#today is my birthday. the day after tomorrow is when my dad died | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

emailblog · 2 years

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would you write a jake hangman imagine where he makes it up to his fiancée when he misses her birthday due to a mission?

Author's Note: I feel like this is very anticlimactic, so I'm so sorry. Again, I have work and schoolwork to do today, but I'm off tomorrow. Expect a few more fics from asks and a new one on its own. Thank you for all the reblogs and love <3 you guys are literally the best.

Word Count: 1.6k

You are fuming.

You gave Jake the benefit of the doubt this morning when he mentioned nothing about your birthday because maybe he was too blinded by being tired, but when he left for class without saying anything, you realized he had forgotten. At first, you tried to understand. He had a lot on his plate with the death mission he could be sent on, but when he said he had to stay later at the Hard Deck because he and Rooster planned a pool game today, you were wondering how he forgot your birthday but not a pool game to show up Rooster.

“Hey, Jake? Where are you?” You ask into the phone, and you can hear the loud music playing in the background along with the laughs of Jake’s friends.

“I’m still at the Hard Deck, Baby. Is something wrong?” You know Jake. While he’s trying to still seem like the calm and cool guy his friends know, you can tell he’s concerned. You can see him leaning against the wall while watching Rooster take his turn in your mind.

“Just wondering because if you’re waiting to tell me happy birthday until the exact time, you’re thirty minutes late.” You look out the window and at the beach, hoping his face is covered in shock. It’s silent for a few minutes, but you swear you can hear whispering. Then, there’s laughing, but not from Jake. It’s Rooster. Dude! I can’t believe you forgot her birthday! Haha, I hope she beats your ass, man.

“Baby, I’m so sorry. I got caught up in this whole mission thing and–”

“But you remembered your game with Rooster?” Again, it’s silent for a beat. He sighs into the phone, and he says a goodbye to the gang before the music begins to fade from the speaker.

“No, no, Jake. Go back inside and finish your game. I’ll just call my mom and dad so I can have a little celebration.” You threaten because you know that he knows your parents will give him hell for this slip up. They will never let it go.

“God, no. Look, I’ll come home, and we can do whatever you want. We can watch that god awful remake of Footloose you like even though the original is so much better.” Jake groans which gets you to laugh a little bit, and so does he.

“I’m still mad, Jake.” You mention when the laughter dies down.

“I know. Why don’t you come down to the Hard Deck and tell Penny all about my disrespectful attitude and get yourself a free drink?” The offer is tempting, but you know that if you go down to the bar, he’ll just try to sweeten you up to forget his mistake. Then again, the hundreds of dollars that he’ll have to spend at a packed bar on the weekend seems very tempting and a good punishment.

“Fine, I’ll be there in a few minutes.” You grumble, and he lets out a small cheer with a short I love you! Walking over to your closet, you wonder what you should wear. You know that you’ll want to go to the beach at some point when you’re there so you decide to go for the “shorts and bikini top for shirt” look, but to rub it in Jake’s face more, you wear one of Rooster’s hawaiian shirts he lent you after someone spilt their drink on you at the Hard Deck.

Once you arrived, it was oddly quiet for the bar even if it was a slow day. There’s no music or chatter, so you slowly walk up to the doors with your guard up. Just as you pass you walk through the door, the entire bar jumps out and yells Surprise!

“Jesus wept!” You cry out, hand over your heart. Jake walks over to your hunched over form with a beer in his hand.

“Happy birthday, Baby.” His smile is infectious, and you wonder how lucky you are to have tied down Jake Seresin. Though, his original “charm” still lingers as his eyes stay glued to your chest until you start walking over to his group, the bar returning to its original environment.

“Now, that is a look, Sweetheart.” Rooster comments when he sees his shirt slowly falling off your shoulders from the surprise. You smile at him as he comes over to you for a hug. His strong arms wrap around you tightly, and he whispers a wish of happy birthday in your ear.

“Wait, that’s Rooster’s shirt?” Jake questions, holding the collar of the fabric in his hands. You give a smug smile to the rest of the group as Jake continues to stand behind you. When you turn around, you slide the fabric the rest of the way off of your body and hold it in your hand.

“Let me take it off if it bothers you so much.” Your voice is smooth as you hear the rest of the group cheer behind you. Slowly, you turn back around to place the shirt on Rooster’s shoulder. Now standing in only shorts and a bikini top, you lean back on the pool table staring directly at Jake whose jaw is now tense.

“Don’t you think you tortured me enough?” He whines. Jake Seresin whines. You laugh and walk back up to him and hug his waist. He places a kiss on your head as Fanboy fake gags.

“I can’t believe Jake’s gone soft.” Coyote teases, and Jake shakes his head.

“I’d do anything for this woman, but she definitely doesn’t make me soft.” You all groan at the innuendo, and you are tempted to walk away into the ocean.

“I’m leaving. Bye, Roos.” You wave to Bradley who shakes his head, smiling, before running out of the bar with a call of Thank you, Penny! You hear Jake’s footsteps pick up behind you, so you let out a squeal when you reach the sand, taking off as fast as you could. Just when you think you’ve gotten away from him, he grabs your waist and throws you over his shoulder.

“Jake Seresin, you put me down right now!” You punch at his back with a laugh, but he just squats down a bit as if he’s going to drop you.

“You really wanted me to feel bad about forgetting your birthday, huh?” He smiles as he stares at the pier. You take in the silence and close your eyes. Even though he forgot your birthday, you take in his body on yours, his smell, the coolness of the night, and you relish in it. You open up your eyes and see the wooden floor of the pier, and Jakes puts you down.

“I asked you out here.” He states, leaning over the railing. You remember that night. You called him a dick for throwing Pete off the railing that first night and left to check on him. Once you saw he was okay, you took a walk to the pier. Once he found you, he apologized to you about how he can act around his friends.

“That you did. I thought you were such an asshole.” You mirror him and lean over the railing. He scoots over and lays his head on your shoulder.

“And now?” He asks, but you stay silent with a grin on your face. Jake looks at you with fake hurt. He puts his hands in his pockets before looking down at the ground.

