Hey sorry to bother you but I wanted to ask if you could rec some good sources on learning more about Indian Culture/history/customs. Movies books anything really. I have looked online but well, I always take things on the internet with several grains of salt. And considering I know very little on it, I can't say how reliable the information is. I would like to incorporate elements of Kate being Indian when writing about Kate (and Kate and Anthony) going forward and I want to do it in as respectful and accurate a way as I can. For example, I had a thought of Anthony seeing Kate and her fam celebrate Holi and falling in love with how happy and carefree she is and brushing some paint off her cheek before she dunks some pigment onto him or something 1/2

But considering I've never celebrated Holi or seen it celebrated before I don't think I'd do a good job to write it... I know I get annoyed when people get the basic customs and traditions of my culture wrong. Anyway sorry for rambling TLDR: I would like to learn more about Indian culture and idk where to begin so I would be grateful for any direction you can point me at 2/2

so this has taken me a while to answer because i needed to find time to sit down, think about it and answer it properly. it might seem like a somewhat simple question, but to me, at least, it’s complicated? (i’m probably going to be going over stuff you probably already know, but i’m trying to answer in a complete way.)

i need to start off by saying that my family is from north india (gujarat specifically), and because of that, i have a certain level of privilege, including how north indians and north indian culture is portrayed in the media (obviously including bollywood). i mention this because simone ashley is south indian, specifically tamil, and there is so much prejudice against south indians in general, and this obviously extends to how they are depicted and how their culture is shown in various forms of media; colourism (which simone has spoken out about) is just the start of it. (also, as someone who is north indian, i’m not the best placed person to talk about the prejudice and discrimination faced by south indians.)  

a big part of why desi fans are so excited about simone’s casting as kate is because she a dark-skinned woc, and typically, dark-skinned women aren’t cast as romantic leads, and they’re not cast in shows anyway, especially when compared to light-skinned woc. so the fact that she’s going to be a lead in one of the biggest shows on netflix is a big.fucking.deal. in addition, they changed her character’s surname from ‘sheffield’ to ‘sharma’, which on the surface seems like a great idea, but if you look a little deeper, there are so many problems to be found.

(this got long so continues below)

sharma is not a generic indian surname; it’s specifically a north indian hindu name, which throws up questions. is kate going to be a hindu on the show? does this mean her family is from north india?  are they going to talk about caste on the show because sharma is a brahmin surname? how are they going to explain kate being in england, and being out in society with the upper crust of the british aristocracy? (because of the time that bridgerton is set, and with them specifically setting up kate as indian, i honestly don’t know how they’re going to explain kate’s presence) i honestly think that the show didn’t think too deeply about it and they chose the name sharma because it starts with ‘sh’ and ~sounds indian. however, it’s thrown up so many questions that they can’t ignore, especially because they tried to explain race in the first season. 

i talk about all this because you ask about holi, and incorporating elements of kate being indian when writing. and i’m not trying to be mean, but i would maybe hold off altogether? i need to point out that holi is a hindu festival, and is not specifically tied to being indian. i know i mentioned that sharma is a hindu surname, but we don’t even know if kate is going to be hindu, she may be a christian, or another religion or an atheist. also, because simone is tamil, they may decide to have kate be south indian despite the north indian origins of sharma, if they chose to address it at all. and depending on where in india you are from, and your religion, you will celebrate different festivals. even indians of the same religion celebrate different festivals, and some celebrate occasions at different times (e.g. gujaratis celebrate hindu new year the day after diwali. this isn’t the case for most other hindus. if we take holi, i know that it tends to be celebrated more in north india, and the image you describe isn’t necessarily universal). 

there has been a lot in the tags regarding clothing, and seeing kate and her family wearing indian clothing, and while i get it, it makes me nervous. personally, i cannot wait to see kate in the same style of dresses that everyone else wore in season one. why? because seeing an indian woman in that period of dress is something i have been longing for. i don’t want to see an indian woman wearing a lengha or a sari or sabyasachi in that time period, i want to see her in a bonnet and empire waistline, because that is something we haven’t seen much of. 

also, talking about seeing kate and her family wearing indian clothing has the potential to ‘other’ her, and tbh, can come across sometimes as fetishy, especially when you consider the time the story takes place in, and all the implications of colonialism. (there’s also the fact that unless the show has hired indian costume designers, it would be kinda gross for them to use any kind of indian clothing, and that includes adding elements to the era-typical dress that i’m hoping for.) 

i’m going to be honest, i’ve seen pieces of fanart with kate wearing a sari and other indian clothing, while anthony has been in typical regency dress, and it makes me uncomfortable. it gives off coloniser vibes, and that’s a dynamic i have absolutely no interest in. there’s also the fact that i’ve seen art where simone as kate has been shown as light-skinned, to the point where she appears to be the same colour as anthony, and i mean, hello?!

full disclosure, i’ve made some posts regarding headcanons and music that i should have thought twice about. i’ve reblogged stuff that i should have thought more about before i did so. why? because they had overtones of north indian privilege, and/or orientalism. being indian (wherever in india that is) is part of someone’s identity, it’s not a gimmick to sprinkle onto things, and it’s not something to festishise, and i think, at least from what i’ve seen, that is the concern a lot of desi fans have, even if that’s not the intention of the original posters.   

i realise i’ve gone on a seemingly massive tangent, but what i’m trying to say is, i don’t think there is a need to specifically reference kate being indian, especially when when writing canon-era fic, even more so when you consider we don’t know how the show is going to address it. now, i’m not saying i have faith in the show when it comes to kate and her ~indian surname, just that until we know how the show addresses it, i don’t see why it needs to be referred to? i understand why one might want to, but i just think there are waaay too many potential pitfalls, and the risk of coming across as orientalist/patronising/fetishy too high. some fans have fears when it comes to kate sharma and how she is presented, and for good reason.

sorry for not answering how you expected, and not giving you the resources you asked for (which, tbh, i’m not sure i would know where to start). i get what you were trying to ask, and i thank you for asking in the first place, but the question felt a little unfair tbh. but, i would encourage to read up on orientalism, also about the privilege that north indian hindus have, and honestly, the british colonisation of india.

ETA: i put this in the reblog but im going to add it here as well

also, something i forgot to add, even though i talk about north indians/north india and south indians/south india, it is obviously more complicated than that. there are many different states in india, and even then, different regions within those states will have different customs to each other. and then you have to factor in religion. likewise, there’s no one language that everyone in india speaks. basically, it’s not one universal culture that can be ‘boiled down to the essentials’.

He is the one.

Sander’s POV from Zaterdag 23:11

Will be multi-chaptered, sharing Sander’s POV in various key season three scenes.

......................

Of course, Britt didn’t want to come. 

“Spray painting garbage trucks? No way!” she said, half-laughing, half-scoffing after Sander had told her about the night’s plans. 

“I’m sure Noor will be there,” Sander offered, hoping to convince her to come with him.

After Britt had met Noor during the summer at a camp, they’d become fast friends, and Noor was now regularly a tag-along on their hangouts.

“Noor is coming with me to a party some kids from my school are throwing,” Britt responded quickly. “Maybe I can find her a man!” she smirked. “Plus, I am not going to get high from paint fumes in some abandoned warehouse with strangers. No thanks.” She continued on, laser-focused on applying her lipstick in the mirror of her room.

Well, that was that. Once again, his girlfriend refused to acknowledge who Sander was. Who he really was.

Getting together with Britt had happened fast, and at the time, it had seemed like the right thing. On the surface, they were a good match. But more and more, Sander was realizing that Britt was not the least bit interested in what Sander was interested in. Deeply, he felt the desire to be understood, to be admired for the talents, the wishes, the dreams he had. To have someone appreciate what he cared about. 

He was trying to push down the creeping, sinking feeling he sometimes felt with Britt. So often, when he would talk about art, or Bowie, or his whirlwind thoughts, she would simply brush off what Sander said or did, mentally cataloguing it as part of his mental illness. A phase he was going through. A whim. A delusion. Something that would pass. It made him anxious; would she ever know him? Love him truly for who he was?

Of course, Britt had initially been supportive when he’d told her about his illness, but quickly, it seemed to burden her. He could tell. And he hated it. But he carried on, thinking it was better to be with her, then to be alone. 

So as Britt put on heels and kissed Sander goodbye, he pulled on his boots and leather jacket, and pushed out in the October night alone. As he walked down the sidewalk, his bag bumping rhythmically against his thigh, he was struck by the intensely bright light radiating from the moon onto the street, spreading a neon glow onto everything it touched. It was a round and full, and for a reason Sander couldn’t explain, seemed to fill him with promising energy. Maybe this night would change things.

.........

The warehouse was now filling with a handful of various groups, all donning masks and wielding spray cans. 

In addition to protecting themselves from paint fumes, it was common with these gatherings that everyone involved wore masks and dark clothing, shielding themselves from recognition. Sure, Sander knew most of them anyway, as they were fellow students at his school, but it was tradition. It made these clandestine meet-ups more secret, more fueled by mystique. 

After tagging the garbage trucks with a few of his designs, covering his hands with smatterings of paint, he was taking photos, documenting the intricate work of the trucks. It felt sort of magical, the bright light from the moon shining down through the giant skylights in the ceilings, illuminating the colors swirling across the trucks. 

He felt light. These were the kinds of night that grounded him when he felt like his thoughts were getting to be too much. The night, the stillness, the atmosphere he could get lost in -- the moments he could focus on creating, using his hands, it brought calm to his insides. He wish Britt could have been here with him, that he could have shared his good moments with someone. But for now, he could be alone. He could be himself.

Groups around him were laughing and talking, the sounds pulling him out of his thoughts. As he stopped to replace the film in his camera, he heard the door to the warehouse lifting again, the sound squeaking throughout the space. More people. 

But it wasn’t a crowd coming around the corner. It was two people, a girl he immediately recognized as Noor -- the fringe bangs were a dead giveaway -- pulling along a boy by the hand. So Noor wasn’t with Britt, he thought. 

But Sander couldn’t think too much about that, because of the boy. The boy he couldn’t place. He hadn’t seen him before. And taking him in, he would have remembered him if he had. 

A few inches shorter then him and skinny, the boy had a mess of wild, wavy brown hair and hopelessly oversized clothes that enveloped his thin frame. His hair was curling over his ears, tucked underneath the straps of his mask. The two climbed the steps up to the truck, shaking up their spray cans. 

Sander couldn’t move. He felt the air was slowly being drained from his lungs. Is this what having a heart attack felt like? He could not take his eyes off the boy, who all of the sudden, had a magnetic hold on him. Still holding his camera in his hands, he watched as Noor turned toward the boy, removing her mask, then the boy’s before smiling into a kiss she planted on his lips. 

Sander’s stomach dropped. So they were together. Noor and the boy. Attempting to ignore the sinking feeling simmering inside him, he tried to memorize the details of the boy’s face, cementing them into his memory before Noor lifted his mask back up. Features illuminated by the moonlight, the boy looked like an angel. He had a sharp jawline, but soft features, and smile lines framed his mouth. He had soft skin, sculpted cheekbones, and a gold necklace around his neck. Sander had never seen someone more beautiful in his life.

Before he could think, he lifted his camera. Click. 

Sander had a girlfriend. Apparently, so did the boy -- Noor. He was supposed to missing Britt, wishing she was here with him. He wasn’t supposed to be confused about who he liked and what he wanted. And truthfully, when he thought about it, he wasn’t. Even with a rapidly pounding heart and racing thoughts, something had suddenly become crystal clear to him in that moment.

That boy....he was the one.

Rant incoming - Veronica Mars Season 4

Now that we know the show is probably never coming back - and as sad as I am to think that, thank god - I just wanted to talk about the way fans are being treated by some people who enjoyed the season, and by Rob Thomas himself.

I mostly want to tacle the elephant in the room : the idea the the only reason fans are upset is because Logan is dead. And thus that the fans who are upset are only ‘shallow Logan fangirls’ who didn’t even watch the show for the right thing anyway. In order to try and counter that, we had plenty of meta written from upset’s fans perspective, explaining everything they disliked about season 4, to try to prove that Logan’s death isn’t the main reasons fans are mad.

Here is my two cents on that : Logan’s death is exactly why fans are mad. But not for the reasons pro-seasons 4 folks think.

I’ve been a fan of she show since it aired, on french TV, the episodes in the complete wrong order, because of course it was. I was eleven I think, and I was at that stage where I loved badass ladies on TV shows. There was Buffy, who kicked and kissed vampires, there was Charmed, who kicked and kissed demons, and there was Veronica.

