition.<br />
A declaration from one beautiful wandering mess to another... <br />
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<b><br />Our love for
each other: an active noticement to our truth; to declare our choice
to live and partner and grow together- out loud and in the presence of friends and family and foe,
out of our desire that we will all come to experience a very real and
intimate part of our joy, and thus make it even more powerful. Even more joyful. For all of us.</b>
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We love in the further hope that our bond will help bring us <em>all</em> closer together. If you are reading this tonight with a spouse or partner, let this be a reminder- a rededication- of your own loving bond. And how you have influenced us to love more, listen harder, forgive easier, and embrace more often.</b></div>
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<b><br />It is my firm belief that we are not entering into our relationship for reasons of security... that the only real security is not in owning or possessing, nor in being owned or possessed. Not in demanding or expecting, and not even in hoping, that what we think we need in life will be supplied by the other... but rather, in knowing that everything we need in life- all
the love, all the wisdom, all the insight, all the power, all the
knowledge, all the understanding, all the nurturing, all the compassion,
and all the strength- is present. And already resides here. With us. Whether we remember that or not.</b></div>
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<b>We are not together in the other in hopes of <em>getting</em> these things, but in hopes of <em>giving</em> these things, that the other might have them in even greater abundance. </b></div>
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<b>It is my firm understanding we have not entered into our relationship as a means of in any way
limiting, controlling, hindering, or restricting each other from any
true expression and honest celebration of that which is the highest and
best from within us, including each others' love of life, love of people, love of creativity, love of work, or <em>any</em> aspect of our being which genuinely represents us, and brings us joy. Including Greg's facial hair and my love of Twitter.</b></div>
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<b>I have said that I do not see marriage as producing <em>obligations</em> but rather as providing <em>opportunities</em>. Opportunities for growth, for full self-expression, for lifting our lives to their highest potential, for healing every false thought
or small idea we may have ever had about ourselves & others, and for ultimate reunion with humanity through the communion of our two souls and what that may inspire in others. A journey through life
with one you love as an equal partner, sharing equally both the
authority and the responsibilities inherent in any partnership, bearing
equally what burdens there be, basking equally in the glories.</b></div>
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<b>For love cannot be possessed, nor can it be restricted. And the soul's desire can never be manipulated, can never be entrapped. (Trust me, I have tried.)</b></div>
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So, to be my partner, my lover, my friend,
and my confident, I announce and declare my intention to give you, Greg, my
deepest friendship and love. Not only when your moments are high, but when they are low. Not only when you remember clearly Who
You Really Are, but when you forget. Not only when you are acting with love, but when you are selfish and rude and dismissive and thoughtless, or during whatever moments of darkness that may come. And in light of recent events, we know that they will.</b></div>
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<b>I recognize with full awareness that only a couple can administer
the sacrament of dedication to each other, and only a couple can sanctify
it. Neither a church, nor any power vested by the government, nor jewelry, nor social pressures, can
grant us the authority to declare what only two hearts can declare, and
what only two people can make real. WE make our own rules here. And we can break the shit out of those rules whenever we see fit. Even if just because one Saturday night we get drunk and just feel like it.</b></div>
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May those who are nearest to us be constantly enriched by the beauty
and the bounty of our love for one another, may our adoration be a source of joy in our life together that serves ourselves, our loved ones, and the world, and may our days together be good and long upon the Earth. </b></div>
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<b style="color: #660000; font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I love you. I miss you. I am Yours. </b><br />
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<b style="color: #660000; font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">~ Sheena</b>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2905948318203709429.post-55017402654305218722012-06-21T13:55:00.001-06:002012-06-21T13:57:20.482-06:00Karen Huff- Bus Monitor, Berated & Belittled on Schoolbus, gets the Vacation of a Lifetime.<iframe frameborder="0" height="429px" scrolling="no" src="http://www.indiegogo.com/project/124322/widget" width="224px"></iframe><br />
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I also wrote to the school. This can not be allowed to happen to anyone.<br />
This is disgusting. <br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1