“I am really sorry I forgot about your birthday.” He sounds like he could cry. Your heart feels for him, and you start to feel really bad for the things you’ve done tonight.

“Just because I forgot doesn’t mean I didn’t get you a present, though.” He walks back up to the pier and takes a small box out of his pocket. Because the box has a lid that slides on, you think it’s earrings. Giddy, you open the box and see a diamond ring inside. Your breath hitches.

“I bought that the morning after we met, and I thought about giving it to you when I saw you again. That seemed too forward, though.” He lets out an awkward laugh. You take the ring out with shaky hands and place it gently on your finger.

“...If I say no, do I get to keep the ring?” You look up at his nervous face becoming serious with the tilt of his head.

“Baby..” He warns and you just close the box and hand it back to him.

“I would’ve said yes if you gave it to me that day.” You mention as he stares at the ring on your finger. He holds the hand and kisses it.

“I know. You’re obsessed with me.” You shove him away. He just laughs and pulls you in for a hug. It’s different now, but a good difference. He sways you two slightly and hums a random tune you’ve never heard. A part of you wants to run into the Hard Deck and yell that you’re engaged, but another part wants to keep this moment to the both of you.

“This means you can’t be going on deathly missions every year. When you left to save Pete and Bradley last year, I was so worried.” You squeeze him tighter, pushing your face into his chest.

“This means you have to stop doing your weird flirting with Rooster.” You can feel his chin on your head, his hands rubbing up and down your back.

“But then how will I rile you up?” He pinches your hip, and you yell out, smacking his chest.

“I’m sure you’ll find a way.”

#jake seresin x reader #jake hangman seresin x reader #hangman x reader #top gun #top gun maverick #hangman #jake hangman seresin #jake seresin

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bots-and-cons · 10 months

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Stressed, tired and dealing with grief

I know the title probably makes it sound worse than it actually is, but I just need to vent, because I've had a bit of a rough week. I'll try to post something tomorrow, because I don't like leaving the blog alone for this long. Also I can deal with crap by writing so it's a win-win I guess. The stuff below might be a bit of a ramble, but eeeh

Venting starts here btw

There has been a lot going on during the past week and being at my mom's and looking after my little sister really drained me, because I didn't get a single minute alone for six days, aside from sleeping and I didn't do much of that either. My social battery is already nonexistent to begin with and then you add to that no sleep, it's not a good combination. I'm probably not going to my mom's for a couple of weeks, since I can't really deal with my two youngest siblings until I recharge.

On other news, my grandma on my dad's side died a couple of years back in June, and her husband, my grandpa is in a nursing home. I don't visit him much, because I can't really handle it well. He doesn't remember any of us anymore, not even my dad, and it's just way too much for me to handle most of the time.

Anyway, today we went to clean out their old house and it was pretty hard. I didn't really realize it right then, but now that I'm getting tired and have stopped for the day, it's kind of hitting me. We found so many old things that I played with when I was a kid, clothes that I remember my grandma wearing, actual physical photographs were stuffed into every cabinet and corner, and I found all kinds of stuff. I didn't really stop to look at them though, I couldn't really handle it. I looked at one photo for a while, my grandma smiling, wearing that blue flower dress that she liked. That's how I'd like to remember her though, smiling. I know she loved me, even though I didn't hear it for a long time before she died, because she stopped talking. I'll always love her and even though the grief raises its head occasionally, I'll get through it somehow.

Another thing that's been getting to me is the anniversary of Technoblade's death. He died last year at the very end of June. I don't normally get attached to youtubers or streamers, or people on the internet I don't personally interact with, but I guess in his case it was different. I started watching Technoblade when I was still pretty badly depressed, and he was a big source of fun and joy for me. He was one of my comfort youtubers and I still watch his old videos occasionally. I just watched a few old animations about him and hearing his voice literally made me cry.

There's a lot that's stressing me out right now and my grandma's death anniversary among other things just happened to trigger a bit of an emotional avalanche. I've been keeping all this crap in since the beginning of June and it's now all rising to the surface, because I'm tired and don't have the strength to keep it at bay anymore. Also me overburdening myself doesn't help this situation at all, so I'll probably sort of refrain from most social contacts next week and try to take it easy. I'll make some good food, bake something for my birthday (12th of July) and maybe go get ice cream with my bff. I also have an appointment with my mental health counselor/nurse on Monday, so that's gonna help the situation a lot too.

Stay hydrated y'all and thanks if you read all this :D

#ony speaks #grief #death tw

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tarnishedxknight · 2 months

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{out of dalmasca} Well, guys... things just keep getting better. Yes, that was sarcasm, heh. I'll continue below a cut to spare people who don't want to hear about these sorts of things... but the upshot is... I'm still not sure how long my hiatus is going to be. I hope to know in the next day or two, and then I will update everyone. In the meantime, this blog will still remain open, activity will just come and go as I have brain, energy, and desire to write.

My appt. today didn't quite go how I thought it would. I met my surgeon, he's extremely nice and he answered all my questions. So I feel better about the surgery in general. But like... I thought we had already decided I was doing this and today was to actually... schedule it. Nope, today was to decide to do it (I decided 14 months ago, but okay), and now they need me to go for like four other tests and have an appt. with one of my other docs before I can even schedule surgery.

So not only do I not know when it is still, but I'm pretty much in constant pain around the clock, my anxiety is as a sustained level of Terrible™, and at any moment, something could go very wrong and land me in the hospital. I'm just... tired of the American healthcare system, ffs. Pardon my language but this is fucking bullshit. How long do I have to be in pain for, or how sick do I have to be, before somebody feels a sense of urgency about this?

And then... my favorite aunt passed away today, only four months after her cancer diagnosis. On her grandson's birthday. And my cousin was there by her side for weeks but had to fly home for a couple days because her husband couldn't cancel a business trip and she needed to watch her kids. So she wasn't there when her mom died and is beating herself up over it. I have to call her tomorrow and it's... something I know I have to do, but really don't want to. I'm so exhausted with everything I've been going through that I just am not sure how much I have to give her as far as being able to hold her up and to offer deep emotional consolation. I just don't have a lot to give right now. I've been running on empty for a long time now. But I have to try.