I didn’t like Veronica as much, at first. It was a bit too real, and full of stuff I didn’t fully understand, but I liked Veronica as a character, I liked her relationship with her dad, with her friends. I liked that Veronica seemed more ‘normal’ and grounded in reality. The show stuck with me, despite its short-run, more than Buffy or Charmed did.

I came back to it a few years later, in high-school, and I absolutely fell for it again. I loved the characters, Neptune’s atmosphere, I loved Veronica and Logan together of course - they were one of my first true OTPs, the kind you read fanfictions for and that you cry about in the middle of the night. I was so sad that the TV show has been cancelled. I understood why, of course. At that time, I wished I was American, and that I could have been one more viewers to help the ratings, I was stupid, but I loved the show so much.

And then, the movie. I learnt about it late, once it was completely funded already, but I was absolutely delighted. I watched all these videos on youtube, I watched the cast tell me how amazing the fans were, and how much they loved them, and how special we were. There was this stupid ‘Who is the best love interest ?’ stuff used for promotion that I thought was a bit stupid, but I didn’t care.

I was high on love.

And how god, was this movie a love confession. I didn’t care that Jason looked a bit sick, I didn’t care that Kristen clearly hadn’t recovered fully from her pregnancy - actually, I liked seeing them as adults. I loved seeing Mac, Weevil, Wallace, even Dick, I loved that everyone was so happy to be back. Was the movie perfect ? Heck no. But you could feel RT’s intentions behing : to give us something that would make us happy.

And happy it made us. And proud. Because the fans made this happen. They brough back Veronica Mars by love, and the Veronica Mars’ cast returned this love at the fullest.

And then, season 4.

Listen to me, season 4 wasn’t great. The mystery was very messy, the ‘new’ cast mostly uninteresting or underexploited. Veronica wasn’t really herself, Logan subdued. There was some racist-ish, misogynist-ish stuff lying around, that I didn’t really care for.

But listen. I have loved this show for fifteen years. The show loved me back, I knew it, because everyone involved with it told us so for years. So, by love, we were able to close our eyes. There had always been some unfortunate stuff in earlier seasons : the whole ‘this feminist faked being raped’ business, Dick being framed as sympathetic, class and race issues being handled very clumsily... but I think we all could see, at least, the good intentions behind it. We could tell ‘well, at least Rob Thomes is trying’ ( note that this is a weaker argument in 2019 than in 2003, I won’t lie ). We were not about to trash this show that we have loved for fifteen years for some plotholes, and mischaracterization either. It’s fine, we’ll write fanfics to fix it, we told ourselves.

And then, the ending.

Logan is a fan-favorite. He has been a fan-favorite since season 1, we love Logan, and we love Veronica and Logan together, and we followed his entire journey, from being a ‘psychotic jackass’ to being the kindest, bravest, purest soul on earth. We love Logan, and everyone knew it. Veronica was the brain of the show, and Logan was its heart. He made us cry, he made us laugh, we made us fall in love with him so much that it hurt. And when you see the promo around the movie and the crow-funding, and even the one around season 4, it’s clear that everyone knew that.

How.

How can I still believe that Veronica Mars loves me, when they, willingly, understanding fully what they were doing, killed - with no ceremony - the character they knew we loved more than anything. It was the end of the season. I was still smiling from the wedding, and I guess I was thinking to myself ‘well, the mystery was underwhelming, but at least we got some LoVe to make everything better’. Despite all the flaws of the season, I still thought Rob Thomas loved me, see. That the season wasn’t that great, sure, but that he still had tried to make me happy, and that this wedding was the proof of that : yes it was rushed, and Veronica’s characterization wasn’t satisfying, but nothing that couldn’t be fixed.

By love. By LoVe.

And then the fucking punch in the face. It’s like realizing that the friend you had for all these years didn’t care about you at all, despite them telling you how much they valued you, and how much they owed you. That was someone I thought was on my side, who decided to spit on fifteen years of relationship for... for what ?

I don’t even know.

This is what hurts the most. Not Logan’s death, not really. Just the way RT’s decided to destroy everything we built together during these years. The Marshmallows carried this show with their bare hands for years, until the movie, the peak of our love story. And after everything is done, and that people are hurt and angry, and sad, the only reply we get is ‘you weren’t the fans I wanted from the beginning’, as if we weren’t good enough to be fans of this show, as if we were shallow and silly, and not focused on what is really important.

Sorry to break it to you, Rob Thomas, but ‘noir’ fans didn’t save your show. We did. The best relationship in Veronica Mars was never between Veronica and Keith, or Veronica and Logan, it was between the show and the fans.

And it seems like you blew it.

NYC ~ Mathew Barzal

Chapter One

Ch. One ~ Ch. Two ~ Part Three ~ Ch. Four ~ Ch. Five

A/N: Yes, a lot of you may recognize this specific title/player combo from a blog who no longer wishes to associate with writing. I privately messaged them and requested permission to read their previous work that has always been my favorite. Not only did they give me access to read everything, but they’re allowing me to have all of their series and tweak them into my own. The story line will remain the same, but I have decided to change the POV that way I can slightly customize the story. I apologize if you dislike not having “Y/N” in a story but as I continue to study creative writing, I believe it makes a story easier to read. I hope you enjoy, I greatly appreciate feedback!

Check out my Wattpad where I will be posting this series and others as I go!

Authors Note: Based off this YouTube video. Yes, I purposely gave the children different names. 

Word Count: 1,878

Warnings: Mature Language

Misc. Characters: Cassandra~You

________

I’ve been nannying the Seidenberg’s for a little over a year now. My parents lived in the house next door while I went to a university in the city, living in an apartment close to campus. Dennis and Rebecca figured since I was a familiar face to the kids, with always being invited to small holiday get together parties my parents would hold, that I would be the best option to take care of them. That way Rebecca could go on road trips, or have fun with the other WAGs without worrying about the kids. 

I got along with the three kids very well. After being with them for over a year, they feel like my own siblings. The boy, Dakota, was the youngest and he always loved to play street hockey with me in the driveway. The girls would play along as well, but he’d always be the first to ask. The two girls, Natalie and Marisa, always brought back memories of my old dancing days. Wanting to stay downstairs and do gymnastics or make up dance routines until they couldn’t stand anymore. As you can see, the kids kept me very busy and active. 

Normally, I would only nanny on weeks when Dennis went on road trips and Rebecca wanted to join. Or random nights that the WAGs decided to hang out. However, over the summer I found myself at their house quite often. Sometimes only because the kids just wanted to hang out and play. 

The summer was coming to an end and the hockey season was about to pick up once again. College was unfortunately beginning to get rough as it was now my senior year, but the kids always knew how to ease my stress and bring the child out of me, which is why I enjoy being with them so much. 

Tonight, Dennis and Rebecca had gone out to attend the season kickoff dinner. They requested that I sleep over their house as they planned not to be coming home until after midnight. They have a guest room on the upper level that I usually sleep in during the road trip weeks. The room is comfortable, I love it. They even allow me to customize it and accent the walls with pictures that the kids have drawn for me. 

After a couple hours of driveway street hockey, once the sun started setting, I then settled on the basement couch with the kids, popping in a Disney movie. The time was inching close to midnight, but we all ignored it. The girls laid on either side of me, with my arms around their shoulders while theirs crossed my stomach. While Dakota laid on the floor by himself in front of us. It wasn’t long before all three of them had dozed off into a sleep. Not wanting to move and wake them up, I figured I should drift off into sleep as well.

I heard a sudden noise which broke me out of my sleep. My mom instincts kicked in remembering the kids were with me. I quickly jumped up to see who was in the room, ready to attack if it was an intruder. The lights were still dim in the basement as the television asking if we were still watching was the only thing to illuminate the space. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust but soon enough I heard Dennis’ hushed voice. 

“Sorry! We were trying to be quiet.” He whispered tiptoeing down the last stair. After his statement I was blinded by the overhead lights being turned on. My hands quickly covered my eyes, rubbing them to regulate my sight once again. I then heard the kids simultaneously groan “daaaad” behind me as they woke. 

“Come on. Go on up to your rooms. I️ know Cassandra would love to be laying in her bed right now.” He continued. He definitely wasn’t lying about me wanting to be in my bed at the moment. Laying on the couch left a kink in my neck that I couldn’t help but absentmindedly attempt to massage out. 

Once the kids retreated up the stairs, I noticed a male, averaging the same age as me, walk out of the spare bedroom adjacent from the couch. He had long, dark, slicked back hair. He was wearing a T-shirt that showed off his toned veiny arms, paired with black skinny jeans. 

I’d be lying if I said he wasn’t attractive. In fact, he was almost unreal. His face was perfectly chiseled while his body looked like it was carved by angels. I couldn’t help but stare at every little feature on him. It was almost as if he had just walked out of a movie. Next thing I know my eyes trace back up to his face and he’s staring right back at me. I felt my heart beat rise as a genuine smile that could light up the whole room pulled across his lips. 

I was guessing he was one of Dennis’ teammates. As if the Islander t-shirt didn’t give that away. But, he definitely wasn’t one that has been invited over to the house previously as I’ve clearly never seen him before. So, I figured he was a rookie and Dennis invited him over for dinner. 

“Cassandra, so sorry I️ probably should introduce the two of you.” Dennis began once he returned from bringing the kids upstairs. I hadn’t noticed earlier, but I was staring at the boy in silence for an uncomfortable amount of time. Causing heat to immediately flood my cheeks in embarrassment. Figuring there was no way he didn’t take notice to my lengthy admiration. 

“This is Mathew. Mathew this is Cassandra.” He introduced. Mat was quick to hold his hand out to me, stepping closer. “Hey, it’s nice to meet you.” He stated with a distinct Canadian accent. I took his hand into mine and shook lightly as I silently prayed he wouldn’t notice how sweaty my palm was. 

“Same to you.” I responded. Not nearly as confident as I pleased. In fact, I’m pretty sure I sounded like a shy 3rd grader introducing themselves to the whole class on the first day of school. 

“Mat is a rookie this year. So Rebecca and I️ decided it would be smart to allow him to stay here for his first season. Just so you don’t get confused when you see him walking around.” Dennis exclaimed. 

As he finished, I was pretty sure all of the color in my skin sank, just like thermometers do when the temperatures drop. The thought of having this painfully attractive boy around the house excited me in all the wrong ways. The last thing I needed was a distraction. However, he would be gone on road trips the same time as Dennis. So, hopefully I wouldn’t see him that often anyway. Even though I’d hate to admit that I really wanted too. 

“Welcome!” Was all I could say as I was still in shock from the whole situation. I attempted to sound as enthusiastic as possible. Mat sent me a sympathetic smirk. Almost like he felt bad for being here even though it wasn’t even my house. Making me feel self conscious of possibly sending him the wrong vibes. 

“Well Mat, I️’m going to go grab your other suitcase. Make yourself feel at home.” Dennis offered before making his way back up the stairs. Eternally I began screaming for him to come back. Not wanting to be left alone with the boy whose bones I was ready to jump at any given moment. 

“Does your neck hurt?” He questioned. My gaze shifted from the stairwell to Mat who only stood about a foot away from me. My head cocked to the side in confusion, while my face muscles tightened, wondering how in the world he knew about the kink that had formed in my neck. 

“How did you…?” I began to ask before Mat cut me off to explain. 

“You’ve been rubbing it since you stood up.” He answered, pointing to his own neck to imitate my movements. He spoke low and cleared his throat. Making me feel slightly better about this situation seeing he seemed to be just as awkward as I was at the moment. 

“Yeah. I slept wrong on the couch and now I️ have a knot in my neck.” I responded while rolling my eyes, annoyed with the pain. 

“Want me to try and rub it out?” Mat proposed. A moment of silence fell over the room. My mind immediately wanted to respond with ‘Boy you could rub whatever you want’ but obviously that wasn’t reasonable. I tried to stay calm as my heart began to race even faster to the point I would bet he could hear it. 

“Can you please?” I replied as my mind began to contemplate if that was a good enough response or not. 

Mat then moved behind me. His fingertips, oh so gently, braced themselves on my right shoulder. His thumbs then started making small circle movements into my skin causing goosebumps to rise that I hoped he didn’t notice. But taking by the deep chuckle I just heard behind me.. he noticed.. and is flattered. 

The pressure from his thumbs found the perfect spot on the knot. Kneading it away as my facial expressions tighten in pain. Knowing that it has to hurt before the muscles will relax. 

“Am I️ getting it?” Mathew questioned. He knew the answer. He could tell by my face, the goosebumps and the way my shoulder was slowly moving farther away from him. He knew I was enjoying it, so he was instigating. 