My dad says he's going to tell my grandmother tomorrow morning, and then he has to leave for the day. So I'm going to be left home with her for like 5-6 hours, and I have hours of grading to do, and she will likely... not leave me alone to get my work done. I'm a little pissed off about that, but I know he's upset about his sister and I don't want to get on his case about it. So she'll want to sit and talk and reminisce and all that and I just... frankly... don't. I internalize things, that's just how I am. My grandmother... needs human interaction and talking and constant noise. Her needs are the polar opposite of mine. So tomorrow should be fun, grading while she won't leave me alone while waiting for various doctor's offices to call me back about appts. and then calling my grief-stricken cousin. *sigh*

So... yeah, that's where I'm at. 🙃 I am hoping... once again... that in the next 1-2 days I'll have a lot of these appts down and I'll know when my aunt's funeral is, so I'll know whether I'm just going to extend this hiatus for a while, or come back for a bit and then take another hiatus later. There are just so many scheduling things that are outside of my control right now, so I just have to wait and see.

Thank you to everyone on this blog who has been so understanding these past few months. This is... a pretty bad time in my life (and obviously my dad's and cousin's etc. as well), but I'm just taking things one day at a time.

I do want to write a little, the distraction is good right now. I apologize in advance if it isn't the greatest writing in the world because I am a bit off right now, but I would like to be here for a few hours tonight and just work on what I can.

#{ out of dalmasca } ᵒᵒᶜ #tw: surgery #tw: death #tw: cancer

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blackypanther9 · 1 year

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Dia De Los Muertos – Bruno x Reader

Pick your Gender.

Dia De Los Muertos was coming. The Madrigal Family needed at least a few hours for preparing it and Bruno’s Lover joined in.

“Come on, Y/n ! We need to prepare everything !”, Bruno said happily.

“What do we need to prepare for ? A Birthday ?”, you asked confused.

“No ! It is soon Dia De Los Muertos !”

You looked at Bruno with an expressionless face.

“The what now ?”, you asked.

“Oh right ! In English it means the Day of the Dead ! We celebrate it.”

“Oh… Why tho ? What’s so special about it ?”

“Well, we have a legend of the afterlife, of some sorts at least. When you die, you will be in the Land of the dead. There is one special day though, where you can come and visit your Family. If the picture of a dead person is on the Veranda then the said dead person can cross over a bridge that is made out of Marigolds. We also spread these on the streets into our home, because we will help them find back that way. We celebrate and they celebrate with us. We put a lot of food on their graves and Verandas so they can take it home with themselves. We share stories about our passed away Family, to keep their memory alive and by that we keep them alive. If we forget about one of them or no one lives anymore that knew them or their stories…they disappear from there and move to somewhere else. If the picture of a dead person is not on the Veranda, they can’t cross and come over.”

You listened intently and were now just as eager as Bruno. You grabbed his hand and then tore him out of his room, which he yelped at in shock and then smiled by your eagerness.

Soon you were with Bruno in the kitchen and asked what you and him can help the others with. Bruno helped Julieta by cooking, and you helped Isabela spread the Marigolds. Then you helped with setting the desk and decorating Casita.

After a few hours you were all done and waited for the night to come, to celebrate.

Bruno and you were in the Living room reading and cuddling together while the others either played or talked about things for the next Dia De Los Muertos.

The night has arrived and you and Bruno had sneaked out of Encanto to bring Bruno’s Father his gifts. You selected them with him and set them near the River.

“Happy Dia De Los Muertos, Senor Madrigal.”, you said as you set it down and looked at the River.

“Happy Dia De Los Muertos, Padre.”, Bruno said softly.

Then you giggled and pulled out Marigolds and started a trail into the Encanto.

“Y/n ? What are you doing ?”

“Bringing your Dad into Encanto !”

“He got washed away right after he was slain. There is no certainty that this will work.”

“Don’t be such a wuss and help me !”

Bruno looked at you nervous and you sighed and continued until the Marigolds were connected to the rest of the streets of Encanto.

After you were done you ran back to Bruno and dragged him into Casita, unbeknownst to you two that a certain someone was watching you with a smile and followed the Marigolds for the very first time.

Alma was angry as she found out that you made a trail from outside to inside Encanto, but she didn’t let her anger consume her. Not today. You only wanted to help and that is all the more reason to not have a fit right now.

Soon the Madrigals ate and celebrated like there was no tomorrow. But everything stopped when a golden glow emitted in the center of their yard. Soon enough everyone gasped in shock and Alma almost fainted.

In the Center of the yard of Casita stood Pedro Madrigal. He had a big smile on his face and chuckled.

“It’s good to finally be able to see my Family again.”, he said.

“Pedro…?”, Alma asked.

“Hello Love.”, Pedro greeted back.

“I KNEW IT !”, you yelled and shook a shocked Bruno.

Pedro looked at you and chuckled.

“Thank you for helping me here. I never found my way to them after I died. This is my very first time.”

Alma looked at him in horror. His very first time…?

“So you never saw them growing up ?”, she asked.

“Sadly no. But I look at my kids now and I see just how much they grew and how happy they have become.”

Alma smiled, but knew she had to come clean with her Husband.

But even after Alma came clean, Pedro wasn’t angry with her. He was happy that his mijas (daughters) and hijo (Son) found love and maybe, just maybe, his hijo will have a child too. One day.

Today he was just happy to be with them and to talk with them.

END

#Bruno x Reader #Halloween Oneshot #Bruno Madrigal #Madrigal Family #Happy Halloween

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kudos-si-do · 5 months

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move along (or you might as well be dead)

they tell me: sooner or later, life is going to look like it did before. i don't think that's true. when i was ten, my dad promised me that we'd come back to a place that came to mean more to me than anywhere else in the world. he died before we had the chance. sometimes i look at the pictures, at the curves of roller coasters gleaming above lake erie, and i wonder if he knew that his cancer would kill him.

it's been a long road. the chemo they used to save me — to poison me just enough to only almost kill me — almost killed me again, more than a year after remission. neuropathy, they said. common with chemotherapy. especially common with how much you were treated with.

it doesn't matter, what they say now. i hit the ground headfirst from somewhere around eight feet up. i don't remember it. you're getting better, they say, but then they take another look at me and i'm placed back into the prison i've only ever been paroled out of for a few scant days, a few golden hours.

there's blue ice cream on my tongue. they don't sell this specific kind here. i laugh as i say it's a gel or a liquid, banned on airplanes. freedom, taken back. blue, blue, blue.

you tell me that my family isn't normal. i've been told all my life that every family is its own kind of mess, that my family wasn't any messier than anyone else's. that maybe we were lucky, getting the family we had. i believe only part of it now, but before you, i believed it completely. yes, it's true that humans are messy. we get our messes everywhere. but it isn't so normal for someone to throw away your possessions and laugh while you sob, scoff as you dig through the dumpster for pieces of your childhood you can never get back. or is it normal? am i making everything about myself again? am i being dramatic? i've been told that all my life — i'm too dramatic. i walk on three broken bones and i don't complain.

your family isn't normal either. someday i'll send hockey postcards to your father without an ounce of guilt. someday i'll look another member of your family in the eye and disagree, even though i was supposed to be agreeable, even though i promised i wouldn't do anything to make your life harder. smile, smile, smile, i told myself. be at your best. don't let your cracks show through.

my dad was supposed to teach me to drive, to threaten my significant others, to walk me down the aisle. all my friend was supposed to do was grow up. she'd be an adult now. her birthday was last month. the sixteenth anniversary of her death was a less than three weeks ago. she's dead, frozen in time as a kid with a feeding tube up her nose and a bucket hat on her head, always pink or purple. i remember thinking that she was the bravest person i'd ever known. my dad was brave, too. does bravery always beget bravery?

i'm going to die. one day, if not today. if not tomorrow. if not next week, next month, next year. i'm trapped in the same few hundred square feet as i'm always trapped in. you're late by an hour to pick me up from the airport. i think i should be annoyed about it, but i only shake my head. i wonder what adventure your adhd has taken you on. when i hug you, there's relief in the action. i'm tired. my head is spinning. i'm not quite there, not quite right, but i want to be. i'm a little bit trapped in my mind, i think. am i being dramatic? later, i'll hit my head lightly on a support column in the barn while you're trying to teach me to dance. it will bruise, just barely, but enough to betray me. i'll have bad migraines for days, and i'll be too scared to talk about it. i find the fucked up basement we joked about and i make sure you see it.

i don't touch people much. most days, i don't like to be touched. i remember that my dad's hugs felt like the safest place on earth. i wonder if there's anything left of him below the ground, eighteen years later, or if it's all just bone. i've lived much longer without him than with him. i try to project safety through my arms and hope that's enough. or at least something. anything. i can touch people i'm comfortable with, most of the time. every time i thought you looked sad, i did my best. i swung my arm around your shoulders. shook your arm. made a face. i hope it made a difference. i know it was hard, being where you were, doing what you did. i hope you knew that i was proud of you.

i'm scared, but i'm not allowed to be. i fight with my brain, frustration growing. i watch your family with suspicion, with disapproval that they might or might not have earned. i try to be friendly, project myself in a way that makes me enjoyable to the people around me. i'm not that person, not really, not always. one of my friends says i'm much different in person than i am otherwise. is that true? who am i, really? am i someone who can be seen, whose flaws can be pushed away enough to only show the light? when i looked at them, who did they see looking back?

it was odd, hearing my name with a different sound to it. everyone used the same pronouns, but not the ones i'm used to hearing. it's funny, i think. gender means nothing to me, but at home, i hear a different set of pronouns. sometimes i wonder what it would be like, but i don't dwell. it wouldn't be dangerous, i don't think, not in the way a lot of queer folk are in danger, but it would bring more harshness and hardness to my life than i think i can currently bear. i wonder if you think that i'm a coward. am i a coward?

i'm in bed again. you were supposed to be here this week. i watch the plans sift out of my hands like sand. the pressure in my chest is enormous. it hurts to breathe, sometimes. my head is tangled up. they think i'm having seizures. i'm spending more time inside the hospital than i have in a long time. it curls in my chest like fire against bare skin, but i have to bear it. you're lucky, they tell me. it can always be worse. can't it?

i was raised by a religious mother and a non-religious father. once he was gone, there was nothing left to protect me from it. i spent years entrenched in it. i remember one of my teachers bragging that they didn't take money from the government so that they weren't beholden to their requirements. they didn't have to hire the gays, she said. i remember how one of my bible instructors told me to keep my mouth shut. i had too many questions. i ruined too much. the only time i blatantly cheated, it was on a test to name the chapters of the bible. i was caught and suspended. the teacher looked at me like i was scum the rest of my time at that school. am i fake, made of plastic and metal? am i real, flesh and bone and sinew? pulling out of that hate has taken a decade, and i'm still not done.

i stand amongst the protesters, those early months of the pandemic. i wonder, even then, if it will make a difference. years later, my cousin hangs a wooden flag with a blue stripe above her door. i burn underneath my skin. i say nothing.

i found the churro ice cream in the freezer section with a "new!" label around the plastic tamper shield. i bought both of the pints that they had and put them in the freezer. i got a pint of half baked, too. i prefer phish food, myself. i look up the closest scoop store and wonder what it would take to get there. i don't touch any of the pints.

i'm not allowed to drive. my car sits, unused. i rankle as i pace the same endless walls. i trip on nothing. i sit back down, mutinous. i haven't been kind to the breaks in my pelvis and femur. they twinge from the cold, or from overuse, or from both. i remember walking around the oncology floor years ago, spurred by the sheer amount of steroids i was on to offset the effects of the difficult rounds of chemo. there was no leaving, nothing but the same floor and the same walls and the same enlarged pictures of flowers. i got paranoid enough to think that they were watching me. in some ways, i think they're still watching me.

there aren't any flowers in my room. i don't like to see them, outside of in nature, but sometimes i understand the desire to receive flowers. i've never been given them. i've never considered myself as particularly desirable. i've dated, and the relationships have ended in failure. but i loved them, once. i still love them, in a way. i'm not sure if there's a wrong way to love, so long as you're loving in good faith. i wonder if i'm lying to myself about love, if i even have the capacity to love. i wonder if i'm lying to myself about any good traits i think i might have more often than i care to admit. i'm not a good person, i think. i try, scrape and scrabble my way up mountains, but it never feels like enough.

i forgive you for not braiding my hair.

but you knew that, didn't you?