“Yes.” I groaned with my teeth grinding together. Features still continuing to tense. However, he slowly and gently removed his fingertips as I then felt total relief over my neck and shoulder. I circled my arm around a couple times to ensure the pain was gone and behold, Mat had magical hands. 

“Thank you a lot, it feels so much better.” I spoke relieved, turning to face Mat who was standing much closer than I had anticipated.

“No problem. Anytime.” He whispered due to the small amount of space separating us. His statement was followed by a wink that was powerful enough to blow me off my feet. But to maintain my authority, I plastered a smirk on my face, and winked back. 

“Have a good night.” I said before confidently turning around to walk up the stairs. Proud of myself for appearing unfazed instead of the sweaty mess I was on the inside. 

“Oh, I️ will. Goodnight.” Mat responded. Thankfully I was facing the opposite direction, that way he couldn’t see my eyes roll through my head at his sly comment. 

Once reaching my bedroom on the upper level I laid in my bed staring at the ceiling fan. I knew it would be unprofessional and a risk to my job if I even thought about attempting anything with Mat. But at the same time, he was almost impossible to resist. Who knows though, he might not even be interested at all and I’m wasting my time thinking about him for nothing. Yet, it was also so hard to get him off my mind.

Why you’ve made my winter!

- by Judith Dombrowski

My personal Team Champéry season review

This is dedicated to figure skater Deniss Vasiljevs, coach and figure skater Stéphane Lambiel and their manager Christopher Trevisan!

My very special thanks to my mother Beate. Without you nothing of this would have been possible. I can say with my whole heart that you are the best mother I ever could have imagined.

Also special thanks to:

Anastasia, Charlie, Estephanía, Jelena, Laia, Maria R., Maria T., Marina, P., Susanne, Szilvia

You all have become amazing and true friends. I love you with my whole heart!

And to everyone else whom I met because of Team Champéry this winter, either personally or via the internet. We are the best fan community I can imagine.

On March 2nd 2019, after I had been able to take THAT picture, that picture thousands of skating fans dream of, that picture I would never ever had imagined to happen, I turned around and thanked both of you: “Thank you so much for everything!“, I said. Then I looked at you, Deniss, and said: “You’ve really made my winter! Thanks!“ You looked flattered and surprised but didn’t respond anything. But you, Stéph, said something like: “Wow, you are really so positive!“ It was the second time you said that that afternoon and I do understand why you said it in this situation: For the two of you it definitely hadn’t been the winter you’ve dreamed of. It must have been a hard winter full of worries, concerns and disappointments. It seemed to surprise you, Stéph, why you’ve made somebody’s winter even though so much seemed to have gone wrong for you.

So I am writing this blog post / article / review to explain to the two of you and to everyone interested, why this sentence was incredibly true. Why I actually couldn’t have thanked you in a more accurate way. Beware, this might gonna be long. I usually fail saying things short and there has been really a lot going on this winter relating to the two of you. I will also miss out some moments because it has just been too much.

When to start? Should it be the moment when we decided to go to Grenoble? The moment I started to be your fan, Deniss? Should I go back to Worlds 2005 when I had my first big crush on that handsome Swiss figure skater? This would turn into a novel so lets start right at the beginning… of… this winter:

October

“Hey, I just wanted to tell you that I am free earlier than expected today. So if you’d like we can meet earlier?“

“I am sorry I fear I won’t be able to come over before 18.30? Hope that’s still alright?“, I replied to a good friend of mine on WhatsApp.

“Haha, yea, sure, thought you have holidays…“

“Well, yea“, … she was a really good friend so I could be honest, “but my Mom doesn’t. She’s only free from 3pm and we’ll have to watch a movie together this afternoon. This is like the only possibility before next weekend. Will explain you later!“

“Okayyyy…!“

It was a Wednesday afternoon in early October during my autumn holidays and I spent the week in South Germany with my mother and tried to meet up with as many old friends as possible. It was also the week before Japan Open, the first time you, Deniss, were supposed to skate your new free program. And it finally had leaked that you would be skating to the soundtrack of the movie “Last Samurai“. So to totally understand the program my mother and I watched the movie together, listened to the music very precisely, discussed about the plot, read and learned about the history of the samurai on Wikipedia.

We liked and appreciated the theme and that music choice right away. As we did with the whole program when it had finally been uploaded. Despite technical difficulties we saw the efforts and the great thoughts behind the choreography of this program right away and were really looking forward to see this program grow and bloom over the season.

It was different with the Short Program. When “Papa was a rolling stone“ was posted first, I listened to the song in the car and it left me quite puzzled… How was that supposed to be the song of a skating program? And those lyrics? Well… I liked the beat and the rhythm of the song from the beginning and I put all my trust in your good taste and I wasn’t going to be disappointed.

The figure skating season was speeding up: The first Grand Prix was coming along together with a small competition called “Minsk Ice Star“ - the warm up contest for you, Deniss. I spent that weekend in the Netherlands where a friend celebrated her birthday. The moment I remember best of these days is myself walking up and down at the beach streaming the free program in bad quality on my phone screaming and jumping up and down at every landed jump. This weekend brought the first fully rotated and landed Quad in competition for you, Deniss, and the first gold medal of the season. For me this weekend made me like and appreciate the short program and I “met“ my “soulmate“ because of this competition:

Until then I hadn’t been too active about figure skating on social media, because most of my followers on Instagram were my real life friends who didn’t care about this sport at all. There was no official livestream of Minsk Ice Star. But I found some Russian girls via Instagram who were in the arena and were so kind to stream the practices and the competition. That’s how I met my today very very good and close friend Maria. We started texting since then, we went through this winter together, kept each other updated all the time and finally went to Innsbruck together. But that happened many moments and stories later.

November

NHK Trophy was after all the only competition this entire season I didn’t manage to follow live. Despite all efforts I didn’t make it home from work in time for the SP, and I also missed the LP the next day because of my tennis practice. I did come home when Shoma Uno was about to start his Free Skate performance but of course he skated deep in the second group. I clicked on “pause“ and scrolled back to start watching the competition from the beginning. There had been a number though in the left upper corner of my screen I couldn’t have avoided seeing: The leading skater at the moment Shoma started to skate had the technical score of 70 points. 70 Points! DAMN! That was…. low. Very low for that moment in the competition. And 70… that was a number you, Deniss, were likely to score. My heart started racing. Could it be possible? If you were the leader at that moment you were… about to win a medal.

“It was hard to see how excited you still were!“, my Mom told me on the phone an hour later when I was full of disappointment. She had been able to watch everything live and knew that it unfortunately hadn’t been you, Deniss, who had scored those 70 points, it had been Matteo Rizzo. I felt really sorry for you, missing that opportunity. “Keep your head up, keep your heart strong…“, I kept listening on repeat during that weekend and I wished you could also hear that motivating song by Ben Howard. The next competition was going to be better. I was sure! And the next competition was: IdF in Grenoble. THE competition. Our competition. Where my mother and I would go to see and support you live. The weekend I had been waiting for since the end of June when the assignments came out. And now it was not even two weeks away…The Sunday after NHK I spent in the kitchen baking my gifts for the two of you: The lion and the ladybug as German gingerbread. I am not the most artistically talented person, and I didn’t honestly expect this project to be successful, especially drawing a lion with chocolate and sugar icing on a piece of cookie seemed like a far too motivated project for me. But I did it, every millimeter drawn with concentration and passion. And succeeded: I had baked a lion and a ladybug gingerbread. The presents were ready, the flags had arrived and got inked, all tickets were printed, we were ready to go.

You probably all remember a weekend or an event you once desperately had been waiting for. And then the moment when it is really happening. So you can probably imagine how I felt: I see myself as if it was yesterday walking from the parking lot in Mainz to the station where I had to take the train to Frankfurt airport, feeling like I was flying: It was real, yes, it was. I was on my way to Grenoble, I had everything prepared, I had gotten the extra day off at school, I had the gifts and the banners in my bag, I had your program music in my ears, I was so so ready for it!

I had high expectations for this weekend just as you probably had as well, Deniss. Unfortunately yours weren’t totally fulfilled again especially in the long program. Mine instead were outreached by far:

That moment, when I saw the two of you live right ahead of me in practice. The moment you really nailed your SP, how I was screaming and celebrating of relief. The moment I was able to give you the gifts after the second practice. The moment when you walked around proudly showing my baked lion to other fans. All those moments of wonderful and magical performances by your fellow skaters, all those people I had been admiring in front of the TV screen for years: Evgenia Medvedeva, Rika Kihira, Vanessa James and Morgan Cipres, Gabriella Papadakis and Guillaume Cizeron, Nathan Chen, Jason Brown and Dimitri Aliev just to name a few…

And that moment, Saturday 24th of November, 6 pm during the Ice Dance medal ceremony when I checked on my emails and my heart skipped for sure more than one beat: Email by Christopher Trevisan: “Sorry for the short notice, if you are still interested you can have a fan meeting with Deniss tomorrow morning either at 10 or 11 o’clock. Let me know if you are still interested.“ If I was interested? Hell, YES. But: Our bus to the airport was booked tomorrow at 10 o’clock from the main station in Grenoble. Our flight home was leaving Lyon at 2 pm. I was in shock, excited and concerned at the same time. It was hard to think straight.

I will never forget the night from November 24th to November 25th in my entire life. So many insecurities: When exactly? Where? Who will come? How will we get home? Take the train instead of flying? Take a taxi to the airport? Skip the whole fan meeting myself?

Charlie, my mother and I were sitting together until far after midnight without having any solutions. The three of us mainly discussed the question: Where? There was no nice café that had opened Sunday morning just around the corner…

We noticed that the only space we had available on this short notice were our own hotel rooms. Probably our entire hotel woke up by us laughing loudly about the joke: “Imagine, when I come home, I will be able to say: There was Stéphane Lambiel… in my hotel room!“ We weren’t sure back then if you’d accompany Deniss, Stéph.

Sometime during the night after sleeping for a few hours I was able to calm down and think more straight again. I checked the Lufthansa App and found out that it was actually possible to change our booking to a flight that flew to Frankfurt four hours later than our original one. I got the idea to ask in our hotel if there was a possibility to hold the meeting in a free conference room or another silent place. It was all coming together. We got a space in our hotel, we had people who messaged they would come to the meeting, we had the time to sit down and think about some questions that I wanted to ask you, Deniss. You came, you had quite some time, you were incredibly nice and the two of us got more and more relaxed while the interview / meeting went on and I had the feeling that I could continue talking with you forever. You are such an interesting, intelligent, nice, humble and funny person. Before Grenoble I had liked you mostly because of your beautiful and amazing skating, after Grenoble I knew where this was coming from. Before Grenoble I had been amazed by you, after Grenoble I was totally enchanted.

December

I was on endorphins for the next weeks straight. That weekend had been far better and beyond all my expectations.

But at the same time I was afraid: Was it ever going to be that perfect again? Should I maybe keep this one perfect weekend as one magic memory and not let it get destroyed maybe by disappointments coming in the near future? Would I maybe expect too much from future events? I told around: “That weekend was perfect. I will not go again this season. Next season again!“

What a luck I hadn’t been able to resist. Because my heart, longing to see the two of you again, won over my anxious head.

Christmas time came, I followed the Grand Prix Final together with my Mom, we got up in the middle of the night to cheer for Koshiro, we were worried when you, Deniss, withdrew from a competition in Zagreb, were relieved when it was announced that it wasn’t an injury. And we decided that it was finally about time to see you skate live as well, Stéph! So we ordered our tickets for Art on Ice in Davos in February. And with booking those tickets my plan not to go anymore this season had already faded away. I spent hours on the internet searching for possibilities to make it to Minsk for the European Championships. Meanwhile I knew many fans via social media and almost all of them were about to be in Minsk to support you, Deniss. I wanted to be part of it really  badly. As a teacher though it is hard to get days off apart from the public holidays. Flights for the weekend only costed a fortune. It seemed impossible. My frustration grew. I am a person who fights really hard if she really wants something and usually tries everything to make it happen.

January

New years eve came along, together with a very nice and enthusiastic video of the two of you: “We hope to see you in Bellinzona for Music on Ice!“, you said, Stéph. And after countless times watching this lovely video and a sleepless and crazy night from the 1st to the 2nd of January my decision was made: Instead of the impossible mission going to Minsk, I would to go to Music on Ice in Bellinzona. I was going to take a train from my hometown Osnabrück in the Northwest of Germany on Friday afternoon to Stuttgart in the South of Germany. The next morning I was going to take the earliest train to continue traveling all the way to Switzerland where I would arrive in Bellinzona on January 12th at 11 am. I would go to the show on Saturday night and early Sunday morning I was going to take the train back, 10 hours all the way up to Osnabrück where I would arrive at 6 pm, ready to go back to school on Monday morning. But going to the show wasn’t the only plan I had. With help of the amazing Jelena from Daugavpils who runs the official Fan Club on Facebook we activated fans from all over the world to send me pictures with good luck wishes for you for Europeans. I was overwhelmed by the positive responses on the project. I received exactly 50 pictures, most of them amazingly creative.

When I entered the train on Friday afternoon, January 11th 2019, I felt the company of all those 50 people. I was nervous because I hadn’t heard of Chris yet, whom I had messaged with the idea of the project and had asked for an opportunity to give you the album personally.

But the sun was shining, I had motivating music in my ears, the train was riding further and further South and I felt the support of all of my friends and of my mom, who unfortunately couldn’t accompany me this weekend, so the nervousness turned into major excitement.

In Bellinzona I also wasn’t alone at all: I teamed up with two friends that I had both met in Grenoble. After our arrival we checked out the ice rink and sat down on a bench nearby the arena. The girls went through your album, Deniss, when suddenly my phone vibrated and I saw the message: Christopher Trevisan had written: “Hey Judith, can you be at the rink at 15.00?”

Have you ever been waiting for a message to come in for five consecutive days? Do you know that feeling that whenever you get a message you have that slight hope inside you that it could be the one you are waiting for and you get disappointed over and over again? And then the releasing moment comes? And you know my temper, right? Then you can maybe imagine how I screamed and jumped up and down when seeing that message. Did you maybe even hear that scream from somewhere far away that afternoon? Quite possible since Bellinzona isn’t that big and my joy was… LOUD! My two friends shared my joy and enthusiasm but not as loud. We had an “appointment”! I messaged all of my good friends right away: “Appointment at 3 pm!” I was so happy and excited. I carried the hopes and wishes of 50 people in my bag and now I knew I wouldn’t disappoint them.

That moment on the bench had only been the beginning of a day that again turned out so much better than all my expectations:

Hearing you say: “So nice to see you again!”, and being really thankful for the book. Being able to watch all three hours of show rehearsal, including the two of you practicing throw jumps.  Recording an successfully landed throw jump for all my friends and many other fans. Seeing you, Stéph, skate live for the first time in my life. You, that man that had carried me through my teenage years with all your wonderful programs. Finally seeing you perform in person was magical. Seeing that wonderful and touching duet of the two of you. I had tears of joy in my eyes. And that moment after the show when you, Deniss, were walking beneath us and you turned around and came back thanking me for the album: “Thanks for the book. It’s fantastic!” These six words meant so much to me and to all those who had participated. My heart was full of joy and my body full of dancing endorphins again. It didn’t matter at all that the train ride the next day didn’t last ten but twelve hours. I was the happiest and luckiest girl on the planet.

Thanks to my amazing two girls who were my company during these crazy 21 hours I have spent in Bellinzona. Wouldn’t have been the same without those two and we do have an appointment at our “Appointment Bench” next year.

Still… after the Bellinzona - Fun it was getting serious! Europeans were on their way and it felt like the most important competition for you this season, Deniss. The season hadn’t gone as planed yet for sure… plus: Skating really well there would give you the chance to medal. Even though I had been in Bellinzona it was really hard for me to follow the action in Minsk from home. But that week showed me what great friends I had got to know because of you, Deniss. Those girls, who kept me updated the entire week, and never forgot about me were my personal heros. Some special mentions: Jelena, who waved at me through the TV stream during the Ladies Short program. That was so hilarious and made my day. Szilvia, whom I would have loved to share that horrible hostel with. Maybe with the two of us that place would have been less spooky? And thanks to her for sending birthday wishes to my mom during the live stream of your fan meeting, Stéph. Marina, for telling me the “they-only-want-me”- story right after it had happened and for asking Brian Joubert about his inspiration for the tiger jacket. And my amazing girl Maria. Thanks for just everything. I felt with her and like her at every moment during the entire week. I shared her excitement, her fears, worries, tears and joy. And I am proud and thankful to all of the girls who organized both fan meetings and streamed it for us at home. You’ve got the most amazing fans, I really hope you know that both.

Deniss? We all know you gave your best! You wanted it so much and we know you actually are able to do everything you had planed. That makes the outcome of this competition so sad. Thanks for keeping your smile for us fans, thanks for still performing amazingly. Thanks for that intense gala-program. “Iron“ is now one of my personal top 5 programs of all times.

And Stéph? Your week must have been nerve-wracking and cruel. Thanks for being there for your students, giving them strength and confidence. Thanks for trying everything you could to support Deniss and Emmi and still staying that nice and friendly to us fans. The pressure must have been immense. Maria summed it up so perfectly as an Instagram caption, so I will quote her here: “Thanks for being in the world!”

February

During Euros you were so nice to confirm that Team Champéry would keep its tradition and would come to the Cup of Tyrol in Innsbruck, Stéph. The planing for us attending and supporting you at that event started the moment Europeans were over. That Sunday still after watching the Gala my mother and I booked the last available cheap apartment in the city centre of Innsbruck. All February long we were busy planing that trip but hadn’t there been another appointment in February? My second 10 hour long train ride was scheduled from February 15th to February 17th. Osnabrück - Davos and back. Art on Ice was about to happen. I imagined that trip to maybe be a little less exciting. I expected to watch the show, see you perform two wonderful programs and was also looking forward to see James Blunt live again after more than 10 years. Back in 2006 James Blunts concert had been the first concert I had ever visited, so it was going to be a bit nostalgic… But… probably no surprise anymore: Also this trip turned out to be so much better than expected.

The afternoon in Davos was beautiful already, the sun was shining brightly and we had an amazing walk through the snowy landscape. We managed to sneak in to watch the practice again and: I  got the opportunity to talk to you, Stéph. It was short and since totally unexpected I also didn’t really know what to say but it was extremely special for me. And I could take a selfie with you. A picture I had wanted to have ever since my teenage years. I am not the type of person who collects pictures with celebrities. I think asking for a picture is such an unreal and awkward situation. But I really longed for that picture with you, Stéph. With the guy I used to tell all of my friends about, who all didn’t know you, because figure skating is not too popular in Germany. With the guy I had admired ever since my teenage years. With the guy that is in my opinion the most passionate and elegant skater ever. With the guy that touched me to tears and overwhelmed my emotions when skating to the song Goodbye my Lover some hours later. With the guy who gave his second last performance at Art on Ice ever that night.

I read your post about quitting Art on Ice when my train had almost reached Osnabrück again. I felt incredibly sad and incredibly blessed at the same time: I had still been able to see your magic. Art on Ice will miss you incredibly, Stéph. But you surely made the right decision for yourself and we as fans will support you and keep loving you no matter what projects will come for you in the future.

I had two more weeks until the crazy road trip to Innsbruck was about to happen but well… there was one weekend in between. And I found the perfect place to go for that weekend: Barcelona, Spain.

You have already heard some names of great people I got to know because of you two, but I haven’t told you about Laia yet what is a shame because, Deniss, you would certainly like Laia as much as I like her: She’s an artist, she draws amazingly. She’s a baker and an excellent cook. She’s a bit of a philosopher. She is a big Star Wars fan. She’s incredibly funny and sarcastic but at the same time a bit shy and introverted. And she is a big fan of the two of you. Even though you know the story how Laia and I met already, Deniss, I think it’s worth telling it here again: Laia was also at the Grand Prix in Grenoble. I didn’t know her back then. And we also didn’t meet at the event itself. But she was the girl who took the picture of you holding my baked gingerbread lion. I discovered that picture on Instagram some weeks later. We started to chat, and we chatted even more. I talked with her for hours because, Deniss, in many ways she seems like a female version of you.

So at that last weekend in February I took a plane to Barcelona to finally meet her in person. She showed me some skating tricks on the ice and I showed her that the mediterranean sea is not too cold to swim in in February. She introduced me to traditional Catalan food and I brought her some Swiss Chocolate I had bought in Davos.

And she gave me the most precious gift I ever received from anyone: An amazing drawing of you, Deniss, skating to “Iron“. You have seen it in Innsbruck yourself and I am quite sure you will remember it.

So that weekend was another amazing experience thanks to the two of you.

March

“Good morning everyone”, I told my Instagram followers totally excited at the morning of February 28th, “my last big journey of the figure skating season is about to start. I will drive to work first and then I will drive from my school via Frankfurt airport and Munich airport all the way to Innsbruck. It will be a really long journey but I will pick up some amazing girls on the way. And I actually can’t wait to see Deniss and Stéph tomorrow.”

The Cup of Tyrol in Innsbruck was the smallest event I visited this season but it highlighted up everything that had happened before. At the beginning of the season my mom and I had been alone. The trip to Innsbruck ended with seven good friends from five different countries sitting together in a small apartment, laughing and celebrating you, ourselves and life.

Marina had flown to Frankfurt from Kyiv and Szilvia from Budapest. Maria had come from Chelyabinsk, Russia, to Munich. I met both, Marina and Maria for the first time in real life and that alone was really special. Suddenly sitting with those three girls together in my small car, singing along to Britney Spears songs was unreal and amazing enough. But of course we were here to support you, Deniss.

All three of you, Chris included, seemed quite surprised to see us around. Cup of Tyrol was such a small competition. Why should anyone go there? Well, we were and we weren’t the only ones, even though probably the loudest ones. Here are again some very special moments picked from many special moments:

Imitating your car karaoke to Britney’s Toxic on our way to Innsbruck with Marina and Szilvia.

Stepping out of our apartment early Friday morning in Innsbruck and seeing this city in all of its beauty: The river, the colorful houses and the mountains in the beautiful morning sun.

Watching you skate a nice and clean short program after some struggles during practice.

Chris laughing loudly about our designed shirt for you, Deniss: “I am not coaching Stéph!” Do you wear it from time to time? If you don’t I am sure Chris would…

Giving you my self knitted hat in Latvia colors.

Showing you Laias drawing and you complimenting her amazing “shade work”.

You, Stéph, telling us that we were just about to hang up our “Team Champéry banner” mirror converted. Oh dear…

Suffering with every quad attempt. Cheering for every jump that seemed “okay” somehow- especially for underrotated quads…sorry Stéph, but that’s what fans are there for.

Crying with Matilda after her Free Program. It was hard to see this but those moments belong to the sport just as tears of joy at another time. Please, Stéph, tell Matilda, that she is a very beautiful skater. She is very graceful and a joy to watch on the ice and we all hope to see her shining on the ice sometime again.

Calling ourselves to be the “Crazy Rabbit Crew” after constantly eating carrots and joking about what to throw on the ice. Carrots, maybe?

Watching your little extra show on the ice after you won the title, Deniss.

Joking with you, Stéph about our petition to bring Britney Spears to Art on Ice.

And for me, personally, receiving the compliment from you, Stéph, of being such a positive person. I am aware that you, the first time you said it, thought that my positivity was even a bit too much when we discussed the success of your Quad attempts, Deniss, but when we all said goodbye I had the honest feeling that you liked me, Stéph. And that means more than a lot to me!

And of course THAT picture. Yes, again a celebrity picture. But what a special one. Standing in the middle of both of you. In the middle of the two people who made my winter. You didn’t understand it back then, right?

I am sure you understand it now!

Of course Innsbruck hadn’t been the end of the season yet: Worlds were yet to come. Far away in Japan. The competition where you wanted to show everyone what you actually could do. In the country that you love so much and where your season had started. The country on which history your free program was built. The Last Samurai. The last dance of the season. It was a hard week for us as fans because it was obviously a hard week for your whole team. I watched the Short Program locked into the music room of my school during our break. Afterwards I had to teach a Music lesson, singing cheerful and happy songs with eight year olds. It was tough. But I can hardly imagine how tough it was for you.

The free program was a huge fight. After everything you had gone through that week, it was even an incredible fight. The score still wasn’t probably what you had dreamed of neither the placement in the end.

But you can be incredibly proud of that fight, Deniss. This whole season was surely a hard learning process. It was a season without a single competition you were completely happy with. After all the hard work you put in every single day it must be horribly frustrating. I got to know you though as a person who is thinking thoroughly about everything. And I got to know you as a person who is able to see this season as a learning process for the future. You never stopped performing no matter what happened to the jumps. All three programs this year were incredibly well choreographed and performed even better. And during that hard and rocky road you made so many people incredibly happy.

Stéph, this winter was surely also a hard one for you. One of the reasons why I like you that much is that you, just as I do myself, put your whole heart and passion into everything you do. I could feel your pain when things didn’t turn out as you wanted them to go for your skaters. It must be so hard to just watch and not being able to actually do something in those moments. I do imagine those intense emotions you had during your last Art on Ice shows. Thanks so much for sharing some of these moments with us.