#tw cancer #tw head injury #concussion #ice cream #marshmallow sky #my writing #honestly i have no idea what i just wrote and i'm not going to proofread it now.#so #sorry?#death mention #child death mention #moving forward #pandemic mention

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thiscrimsonsoul · 2 years

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{out of paprikash} So... my laptop decided to fry its harddrive this morning, and that means a lot of very negative things for me. Explanation and bit of a rant below, but I can’t promise how much writing I will get done tonight. It depends on time, mood, muse, and whether I even feel like being here, given my extreme mood drop. I will try to do what I can.

This has hit me hard for a number of reasons. First, I’ve been so busy that I haven’t backed up my files in six months. That means I’ve lost six months of writing progress on various projects, six months of work on Tumblr (files with tags, info dumps, headcanons, icons, reaction gifs, anything I’ve updated in my archives... it’s just how I organize my brain), and six months of music and photos.

The most heartbreaking of these losses is the writing/editing progress I’ve lost on various WIPs, but also I lost an entire folder containing pictures and videos of a pet that died recently. I had removed them all from my phone already, thinking they were archived on my computer, but hadn’t backed them up yet. It’s like losing him all over again. I also had pictures from my grandmother’s birthday, going out with my dad to our favorite pub, and other family things I can just never get back.

Understandably, and especially given that lately I’ve just been hit with one thing right after the other for several months now and I’m exhausted, this has very much taken me down and made me feel quite defeated. It is especially infuriating because I was planning on backing up all my files today, since I would have some time to finally do it and I just had a terrible feeling like I needed to do it soon. One more day... could have changed so much for me. But here I am.

I do have a backup laptop that I am using right now, but it is very old, very slow, and it has the processing power of a drunken snail. I can’t do the majority of daily things I do with my main laptop on this one, but at least I can still work and answer email so I won’t lose my job and I can do basic writing. No games, nothing with pictures or videos, but just basic stuff. But of course, that won’t help me get any of my files back. My dad is going to work on the drive to see if anything is salvageable, but there is absolutely no guarantee at all that it will be.

But the worst part... is that as of midnight tonight, my students have their first two forums assignments due. Which means... by tomorrow... I will have 600 forums posts to grade by Thursday, and now I have to do that on a slow, old, clunky computer that freezes up or shuts itself off if you so much as look at it funny. To give you an idea, it usually takes me about an hour and a half to grade one section of students. I have five sections. And that timing was with my fast-as-hell main laptop. On this slow ass boi? Who knows how long it will take me now.

And lastly, I cannot be without a fast, reliable computer. My entire job is online. The majority of my hobbies are as well. So... I will have to run out in the next day or so to purchase a brand new computer, having very little time to research which one I want to buy and paying full price because there are no sales going on right now to speak of. This is going to kick my finances in the ass like you would not believe. And when I get it home, I will have hours’ if not days’ worth of installing, configuring, file populating, organizing, anti-virusing, and settings adjusting to accomplish ASAP.

I will likely be getting the new computer Wednesday, since tomorrow I have to work all day, and I need tonight to try to do some research on what to buy. I’m not going to go on hiatus from all my blogs because I think doing some writing will help keep me sane, but my activity may be low until I get the new computer and can situate myself with it.

I’ll update on my other blogs as they are scheduled this week to let you know what’s going on. Please bear with me and sorry for yet another reason why I can’t just be here to write like I want to. Eventually the universe has to run out of things it can fuck up in my life, right? Right? R i g h t ?

#{ out of paprikash } ᵒᵒᶜ #{i had actually been looking forward to today}#{i was going to write the whole day and get a lot done}#{back up all my files}#{it was going to be great}#{and it was like the universe said oh no she's trying to be happy again}#{and get her shit in order}#{we can't have that now can we...}#{i swear i pissed off some primordial god somewhere and he has it in for me because fffffcuk}

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mylittle-sunshine · 2 months

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Today is my dad's birthday and in three days will be his death anniversary. I don't really know how I am supposed to feel about this and it's been two years now. It's kinda weird not to have him around but at the same time, I have forgotten what it feels like to have my best friend alive.

From time to time, I just remember that he was there. Sometimes I can smell his perfume (Sauvage by Dior, which means almost every dude's perfume) and feel him, which makes me sad because I miss him so very deeply. But at the same time, when I realise that I haven't thought about him for days, it makes me wanna punch myself.

I have blamed myself for a long time for his death. I had dreams about him dying months before and I had my teeth hurting so hard and falling in my dreams that even during the days it would put me into pain.

When I saw him that morning, I tried to bring him back to life by doing CPR but it was too late and i blamed myself for not doing it properly or maybe for having manifested it somehow through my dreams. I guess I just needed to blame someone because it felt so unfair to lose him when he was the type of man who deserved all the love on earth and a long peaceful life.

I blamed myself because I also saw the signs of death, but chose to ignore them. He has always been sort of hyperactive but during that time, he looked tired and in his own world. He was never much of a religious man but he opened his mind suddenly one or two weeks before. He would zone out and I remember his last Monday that he forgot to pick me up. I was so fucking scared and I called him and he was like "I'm so sorry, I fell asleep. I need to tell you something really important. I'm coming." When he arrived, he was mad but I didn't know why and he had forgotten that he had something to tell me. This is probably far-fetched, but what if he was warning me because he knew? He started teaching my mum how to drive again because it had been 10 years since she last drove. The day before he died, he repaired all of our broken furniture, observed birds with me and smoked. The night arrived and I had a fight with my mum because she was organising holidays and I told her that it is useless to foresee it because we don't know what is gonna happen tomorrow. It was way too early. I said goodnight, that I love them and my father watched a documentary about Angela Merkel on Arte alone.