And equally I want to thank you, Chris: Thank you so much for being there for the whole team whenever you are needed. Thanks for staying calm, positive and objective throughout the season. Thanks for sometimes probably being the connection between the two artists. I am sure it hasn’t always been easy. Thanks for the great cooperation with us fans. You are doing an amazing job in every way.

You as a team managed to go through this season together and I hope with my whole heart that it brought you even closer together. Success, failure, joy and sorrow are so close together in this sport. The future seasons will bring all of that again. And I am looking forward to laugh, cry and celebrate with you again next winter and hopefully many more winters. Until then I will spend time with some of the amazing people I met on the road. Next weekend Szilvia and I will visit Marina in Kyiv. It will be another amazing trip. You are about to make my spring, too!

Halle Celeste

  On the evening Saturday January 7th, my husband Eric and I went to ********* hospital so I could be induced.  It had been 31 days since we suspected my 15 week baby's heart had stopped beating.  On the morning of January 8, 2018, at 10:14am our baby, Halle Celeste Golem, was born asleep.  I carried her for a total of 19 weeks and 5 days- half of a pregnancy.    It was Dec 6th, 2017 when we first found out the devastating news.  We were at our second prenatal appt with our home birth midwife.  I was 15 weeks and 1 day pregnant.  Our first appointment had been 4 weeks earlier, and we had already heard our baby's heart beat once.  At that first appt. my daughter Lily was so excited and held my hand while we listened in awe to the heart beat.  Having her hold my hand brought me such a simple joy and she looked so proud.  She was ready to do the same at this appt (and was already asking if she could hold my hand during the labor/birth of her sibling- which I was of course open to, encouraging my little doula💗), but when we couldn't find the baby's heart beat, we tried to quiet the kids down and became focused on finding our baby's heart tones.  Initially I wasn't scared.  I just thought my little bean was hiding.  15 weeks is early for a first time mom to feel her baby moving, but for a 3rd time mom, 15 weeks is a normal time to start feeling movements.  And I had already been feeling this baby move for at least a week, probably closer to 2.  My CNM made small talk and told me that at 15 weeks it was typical to not find the heart beat right away, and upon palpating my uterus assured me that my growth was right on track. We tried for several minutes with out any luck.  She even let me position the doppler, but still we heard nothing.  Then she suggested going to a different room, with a bed I could lay totally flat on.  Eric, my husband, waited with our kids in the other part of the office.  We kept trying to hear something, but again came up with nothing.  I still wasn't scared, but fear was creeping in.  My CNM said the baby could be hiding or that something "could be up".  She called and set up an ultrasound at the nearest hospital for that evening, and started to tell me my options if in fact my baby was gone (my mind took off racing... Was this really happening?... I realised I wasn't listening to her words and made myself tune in because that drift off thing only happens when you get bad news, and my bean was just hiding, this was not really happening, right?) and then she stopped herself and said, "...well, let's just wait and see".  She told me to call her after the ultrasound.  My husband reassured me the baby was fine, not to worry, and I tried to focus on whether or not I was still feeling our baby move or if it was just digestion/gas bubbling around in my belly.  We arranged for my Mom to take our kids for the night, ate a quick snack at home and then headed to the hospital.     In the hospital waiting room I began to prepare myself for the worst.  We were called back and the technician asked me a couple questions, like when was my due date, what number pregnancy was this for me, and how many of those previous pregnancies had resulted in "live" births.  When I laid down on the exam table, I started to cry.  I wasn't ready for this.  The tech apologized and put the cold gel on my belly and Eric grasped for my hand.  It felt like an eternity from the moment she put the wand on my belly to the time I asked her, "Is there anything in there?..." she responded solemnly,  "Yes...I see a baby in there, but I am not seeing a heart beat".  Eric looked so shocked and devastated, he was expecting our baby to be fine, strong and solid like our other two.  "I'm sorry babe, I'm so sorry" I cried out to him.  He looked offended and said in a concerned voice, "you don't have to be sorry, babe", but I was sorry, I was sorry for his loss and my loss and for this baby.  I felt like I had failed as a mother.  Deep down, I started to wonder what I could have done to cause this.  I cried and felt numb through the rest of the ultrasound.  Our baby measured 15 weeks 1 day, which was so strange and confusing, because I was exactly 15 weeks and 1 day pregnant.  The tech asked us if we would like a picture of the baby, and when I said, "sure" Eric burst into tears.  This was one of the only few tangible memories we will have from this baby.  We should've been finding out our baby's sex at our second trimester ultrasound, not finding out that our baby was gone.  We should have been taking our picture home with us to Grandma's- beaming with pride and the news of our healthy baby girl!  How was this happening?  The tech told us she would check with the radiologist and be right back.  Eric held me and I wept, wondering out loud "Why? Why did it take so long for this to happen?"  Most miscarriages don't happen outside of the 1st trimester.  Most families feel safe once they reach 12 weeks.  We left the hospital with very little information, all we knew was our baby had no heart beat, and that the screen told us her measurements were 15w1d.  In the car we decided to drive around for awhile before going to get the kids.  It had started to snow the first real snow of the season.  I said, "that felt like the longest ultrasound ever", Eric responded saying, "it was definitely the quietest".....    We made our way to my Mom's house, bleary eyed and still in shock.  We were not looking forward to sharing the news.  As soon as we walked through the front door I saw my children and then I made eye contact with my Mom.  She had a searching look on her face, and I shook my head to indicate the news was bad.  Her shoulders fell, she cried out "No, oh, no, Evan...... I am sooo sorry".  She hugged me, held me, and cried with me.  She let out a bawl of pain that I later came to know as a sound that only a grieving person can make (specifically a grieving mother) a sound that I would hear myself make many times over the coming weeks.  My Mom understood this loss in a way that few women close to me would- because she had experienced the loss of my older sister, Louise, (who was one of her twin babies) shortly after her delivery.  If anyone could understand and share this pain with me, it was her. -------------------------------------------   When we got pregnant, I told the kids right away.  Eric was like "you know Lily is going to tell everyone right?"  I hadn't exactly thought that part thru, I was just excited!  Lily was excited too, (my son Ellis was clueless) and she was set on wanting a baby sister and she was definitely ready to tell everyone all about it!  We celebrated Ellis's 2nd Birthday just after finding out we were expecting and I was sure she would spill the beans at his party, but it turned out she was so distracted by celebrating that it never came out.  So I tried to get her to keep the secret until after we got our fall family pictures.  I had a cute idea for our pregnancy announcement and also wanted to hear the babies heart beat and make sure everything was ok.  Lily never came right out and spoiled the secret, but she did drop hints to all 5 of her Grandparents along the way.  Shortly after our first prenatal appt we shared the pregnancy news and our beautiful photo announcement with our closest friends and family (my Mom and Papa admitted they had already known from Lily spilling the beans- and because sometimes moms just know) and then on Thanksgiving 2017 we went facebook official and shared the news with the rest of the world.     I had started to show and I was past the 12 week mark.  I didn't think I had any real reason to worry, but had recently made a friend whose miscarriage occurred around 12 weeks so I carried this with me and was frightened by it.  When you're pregnant and hear news like this, you are terrified that maybe it could happen to you too.  But you try not to dwell on it.  As a doula, I had been trying to relate to and understand the pain caused by miscarriages, especially since I was newly pregnant in October which happens to be National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness month.  I even stupidly told Eric one night after watching the This Is Us episode involving a miscarriage that, "I feel guilty that I don't know or understand what it's like... I mean obviously I don't want to have a miscarriage but I just wish I could relate, plus I think that knowing how it feels might help me be a better doula...."  What the hell was I thinking?! Why did I say that?  When we found out the news of our loss this conversation haunted me.  Why did I ask to relate to this pain?  Why did I have to experience it myself to be able to understand it?  I would have done anything for my baby to be healthy and still alive and I desperately wanted to take back my naive and ignorant words.  I would go thru debilitating morning sickness and exhaustion for all 9 months, longer even, and I would endure the pain of labor times 1,000 of it meant my baby would be born healthy, if it meant I could hold her, love her and smell her, if I could see the look on her Daddy's face when they first met, if I could nurse her, and bring her home to introduce her to her big sister and brother.  But instead, I got a second trimester miscarriage, and all the "knowing", guilt and devestation that comes with it.  -------------------------------------------   The night we got home from the hospital we tried to explain the news to the kids, but at their age (Lily was almost 4 and Ellis had just turned 2) the concept of a baby was difficult enough to understand, so they didn't quite get what was going on.  Throughout the experience Lily would ask, "Mama, why you cryin?... Cuz of the baby?" I would nod and she would say things like, "its okay Mama, we can get another baby"...I found her innocence to be sort of relieving and Eric and I both agreed that having our children with us, especially during those first couple days, made our hearts a little less heavy and filled us with strength and gratitude.     I called my midwife and she explained my options to me.  Second trimester miscarriages are fairly rare (occuring in only 2 percent of ALL pregnancies), and are dealt with differently than an early miscarriages (which tend to result in a D&C (dilation and curettage) if things don't resolve on their own.  My 3 options were to: wait it out and let things happen naturally at home with my midwife's guidance and support (which could potentially take 4-6 weeks from the time my baby had passed), I could go to *********** for an induction, or I go to a Birth Center for a D&E (dilation and evacuation).  When faced with these options, my initial reaction was that I didn't think I could wait 4-6 weeks, (especially with Christmas coming) and that any sort of clinical intervention scared the crap out of me. I suppose I was still dealing with fear and trauma from Lily's hospital birth.  And being a converted home birth mom, I typically choose the most natural way to handle things.  While on the phone with my midwife, discussing my options on speaker phone so my husband could hear, the reality started to sink in.  This morning I woke up 15 weeks pregnant, ready to hear my babies heart beat and now here I stood tears pouring down my cheeks feeling an emptiness inside me that I have never known.  Throughout our conversation I covered my mouth and keeled over writhing in agony.  This was really happening.  My baby had no heart beat and we were discussing options on how to remove him or her from my body.  At the end of the conversation, my CNM told me to take my time, reminding me that I didn't have to make any decisions right away.  And waiting is just what I ended up doing. I woke up several times in the middle of the night sobbing. Wishing it all was a nightmare. In the morning I took Lily to school and then took both her and Ellis to Denny's for lunch when I picked her up. I had no energy to make them lunch. It was snowing quite a bit now and my mom offered to come over and help with the kids so I could work on an assignment due for school. But I couldn't get any work done. I emailed my teacher and then started looking for some support in the online communities I am a part of. I'm in a couple mommy/pregnancy groups on facebook, specifically a local home birth group and an Indie Birth group.  I posted about my miscarriage and my dilemma of not knowing how to proceed and I received some awesome support from the women who responded.  They shared their experiences with me, were loving, compassionate, and most of all reminded me that the choice was my own, that I should follow my heart & intuition and take my time to decide what to do.  One woman specifically told me that for her, saying hello, made saying goodbye easier.  This stood out to me and helped me to realize that it was important for me to see our baby intact (which helped me narrow down my options because I didn't think a D&E would allow me this opportunity).  I also decided that I wanted to honor my baby in whatever way that I could, and wanted the birth process to be calm, loving and peaceful just like I wanted for the birth of my other babies.       All of this was happening during the final 2 weeks of my first semester back at college, and while my professor's offered me the option to take incompletes and finish things up next semester, I chose to keep studying and working.  I wasn't sure what my plan was, but I was leaning towards waiting for the baby to come on his/her own.  So I tried hard to stay focused, and somehow managed to pull off a 4.0 for the semester.  I wrote a piece called "Bittersweet" during this time and also shared it on facebook.  My heart was broken, it was Christmas time and I was still trying to wrap my head around the fact that the baby inside my belly was dead.  Most days I switched back and forth from denial to glimmers of hope.  I think it took about 2 weeks from the time my baby died to the time I started to notice some changes in my body that indicated something wasn't right.  My belly had shrunk down some, stopped growing and didn't look quite as round as it had been looking, though I did still appear somewhat pregnant.  I was having lots of cramps, and most of my pregnancy related symptoms (nausea, heartburn, constipation, tiredness) had subsided.  In fact, I was full of energy and had started to get pretty "nesty".  I couldn't stop cleaning and organizing things in my house.  Some days I was impatient and ready for it to be over, making plans to be induced only to change my mind when the day drew near (I did this about 4 times).  Some days I would try to connect with my baby, because even though I knew he/she wasn't alive, I was still carrying her, I still loved her, and I knew it was only a matter of time before I had to let her go.  I was scared of the induction but tried to stay open to it because part of me wanted the genetic testing that was available to me if I delivered in the hospital.  At the same time, I wanted to not have to make any decisions about when the baby would come out, I wanted the baby to leave my body on natures clock and hoped to do it at home where we were free to grieve on our own terms, free to spend time with her and then give her a ceremony or burial of our choosing (which were unlikely options in a hospital delivery).  I was torn and back and forth daily, not sure how much longer I could wait, but wanting to honor my body, nature and most of all my baby.  I made it thru Christmas (which was about 3 weeks from the time we had learned about our loss) and started to feel more and more ready, and also more and more apprehensive.  During this time I found a lot of comfort listening to podcasts from Maryn of Indie Birth who had also lost her son at 15 weeks and carried him for 4 months before her body finally released him. I really wanted my body to release the pregnancy on its own, but I also felt pressure to have everything be over with so I could start to move on. My daughter's Birthday is in mid January, and school was starying back up and I really wanted everything to be concluded by then. I took a variety of herbs suggested by my midwife that could nudge my body to get things going, but after 6ish days we re-evaluated and decided we had to turn to a stronger medication.  So on New Year's Eve, my midwife and I had a long conversation about doing things at home under her care with a small dose of cytotec. She admitted this sort of thing was typically out of her scope and was honest in telling me that there was a likelihood of needing to transfer to the hospital if my placenta didn't come out on its own.  She asked me to consider the worst case scenario and the best case scenario's if we decided to stay home and then she planned to support me in whatever choice I made.  After our conversation, I told my husband that I thought we should go to *********** hospital for an induction next weekend.  If I took the induction meds at home, and bled too much I was not comfortable transferring to the closest hospital.  One of my main fears throughout this experience was loosing my ability to have subsequent pregnancies, and even though everyone assured me that likelihood of loosing my fertility was slim to none, I was still scared of something going wrong.  We decided to give the baby and my body another 5-6 days to go into labor on its own and made our official plan to go thru with an induction the following weekend.     On Sat Jan 7, I went to work for the day and planned to head to the hospital that evening.  My mom was all set to spend the night with kids.  When I was packing my things to leave, Lily started to cry.  "Mommy I want to come too.  I thought I was going to hold your hand when the baby comes out?"  My heart stopped.  "Oh honey, I am so sorry. This baby is different, this baby isn't alive and can't be born at home.  I promise if we have another baby that can be born at home you can hold my hand then". It hit me that my daughter was struggling to understand what was going on, and my face became red and flushed as I nervously continued packing.  We are really doing this tonight.  This is really happening.  We said goodbye to the kids, I tried not to cry and we were on our way.  We arrived at the hospital around 9pm.  I had been under the impression the nurses knew I was coming, and I was shocked to find they had no knowledge of my situation, and had a very difficult time explaining at least 3 times that my baby was dead and I was there for an induction.  They sent me to triage to determine for themselves that my baby was infact dead.  I held onto hope that this was all a terrible mistake and when they gave me the ultrasound we would quickly realize my baby was still alive.   I tried not to get my hopes up or travel too far down that rabbit hole of denial, I just wanted to see it for myself one more time, to see that not only was there no heart beat but that my baby had also stopped growing 4 weeks ago so I could believe it with some more finality.   So when the young new resident came in to read my ultrasound, and told me that yes, our baby measured 15 weeks and was gone, I broke down, feeling it all over again.  Yes, this is really happening.      It took a couple hours to be moved from triage to a labor room.  At the hospital, the labor rooms are gigantic.  The doula in me was excited to see how big and equipped the room was, with a huge labor tub (with jets and a shower wand), all sorts of lighting choices to keep things dim, a fold out couch bed for Dad, etc. The grieving mother in me was unraveling.  This is where my dead baby will be born.  I should be here, full of excitement and joyful expectation like the other new Moms on this wing but instead I would leave with empty arms and a broken heart.  Eric and I both noticed that we were put on the end of the wing, away from the nursery, crying babies and laboring moms.  We were exiled to this side of the labor unit and for that I was grateful.  It was heart breaking enough to be there, seeing the elevators on the maternity floor painted with happy expectant mothers broke my heart and I wasn't sure if I could endure the joyful sounds of a newborns cry in the darkest hours of my entire life.       My nurses were amazing.  They were very patient, gentle, kind and compassionate.  I was brought a snack so I would have a "last meal" of sorts before we started and at 2am, I received my first dose of cytotec.  Four, 200mg (800mg total) pills were inserted into my vagina and I wasn't allowed to get up for at least 30 minutes.  In 2 hours, the resident would be back to insert 400 more mg of cytotec and would continue doing so every 2 hours.  The amount of cytotec scared me, especially since my CNM was only planning to administer 200mg to me if I had chose to stay at home, probably because excessive bleeding can be a side effect of the medication.  Eric and I tried to rest after I got the first dose, he drifted off to sleep on the sofa bed and it took me over an hour to do the same.  Only to be woken an hour later to receive more medicine.  After the initial 30 minutes of the second dose had passed, I started to feel very crampy.  I asked if it was ok to shower, and coped with the pain for about an hour with the hot water of the shower hitting me, trying to relax and breathe deeply.  I let Eric sleep, knowing I would need him later.   When it was time to get out, I called to him.  He had to help me out of the tub, the cramps were getting intense.  I asked my nurse for pain meds.  I had been told earlier I would be able to have oral pain meds, IV pain meds or an epidural.  I wanted to start with as little meds as possible, but as the cramping grew more intense I asked the nurse for the IV meds knowing they would kick in faster than an oral dose.  So my nurse returned with dilaudin.  Typically pregnant women don't receive this pain medication in labor, because their babies are alive and might be adversely affected.  My baby was dead, so I welcomed the numbing and slightly euphoric side effects of this medicine.  I sat in the hospital bed and as relief rolled over me, I felt a big gush coming from my vagina.  I waddled to the toilet, leaving a trail of blood on the floor behind me.  I sat down and felt blood dripping out of me.  I asked Eric to go tell my nurse what was happening.  I told him I was feeling a lot of pressure.  I was hopeful because I thought this meant an end was near, the pressure was familiar and I welcomed it.  It was shift change so suddenly there were 3 nurses in my bathroom, ushering me to the bed so that I could be checked.       One of the nurses was a bereavement nurse (who I will name Joan for her privacy) who I had corresponded with earlier in the week. She would be my nurse for the day, with her trainee.  She assured us that it was her goal to give us the best of care, and that she would advocate for all of our wishes; she knew that this experience was unthinkably hard, and that the hours following the birth were the only hours we would ever have with our baby.     Laying in the bed I felt more warm, bright red blood leaking out of me, and saw Eric's shocked face as we all determined that yes, this was infact A LOT of blood.  A resident came to check me and claimed my cervix was only 2cm dilated (the resident before her had said I was closer to 3-4cm) but she admitted there were clots in the way and that she had struggled to even find my cervix.  This discovery prompted a discussion about using a surgical method to empty my uterus, because with so much bleeding, time wasn't a luxury and a surgical evacuation would go faster.  The bleeding would stop once my uterus was empty because the blood was flowing so heavily in an effort to help move the contents of my uterus out along with it.  The pain was creeping back in, the dilaudid had lasted for only and hour and a half, and my new male resident was questioning me on why I didn't want an epidural.  The main reason was I didn't want to be contained to the bed, I still envisioned myself squatting to push this baby out, but now with all the bleeding, I was contained to the bed anyways, and was also being administered a 3rd dose (oral this time) of cytotec along with meds to hopefully slow my bleeding.   I agreed to an epidural and asked the resident to have the anesthesiologist come quickly because the pain was becoming unbearable, I couldn't breathe, vocalize or even move to get away from it.  It was begining to paralyze me.      They asked my husband to leave during the administering of the epidural, and I was in so much pain that moving even slightly was nearly impossible.  The nurses were asking me to move up on the bed and I thought they meant to scoot backwards towards the anesthesiologist and kept struggling to scoot backwards because of all of the pressure in my pelvic region made it very painful to scoot back and shift all my weight to my bottom.  But I finally managed to understand what they were asking of me and positioned my body in a way that was optimal for the young female anesthesiologist to insert the tiny needle and catheter into the epidural space of my spine.  My nurses tried to talk me into relaxing my body, and I realized how tense I was.  The doula in me reminded me to take some deep breaths but I felt so tense that deep breathing wasn't doing much.  When the resident was finished she bragged, "I think that was the easiest epidural I have ever done, and I've done alot!"  Everyone agreed how she had made it look easy, but I just wondered how she could possibly have done so many epidurals before mine, because she seemed younger than me.  It didn't matter, I just waited for the pain to recede.     After the epidural took hold, my residents returned to get a closer look at my cervix, now that my bottom half was numb, they could get in there more easily.  The stirrups came out and I scooted my body down and opened my legs wide.  The male resident started to examine me but called on a smaller female to take over, thinking her smaller hands would be more capable of removing the clots.  She removed several medium sized clots and found my cervix, telling us that I was infact dilated enough to get the baby out.  I was feeling a ton of pressure still, though the pain had lessened a great deal. I was relieved to find out that the cytotec was working, and that a surgical evacuation wouldn't be necessary.  The resident asked me to bear down while she was still examining me, "you mean push?" I asked and she said "yes, push", so without holding anything back I started to push and in a matter of seconds there was a pop followed by an explosion of fluid that was the color of broth and it startled all of us.  I felt bad because the resident had been sprayed with amniotic fluid, but she pretended not to mind, and calmly told me she was holding my baby in her hand.  Before this moment my bereavement nurse had explained to us that because our baby had been gone for 31 days, there was a possibility that the baby would be in rough shape, and that there might also be an unpleasant odor.  I looked at Eric, searching for his reaction to seeing the baby, and he looked heartbroken, terrified and also a bit repulsed.  I asked him, "is it bad?"  And he told me he hadn't even seen the baby yet, so his expression was probably more a reaction to the explosion of fluid and the anticipation of meeting our dead baby.        After clamping and cutting the cord which was about the size of a few strands of angel hair pasta, Joan carried the baby to the counter across from the bed and quickly wrapped "him" in a sewn blanket designed to hold a very tiny baby.  She assured us that "he" (she had a feeling he was a boy and guessed, but we later found out that "he" was infact a "she".  At 15 weeks the sex of a baby is hard to determine because everyone's sex organs start out the same and look very similar until a little further along.  For the sake of this part of the story I will refer to the baby as a boy, since we believed he was a boy for several weeks until receiving word from genetic testing that our baby was in fact a girl) was beautiful, looked very peaceful and that he was sleeping with his arm wrapped around the front of his neck.  After her description I felt more ready to see our baby for myself and she brought him over to us.  Our baby was indeed beautiful, looked very peaceful and was tiny enough to fit in my hands. All things considered he was in ok shape and actually smelled a little sweet, like amniotic fluid often does.  His skin was slightly transparent, and he was cold.  My intuition told me to hold him to my chest, and I covered him in my hands trying to warm him up.  I cried, and said something about never being able to warm him up.  Eric hung his head, tears welling in the corners of his eyes, and the nurses and doctors gave us some time alone.      I was still bleeding quite heavily, was exhausted and some what relieved, and had yet to deliver the placenta.  I had to frequently push the button on my epidural to take the edge off from the ongoing pain.  My residents explained to me that it could take several hours, placentas at this gestation do not easily let go, and that if it didn't come on its own, they would have to surgically remove it.  I was not keen to the idea of being heavily sedated/put under, or the risk of a uterine perferation but was also ready for things to be over with, and to stop loosing my blood.  Ultimately I was given nearly 6 hours to allow things to happen, in which time I spent laying with our baby and resting after such a long and emotional night/morning.  The time was meaningful for me, but in retrospect it is quite a blur.  And I wish I would've been more rested so I could've spent more time looking at, bonding with and loving our baby.   At one point I woke from a nap, the baby was lying beside me on a pillow, and Eric was standing over me, bawling.  I tried to calm him, but later in my journey realized (from how Eric continuously responded to my grief) that sometimes the best thing to do, or what we need most in times of such pain is to just be held and understood without having someone to try to quiet, or fade or fix things.  Especially, since these things cannot be fixed.     My mantra for the experience was "let it go" or "let go" because I knew that my mind and body both were not ready to let go, but that is what needed to happen for this procedure to be over.   So as I laid in the bed bleeding for several hours, I tried to will my placenta to let go, and I even tried to visualize it releasing from my uterus.  Around 4pm they started discussing the need to get the placenta out, and prepped me for the operating room.  I was feeling lots of pressure, and when the pain would return, pushing helped to ease it. The anesthesiologist returned with a dose of medication that would make me more numb than the epidural already had, and my reaction to this medication (if I remember correctly she said it was lidocaine) was scary, because it made my heart race and I could hear my blood rushing in my ears and it also caused my blood pressure to drop dangerously low.  Joan told me I looked pale and I told her I felt very tired and like I might pass out.  The anesthesiologist said it was probably from loosing so much blood and continued to slowly push the medication into my IV and then watched as the same symptoms occured upon doing so.  I told her not to give me any more of the "lidocaine" and became nauseous.   