I woke up during the night, felt the urge to go downstairs. Like something was leading me that way but I fell back asleep. When I woke up in the morning, I felt attracted to his room and thought it weird that he was still sleeping. Then I heard my mum screaming and for a second, I thought they were joking. I knew, he knew. But we didn't know.

I don't like to talk about him. Whenever my mum brings him into the conversation I just need to leave. I cannot hear about him because it feels like it's too soon, but when will it not be?

My birthday was not long after that and I was mad at him for leaving me, as selfish as it may sound, because I needed him.

He will never get to see me as a real adult. He will never know if I make my dreams come true, will never meet the love of my life, my children and will never give me that dance at my wedding.

He will forever be my dad and my best friend, but also just a ghost, a character from the stories that i will tell my future family.

Joyeux anniversaire papa.

Je t'aime <3

#dad #short story #storytime #grief #tw grief

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adepressedartist · 5 months

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Watch me ex half a bottle of mead, trying to sleep easy today.

Honestly close to relapse, I've been close to crying all day. Today has been really bad. My mental health has been going extremely south, mainly because I'm suspicious and cautious, and had been overthinking a lot lately. Also my hallucinations r fucking up my ass again, and i need to remind myself that I'm still v much capable of seeing the difference between real and unreal. But the fact that i saw a big ass fly in my room with no explanation where tf that came from, plus ferret not being able to see it for quite a while fucked so much with my head that I'm not believing myself now. Childhood trauma, when nobody ever believed you, and all you said was ALWAYS wrong, even when proven right ✨

Untreatable mental illness sucks. I got a terrible headache because i drank almost nothing the whole day, except for the mead now because honestly the voices are so loud right now, and the fact that I got easy access makes it worse. But hey, at least I'm less suicidal then I was at the weekend where i disappeared from my best friends birthday party because a really close friend had died on the second this month. And only one from three persons noticed that something was wrong and that i didn't just use the swings on the playground for almost an hour. Out in the freezing cold. With my whole face covered in tears.

I spent her whole birthday trying not to cry even once, because how the fuck could i tell her "yeah, so, I'm just gonna sit in a corner now because one of my friends died!" When it's her big day, celebrating after over 5 yrs. How could i tell the only one that noticed, ruining the day for him more than everything already did, let alone bc of his knee pain. You know what's the best thing? It reminded me of how perfectly i can mask. Wanting to kill and hurt myself in unspeakable ways, close to losing any control i got left, but not a single second showing any of it, instead celebrating as if I don't have a worry in the world.

But I'd rather be suicidal rn than depressed, bc suicidal means no feelings at all most of the time snd i really don't wanna feel yhe feelings I'm feeling rn because they're painful as fuck. And make me amgry at the same time, because I'm hyper safe aware and know how i could fix it, but can't manage to do it/can't make it work, and I'm just watching myself decay while i screwed up a ton shit of things. Maybe meeting my buddy tomorrow will help me.

Rest in peace D, I hope you'll find happiness. I hope no one can ever hurt you again, and I hope I'll get the chance to apologize to you when it's my time. I'm sorry i didn't get your calls because my number is no longer active. I'm sorry I won't make it to your funeral. I hope you'll find peace, and your girlfriend that left us too soon, just like you. That you may find your cat that ran away 7 years ago, and greet your dad that's been patiently waiting for you.

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anthonysstupiddailyblog · 10 months

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Anthony’s Stupid Daily Blog (470): Fri 30th Jun 2023

34 years old. Holy titty bollocks how did this happen? Feels like only yesterday when I was at school…actually that was yesterday because I snuck back into my old school to smear dog shit all over my old history teachers classroom wall to get back at him for the time that he shouted at me in front of the entire class…even though said history teacher doesn’t work there anymore…and died seven years ago…but I digress. I was a bit kissed off because I still had to go into work today which is b-to-the-ullshit! Everyone should get their birthday off even if it’s a surgeon who’s the only person in the world capable of performing a life saving operation on a small child and who lives in a flat over the road from the hospital, that guy should still get the day off. Luckily the day went by quite quickly and without incident so I can’t really complain. Plus I got a lot of nice birthday messages on my Facebook and Instagram except the one my old nemesis Kevin Craggs keeps sending me every year and every year I have to explain to him that there is no such thing as a “birthday dick pic”. Just because you’ve written “Happy Birthday Anthony” on your penis doesn’t make it any less of a sex crime (well I assume that’s what he was trying to write in his cock but because it’s so tiny he ran out of room after “Hap”. Wow thirty four whole years old. When I turned 28 I officially outlived Jim Morrison and now at 34 I have outlived Jesus. The next milestone won’t be until I hit 68 when I will have outlived both Jim Morrison and Jesus put together. Thirty three wasn’t a bad old year: I started my favourite every job, went to LA, WrestleMania and saw the LA Lakers. Despite it being a very good year it was also a very shit year too, mainly due to the cold weather and my sheer laziness and lack of willingness to pursue new hobbies. I plan on rectifying both these things in the next year however. When the shitty weather comes around again I’m going to try and get away to somewhere nice and sunny. Also the fact that I’ve started taking anti anxiety drugs means that hopefully I should have more enthusiasm and desire to try new things and not sit around watching the same YouTube videos all the time. Year 33 will be hard to top but tomorrow I’m going to London to see Iggy Pop, then in a few weeks I will be taking my annual trip to the Edinburgh Festival, then back to London for the Devo concert with my good old Dad and finally back to London one last time to attend AEW All In! I’m about to play with fire right now because any time I write about targets I want to set myself for the forthcoming year I normally fail spectacular but who know maybe this year I’ll succeed. To be honest the two main things on my mind that NEED to be completed this year are to get down to 12 stone and to finish reading the remaining winners of the Edgar Award for best novel. As long as I manage to tick those off the bucket list I’ll already consider year 34 well spent before it’s even over. If I had to select one big item on the list that I hope to be crossed off it would be to go to the Royal Rumble but as of this moment it’s unknown where the show will be taking place but it would be ideal for me if they held it in New Orleans because I’ve always wanted to go there too. Year 33 you were great but I know I can do better. Year 34: Let’s rock!