She left and returned with an older doctor, who explained my reaction to the medication was due to my loss of blood, and that anemia could cause those side effects when paired with this medication.  I told them both that I was really numb already and didn't need/want any more. The next thing I knew I was kissing Eric goodbye and getting wheeled down the hall.  I had apparently been administered a sedative/anti-anxiety medicine which I don't remember being given and it made things blurry.  Later Eric told me that once I was more unconscious the anesthesiologist had given me the rest of the "lidocaine" that was in the syringe😡.     I came to on the way to the OR but was definitely in a fog.  The OR was big, bright, white and cold.  It was full of more people than I could count.   I was moved from my bed onto an operating table with a sheet and remember feeling so powerless.  My lower half was soooo numb, I couldn't move if I tried.  They had to prop my legs up into the stirrups and scoot my bottom to the edge of the table.  Joan was beside me and talked to me and I remember her saying "you probably won't remember this" but I remembered everything from then on.  When the residents were ready to start the procedure, they ended up finding my placenta had already detatched from my uterus and was sitting in my vagina!  There would be no need for a surgical removal after all!  What a relief!  They gave me an ultrasound to check for any left over pieces still inside and found my uterus was empty and my cervix was already closing back up.  The male resident asked me if we wanted genetic testing and I said yes, and I could see them handling my placenta from across the room.  It was small, maybe about the size of a 6-8oz piece of meat.  A piece of the placenta could be sent out for genetic testing and it would take 3-6weeks for the results to be in.  I asked for my husband, and asked the nurses to go tell him I was ok and safe.  The assured me I would be back in my room very shortly and I could tell him myself.   I was given a bag of pitocin thru my iv to help with the postpartum bleeding and to help my uterus contract back down in size.  I was given another dose in my epidural (not sure why, I was ridiculously numb already) and then they had me sit forward to remove the device from my back.  They got me back to my room so quickly that Eric had not yet returned from the "chapel" type room, and he was surprised to find me back safe and sound so quickly as well.      I was originally anticipating the experience to take maybe 10hrs and was disappointed to be told I would have to spend the night because I had lost sooo much blood.  They wanted to give me a blood transfusion and monitor my hemoglobin levels and urine output.  So I was given a catheter (up until now I believe they were straight cathing me) and 2 liters of blood.  The blood transfusion was taken very seriously and involved at least 3 people including myself to verify my name, blood type and the blood type on the bags. The nurses sit with you for 15-30 minutes per bag to ensure you are not rejecting it or having an adverse reaction to it.  Then I was finally able to eat some soup and have a cup of coffee.  I checked in with my mom and talked to the kids on the phone.  I missed them so much and cried when I heard their little voices.  Ellis really missed his mama and my heart ached to be home to snuggle him and Lily both.      We continued to visit with our baby and Joan offered to take our pictures with him. At this point though, our tiny baby was starting to look different, and his undeveloped translucent skin was also starting to dry out. We loved him a little more, named him Cohen Jay Golem (our little CJ) and discussed options for his remains.  We had been given the option to have him autopsied, but I didn't like that idea and really just wanted to take him home. Joan was working to get us a waiver of some sort to be able to take him home and bury him as we would have done had he been born at home, but things were looking grim.  Apparently, we would have to send him to the morgue and have his tiny body collected by a funeral home which could cremate him for a small cost and we could get his ashes, which would be scarce in volume. Eric and I were very disappointed about this, because we wanted to take him home, and it felt unfair that something so important to us could be prevented by red tape and policy.  The hospital wouldn't issue him a birth or death certificate, therefore legally he didn't even exist. Babies who die in utero before 20 weeks are considered miscarriages, and babies who die in utero after 20 weeks are considered stillbirths.  Babies born still at or after 24 weeks are issued birth and/or death certificates because their life was considered viable or capable of surviving outside of the womb (with a great deal of medical intervention).  Up until then all losses are not recognized by the state.  In other words, the state says my baby did not exist.  But the state would also not let me take said non existent baby home to bury (unless I was of Native American decent with sprawling native acreage to bury him on).  However, if we chose not to send him to a funeral home, our baby would basically be thrown out in a biohazard bag like garbage.  Joan was very supportive and told us stories of biohazard bags gone missing and women who had stolen their own placentas.  Eric still called a local funeral home and inquired about having our baby picked up, but we were told we would have to come over and sign papers in the morning after I was released.  I was okay with this because it meant we didn't have to say goodbye just yet, but as the evening went on and our tiny baby spent more time outside of the womb, his un-developed skin started to dry out even more and we realized we would have to say goodbye sooner than later.  Eric brought out the cigar box I had brought from home to put him in. I had decorated it with the same textured paper I had used to make the pregnancy announcements for our families with, and we said our good-byes, I love you's and I'm sorries before placing him gently in the box.  As we were finishing up Joan and several other nurses came in and we felt a bit rushed in the process, but I also knew it was time to say goodbye.  Joan had paperwork for me, a folder with miscarriage support and bereavement info, and she had us fill out a keepsake type certificate, which acknowledged our baby's life.  There was a memory box with a teddy bear, a worry stone, hospital wrist bands and other items to acknowledge and remember our child by.  Joan's shift was ending and she wanted to make sure we were all set with everything we needed.   She reminded us that the results from the genetic testing would be available in 6-8 weeks, told me to reach out to her if I needed anything, and we said our  goodbyes.  Eric and I both agreed that she had helped to make this whole experience a little bit easier.  We were grateful to have met her.     After receiving the second bag of blood, and getting disconnected from the IV fluids, I was told I could take a shower.  Eric accompanied me to be sure I wouldn't fall down since I was still pretty lightheaded and exhausted from the whole experience.  My bottom half was covered in blood and like the amazing husband he is, Eric offered to wash me, knowing I was too weak to do it myself.  It was an intimate moment between us, as he gently scrubbed the dry blood from between my legs, butt and thighs.   He even washed my hair for me and I was humble to receive his act if love and devotion. When we were finished he wrapped me in towels and helped me to get dressed back up in a hospital gown. We watched tv (Breaking Bad was on) and drifted off to sleep after such a long and emotional day.    In the morning a nurse came with what appeared to be 2 trainees to give me a shot of Rhogham and take out my IV lines.  I was tired of being poked and prodded and had marks in both arms and my right hand from all the attempts to start an IV and draw my blood.  I was ready to go home and made small talk about it and the fact that I was missing my kids at home.  I was not however ready to hand over the cigar box that contained our sweet baby.  I was surprised that my night nurse had not asked for our childs remains but thought maybe since we had gently packed him away in the cigar box that she assumed he was already gone, taken care of.  But this morning, the nurse and her trainees left the room without mention of it so Eric and I were hopeful that we had slipped through the cracks.  I warned Eric that when our nurse returned with our discharge papers that she might ask us about our baby and his whereabouts, so he tucked the cigar box into our luggage, and said he would just bring our stuff out to the car. I begged him not to leave me, knowing that I was not capable lying to the nurse, because I am a horrible liar and not quick to think on my feet.  So when the nurse returned with my discharge papers, and asked what we had decided to do with the babies remains and where they were, I froze up.  I looked at Eric like a deer caught in headlights and after what felt like an eternity he said, "someone came and got them". The nurse looked at me, and I said, "yes they took him to the morgue at ************?  We have to go to *********** funeral home after we leave here to arrange to have him picked up and cremated".  The nurse said, "Oh ok" and handed me my discharge paperwork and told us we were free to go.  As soon as she left the room we grabbed our bags and high tailed it out of there, not knowing if she bought our story or if she even cared.  We rushed to the elevators, down to the lobby and out to the parking garage, feeling like fugatives.  It was cold and the snow was wet and sloppy, and once we were out of the parking garage and driving down the streets we breathed a sigh of relief.  We did it!  We had managed to "smuggle" the remains of our baby out of the hospital!  Halleluljah!    We returned home and didn't tell anyone about having brought our babies remains home with us.  It was our secret and we placed the cigar box in the freezer until the time was right to give our baby a proper ceremony.  We even got a baby sitter one night and planned to do it, but it was rainy, dark and cold and we both agreed it wasn't the right time.  So on January 21, 2018 we put our baby to rest.  Eric built a fire, and we wrapped the cigar box in birch bark and laid it on top of the fire.  I burned sage, palo santo and spread flower petals (some were dried flowers that I had received from family) in and around the fire.  I sat down and wrote down some thoughts in my journal and then Eric and I hugged and watched the fire burn, and the box quickly disappeared amongst the flames. We talked about the unfairness of it all, the guilt I felt, the bad ass way we felt having sprung our baby from the hospital, what it all meant, etc.  We hugged and kissed, we cried and we said goodbye.      I was sore for a few days, specifically in my back where my epidural was placed.  I was tired for a few weeks, which was more than likely because of all the blood I lost, despite having received a transfusion, my hemoglobin levels were still low.  Overall I bounced back pretty quickly, and was surprized to find that my fertility had returned just about 2 weeks after the induction, when ovulation came followed by a menstrual cycle right on time, 30 days later.  I had a follow up appt with my midwife around this time, and she called my attending Dr. to discuss the results of our genetic testing.  The tests did not show that anything was wrong with the baby's genetics, and the only information that we received from the genetic testing was that our baby had not been a boy, but rather, had been a little girl. My CNM guessed that maybe there had been a problem with the placenta. It is the placenta's job to sustain life after the first trimester, so once my baby started to rely on her placenta, something may have gone wrong, causing her death?  This news was hard to swallow.  I had been hoping for news that would give us an answer why all of this had happened.  I wanted to be cleared from my guilt, I wanted there to be a genetic reason my baby died so that I could stop wondering what I might have done to cause her death. But at the same time I was glad that there wasn't a genetic reason, because this meant that if we got pregnant again, I wouldn't have to be concerned with the same thing happening again.  The thought of going thru another pregnancy or another loss was terrifying.  I was no longer the happy go lucky, naive mom.  I was terrified of all of the things that could suddenly go wrong, in my life, in my family, with my children! I had no idea how I would ever recover from this, and left the appointment with a heavy heart, full of grief and devestation.  Sometimes you just don't get to know why things happen the way they do.      I named my baby girl Halle Celeste Golem.  Halle for "Halleluljah", the Leonard Cohen song that was playing on the radio the evening before we found out her heart had stopped beating.  I was eatting dinner in my van between classes, the sun was setting a beautiful color red, and the song, the type of day I had been having, and the color of the sky had provoked in me a feeling of loss.   I had no idea then that my baby had passed that morning, but would later come to find that she was gone and her passing had likely aligned with the very strange head/neck ache and overall strange and "deathlike" sensation I had felt earlier in the day.  It is so bizarre to me that I had felt her passing, and even thought a little fearfully to myself that I "felt like death" and should lie down, but had no idea that the way I felt was a sign that my baby had died within me. I thought I had just slept funny and had a kink in my neck... I had woken up that morning with one arm under Ellis, the other arm under Lily and had the worst pain in my neck I have ever felt. I took tylenol and then ibprofen for it, but neither worked and I felt like I needed to lie down. But I had no idea any of this meant my baby was in danger. Death and loss of my baby were not even on my radar and then all of a sudden, the very next day, my world came crashing down when we couldn't find the baby's heartbeat.    Halle's due date was May 29, 2018.  On her due date my mom took the day off of work and she, the kids and I went to plant flowers at my Grandma and Grandpa's graves and where my sister Louise is buried.  There is a section of the cemetery where other babies and young children were buried.  It was emotional to see that there were graves still tended from babies lost over 50 years ago; and it was then I knew that I would carry the love and pain in my heart from loosing Halle for the rest of my life.  And I also felt closer to my own mom... As a kid I had never understood what she had went thru loosing a twin baby just after she was born.  Now I understood.  Now it was a pain that we shared.  Other people have made me feel as though my loss of Halle was not as severe in comparison as the loss of a full term baby, commenting on how much worse it would have been to have lost a baby further along in the pregnancy, but my mom never made me feel that way.  And for that I am grateful.  I loved my baby just as deeply as I would have loved her in another 20 weeks.  She wasn't with us for a full pregnancy, but she was with us long enough to leave an imprint on my heart and change the trajectory of our lives.  Because Halle died, Ayda was conceived.  Ayda is not here instead of Halle, rather she is here because of Halle, born 6 months to the day (Nov. 29, 2018) after Halle's due date, just 6 days before the 1 year anniversary of Halle passing.  On the evening of May 29, 2018 Eric helped me plant 2 elderberry bushes in the back yard in Halle's honor.  We talked about Halle being our guardian angel and hoped these bushes would provide our family with lots of healing berries in the years to come. Halle Celeste Golem, our sweet baby girl: I carried you in my womb for 20 weeks, held you in my hands for just a few hours, and will carry you in my heart for the rest of my life. ❤💜💙

imaginary friend // h.s // part two

author’s note: HERE IT IS!!! I am going to make this into a series, but I have no clue how many parts it’s going to be. I hope you enjoy!

w.c: 2.5k

summary: Harry has an imaginary friend called Y/N.

P.S: I do mention going to therapy and having depression in this part, so a trigger warning.

READ PART ONE HERE!

“I’m sorry, have we met before?”

Harry’s heart broke. No, it did more than break. It shattered, exploded, combust, all the words he could think of. Into a million pieces. This is his Y/N, he’s never been more sure of anything else. Her hair was the same color, though Harry could tell she needed a trim, and it was probably driving her mad. She always complained of her long hair, and would make jokes about shaving her head. “But I would look disgusting if I did that,” she’d say. Her pupils were wide, only allowing a small ring of color to show. Her cute little nose that always reminded Harry of a pixie, still sloped down to a point. Freckles spread across her face like constellations, and he remembered how they would disappear a bit in the winter and that’s why it was her least favorite season.

“You’re- you are Y/N, right?”

“Yeah. May I ask who you are?” She raised a hand to run it through her hair and Harry noticed her hands were a bit calloused and covered in paint. Despite the situation, he allowed himself a small smile, he always knew she was going to do something artistic.

“I’m Harry.” His introduction seemed to have a struck a chord within Y/N. Her eyes went wide and her mouth fell open, but no words escaped.

“Oh, well it’s nice to meet you, but I’m afraid you have me mistaken for another Y/N. I’ve got to get to class, bye.” Her words were rushed and frantic and Harry couldn’t figure out why. She put her head down and practically jogged away from Harry and into the art building.

“But…” It was too late, she was already gone. Gone from his life again.

Harry couldn’t help but think that there’s a chance, the tiniest chance that she wasn’t Y/N. She’s imaginary, don’t be so thick. Just a part of your childhood. She can’t be a real person.

But he would recognize that smell of vanilla and cinnamon anywhere. If she really was his Y/N, he refused to let her get away again.

He had to get her back.

-

Harry. Fucking HARRY. Y/N hadn’t heard that name in so long, not since she was in the beginning part of her teenage years. It caught her off guard that a boy, a very cute one at that, had come up to her. But when he said his name, it triggered something in her. All the memories had come flooding back.

For ten long years, from the time she was five till she was fifteen years of age, Y/N had weird dreams. Not nightmares, in fact the quite opposite. She’ll never forget the first time she saw him.

Y/N was having a dream about being in her backyard, when she spotted someone sitting on the ground under the big oak tree. He held his knees up to his chest and kept his eyes trained on the dirt. She slowly walked up to him and got a better look at him. He looked to be the same age as her and had brown hair, that was curly, and stuck out in every which way.

“Hello.” The boy looked up at Y/N and she could see the color of his eyes. As green as the grass he was sitting on.

“I’m Y/N.” She reached a tiny hand outward for him to shake, but he didn’t dare move. Y/N rested her arm back by her side and took her bottom lip between her teeth, trying to think of how to get the mysterious boy to open up.

“Wanna play superheroes? I like to be Wonder Woman, sometimes Poison Ivy, even though she’s one of the bad guys. You can be whoever you want!” The boy let a small smile loose, and Y/N noticed his two front teeth were slightly bigger than the rest, but she thought it was cute.

“Well c’mon!” Y/N grabbed his hand in anticipation and pulled him off the ground and began running off.

“I’m H-Harry,” he finally spoke up quietly and he wasn’t sure if she had heard but she turned around and gave him a smile.

That’s how all the dreams went, just she and Harry being kids. As she grew up in real life, she watched Harry grow as well. She always kept Harry a secret, in fear of anyone thinking that she was crazy. As she got older, Y/N thought about the possibility of Harry being real. Why else would she have dreams about the same boy for years? She wasn’t sure if she believed in fairytales, or soulmates, or anything of that nature, but the more she thought about Harry, the more her mind changed.

-

It was when she was thirteen that Y/N started getting anxious about how far this Harry situation was getting. A boy at school had gotten her attention and she tried being with him, but just couldn’t. Harry, this boy that probably didn’t even exist, had her heart, and she didn’t know what to do about it.

She confessed to her mum what had been going on and she suggested that Y/N see a therapist.

-

“What type of childhood did you have? Did you make friends with other children, or were you very timid?” Y/N was sat in a therapist’s office, goosebumps all over her skin because she was quite nervous and it was absolutely freezing in the room.

She expected to be lying down on a couch, while being asked the repetitive, “how does that make you feel?” Instead she was sat in a (rather uncomfortable) chair across from a woman called Dr. Green, who had papers strewn across her desks and children’s drawings taped to the wall behind her.

“I was quite shy, usually kept to myself. I did start to make friends once I got a bit older, but they’re all very outgoing.”

“Hmm I see. Dreams can sometimes be a bit difficult to interpret, but I would say that this ‘Harry’ boy was a way for your childhood self to cope with not having other kids to play with. Children tend to get attached to objects, or in your case, people, very easily and that’s what happened. Your brain tricked you into thinking that Harry was the perfect friend for you and you didn’t need anyone else.” Y/N nodded her head in understanding.

“What do you suggest I do?”

“It’s going to be difficult and take quite some time, but you need to slowly push Harry out of your life. Anything that may remind you of him, or if you do something regularly that you associate with him, get rid of it. But do it in steps and be patient, if you try to stop this all at once, it will be much harder.”

“I understand. Thank you so much, Dr. Green”

“It’s no problem, Y/N. I’ll see you again in two weeks to see what progress you’ve made.”

-

No progress was made. Y/N grew more and more frustrated during the two weeks while waiting for her next appointment with Dr. Green. Harry just wasn’t going away, even in her everyday life, he was always there.

Y/N decided to go to this restaurant that wasn’t too far from her house. It was old, run down, and she was always the youngest person in there, but they had the best curly fries and strawberry milkshake. She took a seat in a booth, and her usual meal was immediately brought to her. She was such a regular, the waitresses didn’t even bother with giving her a menu anymore.

“The usual, for our best customer,” Anne, the older waitress who never seemed to have a day off, placed Y/N’s fries and milkshake on the table, with a kind smile on her face.

“Thank you, Ms. Styles. Don’t you ever take a day off from work? Just for yourself or your family?”

“Oh, I wish I could sweetheart, but I’ve got to keep my little ones fed. And you can call me Anne, I think we know each other well enough by now. Enjoy love, let me know if you need anything.”

“I will. Thank you, Anne.”

Y/N’s mouth watered at the food in front of her and she nearly moaned when taking a sip of her milkshake. She made a mental note to get the recipe for it before she went off to university in a few years.

Y/N picked up a curly fry and was about to eat it, but stopped. Her face fell, and her stomach was in knots. The damn fries were reminding her of Harry, because they resembled the curls on his head. She threw it back onto the plate and pushed it away from her.

“Never thought I’d see the day when Y/N Y/L/N doesn’t eat our fries,” Y/N looked up and saw that Anne had returned.

“I never thought so either. My mind is just all over.”

“Well, lucky for you, I’m on my break so we can talk about it, if you would like.” Y/N nodded her head and Anne sat down in the booth across from her, but not before taking some fries. Y/N didn’t mind, she knew that Anne was always working nonstop, and probably didn’t get many breaks.

“So, what is it love?”

Y/N sighed and gave a small roll of her eyes, “boy troubles.” Anne let out a small giggle, and Y/N thought to herself that she hopes to be that beautiful when she’s Anne’s age.

“I remember those days. Getting butterflies when you saw the cute little boy you fancy in the halls at school. Then crying and thinking you’ll never find love again after he breaks your heart.”

“I think my situation is a bit more complicated, Ms. Sty- uh, sorry, Anne.” She raised her eyebrows as a signal for Y/N to further explain. She hesitated for a moment, because she liked Anne, and didn’t want to embarrass herself. Y/N took a deep breath and told Anne everything and her heart was racing when she was finished, she prayed that Anne wouldn’t think she was crazy.

“Sounds like a lot going on sweetheart and I don’t think I can give you advice on what to do because I haven’t experienced anything like that, but I will tell you that you’ll get through it. You and your mum have been coming to this restaurant since you were still in her belly. Always got fries and a milkshake, just like you. I’ve had the pleasure of watching you grow up and you have become a very strong girl and you’ll be ok.”

“Thank you, Anne, that means a lot to me.”

“And if you get over this mysterious boy in your dreams, maybe I’ll get you a date with my son,” Anne let out a laugh but Y/N got a feeling she wasn’t completely joking.

“Oh, you’ve got a son? Thought it was just you and Gemma.”

“No, I’ve got my baby boy as well, he’s about your age. My break is over now, but it was nice talking with you Y/N, come back again anytime you need, you know you’re always welcome.”

“Thank you again, Anne. Have a good rest of the night!” Y/N left the money for her food and a tip for Anne and walked out the door, letting the cold, evening air hit her face. She wondered why Anne hadn’t said her son’s name, but quickly put it to the back of her mind.

-

Y/N continued going to therapy, and going to the restaurant to have talks with Anne, but nothing was working. Harry just could not leave her mind, and Y/N became depressed. She loved Harry, although he was a part of her imagination, but she didn’t want to love him. She wanted friends, she wanted a relationship with a real person but she knew that she couldn’t be with anyone while also being in love with some imaginary boy who only appeared in her dreams.

This continued for the next two years, and Y/N just fell into a deeper hole. She felt helpless, and just wanted Harry to go away. But then things started changing, finally, things started to turn around. Y/N would never forget that day either.

February 1st. Y/N was 15. The night prior, Harry wasn’t in her dreams. She woke up feeling confused, a little sad, but also happy. When taking a nap later that day, Harry showed up in a dream, but Y/N quickly woke up. She was finally getting away from him, and wasn’t going to get sucked in.

Throughout that year, Harry came and went. Until one day, he was gone. No dreams, no nothing. There were still some things that reminded Y/N of him, but she didn’t care. She was finally making progress and wasn’t going to let anything get in the way. Finally, Harry left her life completely. Y/N went a full two months with no dreams of Harry and she knew in her heart that he was gone forever. Was she sad? Absolutely. This boy, whether he’s fake or not, had become a big part of her life, but Y/N knew she had to let him go.

-

Just when Y/N thought everything was going well, some boy named Harry had to show up. Y/N couldn’t even focus in class because he looked so much like her Harry. His eyes were the same color, the most beautiful shade of green Y/N had ever seen, and his hair was pushed back but still had those curls. His lips were the same shade of pink, and still looked soft. Those damn lips.

There was no way in hell, no way possible, that the boy who came up to her and introduced himself as Harry was her Harry. But Y/N had to make sure, she had to know. It was nearly 1 in the morning and Y/N couldn’t take it anymore, she had to find out. After she got out of class, she started talking to everyone and campus until she met someone who knew Harry and where his dorm was.

Y/N jumped out of bed and put her slippers on, not bothering with proper shoes or clothes. She grabbed a jacket, cause the London air always gets extremely cold at night, and made her way to Harry’s dorm. Thankfully, he was just in the building next to hers, so it wasn’t too far of a walk.

Second floor, room 213.

213. There it was. Y/N stood frozen in place, too terrified to move. She heard someone speaking on the other side of the door, and before she could run away, it swung open. Harry was standing in front of her, with headphones in his ears, a jacket on, and some workout shorts. She assumed he was about to go for a late-night run.

“Y/N…hey.”

“Hi. I know it’s late, I’m sorry. Can we talk? Or were you about to go somewhere?”

“We can talk. I was about to go for a run, couldn’t sleep. Do you want to come inside or…?”

“I’m not much of a runner, but we can walk around campus if you don’t mind,” Y/N gave a soft smile to let Harry know everything was ok, she could sense that he was nervous.

“O-ok.”

SEND ME REQUESTS AND GIVE FEEDBACK! Another side note, I am in no way a professional therapist, so the part where Dr. Green was talking to Y/N wasn’t proper advice or anything, I just tried my best to think from a therapist’s point of view.