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last-of-cheese · 1 year

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Ya’ll want to know what really sucks

When you have birthdays either on the same day as or the day before/after another family member. Like it’s really a blessing and a curse. My late godfather is the day before mine (yesterday March 27th) My maternal grandfather is the same day as mine (today March 28th) And my Oma, paternal grandmother, is the day after mine (March 29th)

I don’t really talk to my grandpa, haven’t for years. So, that one hurts because I know we share our birthday, but he wants nothing to do with me. I don’t even think he knows/remembers I exist anymore. Last time I saw him was 20+ years ago. I mean I saw him once in passing and recognized him when he came into the fast food restaurant I worked at, but he didn’t recognize me. So, I just left it at that. Like why fucking bother.

My oma is a much more touchy subject. She passed the summer of 2020 from a second stroke, and honestly after that things have been rough. Like Oma and I used to always do little things together to celebrate our birthdays together. Dad’s side of the family would typically remember my birthday back then too. Now that she’s gone... I have come to the realization that they only remembered my birthday because of Oma and our combined party/dinner/celebration. Like I don’t get any birthday wishes from them anymore. I do however get included in the mass/group “oh happy birthday oma we miss you it’s so hard to celebrate your birthday without you” text. that one of my cousins will start and then they all pile in on. Like it’s hurtful. I thought I was close as fuck with all of them, and then the moment my dad died I’m a ghost to his side of the family for the most part. I’m occasionally remembered in small events because of Oma, and my birthday was still remembered because of our similar birthdays. But now that she’s gone it’s like I’m gone too.

So yeah I just had to get this out because it’s my birthday today. I turned 32. I know my dad’s side of my family doesn’t care, but at least I have friends that do. So to those friends thank you. You make it all worth it. I love all of you. This year tomorrow isn’t going to be quite as bad because I have all of you here as support.

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milo-is-rambling · 1 year

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Today I had a few sips of alcohol (which was approved by my mother and I never drink ever so it was a weird and fun family activity) and then I smoked weed all day and played disco elysium and undertale (got a steam card for Christmas and got those two games) and hung out with my family then at night my brother took a nap and so me and mom watched both Taylor Tomlinson Netflix specials cause I've been meaning to make my mom watch them and had a super fun time and now I'm in bed sleepy and happy and curled up in a blanket ball cause our heat still isn't fixed and then tomorrow i gotta figure out how to bail on theater (I also accidentally bailed on Christmas Eve set day (which shouldn't exist) bc it started at 8:30 in the morning and I kept procrastinating leaving the house until like 10:30 and by the time I got there the door was locked so I gave up) cause it's supposed to be tomorrow night from 6-9:30 ish but our neighbors need to borrow the van tomorrow to pick their family up from the airport and I fucking refuse to drive dads little baby car (that I drove to and from the hospital while my dad was dying) and especially not at night so I'm thinking I'll just bail on theater but I don't wanna just not show up after I didn't show up on Saturday after I said I was going but I also don't wanna message them even tho I know they won't care that much but also like ughhhh I feel like everyone hates me forever bc I didn't show up at 8:30 in the morning on Christmas Eve to paint set pieces and I haven't really told anyone that my dad died recently (especially bc the musical we're doing is about someone who almost dies of heart attack near Christmas and it would feel weird as fuck if like three weeks into working on this play I was just like lol hey btw guys my dad died of a heart attack like three months ago lol don't worry about it tho I've only cried silently during rehearsals like five times cause Larry does such a convincing heart attack on stage but like lol don't worry about it also don't worry about me driving home sobbing after I showed up too late on Christmas Eve and also after almost every really good practice bc I just think about how this is my first Christmas without my dad and how proud he'd be of me and how much he'd love to hear all about the theater and he'd love to see me helping move stuff on stage and help out or I think about how my dad loved me so much and now hes a box in our dining room on a sad chair with his wallet and chapstick and sunglasses hes worn my whole life and how I outlived my dad but so young and how my moms been texting men and she was fucking texting someone on Christmas and i know how good it feels to be in denial but it's my first Christmas without my father and I don't want her to be sad but I also just want her to be fucking sad with me cause I hurt so bad about it and I'm pushing it so far down and now it comes flooding so hard out of my eyeballs when I do stupid things like miss a set day or enjoy theater too much and I want to come home and see him on the couch and have him ask me how it went and he can't anymore cause he's a fucking box of sand and soot on a chair in the dining room and everything sucks and it's supposed to be his birthday on the 27th and I want to fucking stop crying but I'm about to be on my period and my hormones are evil and everything hurts and comes leaking out of my eyeballs at the worst times

#hahaha holidays am I right #I'm gonna finish crying and then go to sleep i think

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iwillruletheuniverse · 2 years

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‘‘Dad will drive to the cemetery because it’s his friend from school’s birthday today and I told him that tomorrow is his grandmother’s death day which he had forgotten about‘‘, mum said when she came here and I sat there silent by my computer. ‘Just say it. Just tell her about Johnny-Conny and Lullaby’ it echoed within me, but I didn’t tell her. I kept quiet, asked her about something which made her angry because I can’t ask her anything without her being angry. If Lullaby had been my wife, had she remembered her then? I know she wouldn’t have. Because my family was never important to her, or to dad. But he’s his own. He doesn’t really count. Let my family look away when this happens. I saw a grave this weekend. Died in 1976. It was completely overgrown. No one had been there for the entire summer. Weeds were everywhere. I felt for that person. I wanted to remove the weeds but I didn’t. I walked to the next grave and the grave after that and I heard them call my name. That it was time now. But these chains won’t let me go. Thirty-one months after my Lifesaver’s death I am still walking this earth. It was never meant to be like this.

#over the bridge to the other side

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senior70appendix · 2 years

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Celebration of the Life of Jenny Phillips

I am going to set the tone by quoting an anonymous poem, to which I have taken the liberty of giving my own Title.

On Grieving - Choosing the Low Road or the High Road

You can shed tears that she is gone,

Or you can smile because she lived.

You can close your eyes and pray that she will come back,

Or you can open your eyes and see all that she has left.

Your heart can be empty because you can’t see her,

Or you can be full of the love you shared.

You can turn your back on tomorrow and live yesterday,

Or you can be happy today because of yesterday.

You can remember only that she is gone,

Or you can cherish her memory and let it live on.

You can cry and close your mind, be empty and turn your back,

Or you can do what she would want,

Smile, open your eyes, love and go on.

Let us today choose the High road and celebrate the fact that Jenny’s life touched so many other lives in ways that will long be remembered by them.

(I now hand over the celebration to Pastor Matthew.)

(following special music by Kevin and Katy)

Jenny - A Life Remembered

A eulogy (from eulogia, Classical Greek, eu for "well" or "true", logia for "words" or "text", together for "praise") that is a speech or writing in praise of a person.

Jennifer Mary Phillips, née Spy.

Spy! Let me explain that first. Jenny was a descendant of the MacDonald Clan of Glencoe. On February 13th, 1692, the Campbell Clan, being hosted at the time, turned on their hosts and massacred men, women and children. But, the story goes, a nursemaid managed to rescue a baby and carry him over the hills and down into the valley of the Spey River. To protect him, his name was changed to Spey. Somewhere in the family history one branch of the family removed the e and became Spy. Jenny’s dad, a senior civil surveyor with British Railways was the only Spy in the London Telephone directory. So my girlfriend and I backpacked on the continent with her passport reading “Jennifer M. Spy”. “ess, pay, egrecht! C’est tout” said the puzzled customs officer looking at this long legged young woman. British laws never seem to be repealed, so when she married me, she was no longer in fear of being killed by a Redcoat soldier.

———

It may seem an odd place to start, but let me begin on April 10th, 1952, my 10th birthday. Planned was a visit to a roller skating rink that afternoon. My mother cycled off that morning to get her hair done at the village shop. I waved. I never saw her again. She was hit by a car, fell on her head and I was told very much later that she had died a week or more later, still in a coma. Children of 10 were shielded from such things as death and funerals in those days. The concept of closure did not apply to children.

In a village only a few miles away, a little 8 year old girl, called Jennifer Spy, cried inexplicably about the little boy who was now motherless, the only son of her family doctor, though she had never met him. Her mother recalled that odd event quite vividly.

Jenny was a “surprise”, born 11 years after her brother and a very different person from him. He had been on mandatory military service in Aden and had got used to the offshore life of a young sailor of those days. Returning home, he repeatedly abused his little sister between the ages of 9 and 11, at which point he got married, and had two daughters and a son of his own. (We can only guess what happened there.) Threatened with goodness knows what if she told, she remained silent and traumatized, a deep scar which she would carry and would reverberate through the rest of her life. She never told her parents. When news of her brother’s death reached her many years later, her single comment was “Good Riddance”. So, full of caring and compassion as she was, what she would have liked to do to any child molester would have blanched even a medieval master torturer.

When 13, Jenny, dissatisfied with her own church youth group, came hesitantly, at the invitation of a friend, to visit the Young People’s Fellowship of the Congregational church of which the Phillips family were members. She was shy, quiet and withdrawn but joined the group. I was 15, a chronically depressed (but children did not suffer depression in those days), acne faced, and morose teenager with an almost permanent frown. For some extraordinary reason, Jenny took me on as her project. I owe her an unpayable debt for very gradually winkling me out of my self built shell and giving me a reason to live. At the same time I gave her a purpose and a reason to try to emerge from her own trauma. I think we knew even then that we were soulmates and meant to be together.

While many find it hard to believe, she was the classic introvert, very content to be on her own, in silence, reading or doing one of her many creative hobbies. An analyst would likely have concluded that she learned to extrovert while a teen, as a form of self defence. And she did it well, two rather different people in one. With a sizeable streak of unpredictability, often perplexing to others, I can assure you that as her partner in life, there were few dull moments. As we often noted, we were incompatible in many ways, but complementary and supplementary to each other in ways that we made work.

Jenny’s parents wished for their young daughter to have private dancing lessons, but she needed a partner. She shyly asked if I would be her partner. We were an ideal match. Over the next year or so, we took our Bronze, Silver and Gold medal exams in Ballroom, Latin American and Olde Time dancing, finally achieving a Gold Bar in Ballroom. Dancing at that level requires a high degree of unspoken communication which came in very useful in other areas of our lives.

I went from Grammar School to Technical College to take courses in Geology which was not part of High School Curricula. Field Trips were a key part of the courses and I asked if my girlfriend could come too. Unencumbered by lawyers and third party liabilities, she came on nearly every Saturday excursion.

Story. We were in a pit in the sticky blue London Clay, looking for shark’s teeth, bivalves and other fossils. Our instructor, Doug, had just said that one rare fossil was a small crab, but he had never found one. A call from Jenny. “Do you mean like this one?” Doug looked at the crab in her hand, threw his hammer to the ground in half pretended frustration. He had been in the pit many times, yet this long legged young woman, not even a member of the class, had found the star fossil. Jenny’s attention to detail was remarkable. She noticed things totally missed by others and could have made a career of proofreading documents (other than mine) should she have wished to.

At the Technical College I was elected to the Entertainments Committee and my girlfriend Jenny, though not at the College, nonetheless was coopted soon after. We ran some fairly large scale events and organized a Rag Week each year during which a large sum was collected for charities. (I ended up in a police wagon twice in a week, but that is another story. Not charged, just scolded and given a cup of tea.)

Story. At one event I was MC and introducing the numbers for Acker Bilk, the clarinetist, and his band, the year before he became internationally famous for “Stranger on the Shore”. Apparently, Jenny and some girls had been debating what Acker Bilk’s signature goatee would feel like, so at one point, between numbers, my girlfriend climbed onto the stage, walked up to him and asked to feel his goatee. He complied, and with a microphone right beside him, the entire assembly heard her say, “Oh that is really silky smooth”. Roars of applause, of course.

Some have said we were an adventurous couple. Jenny certainly was, but often I followed a little apprehensively.

Story: Morocco, 1962. (What were our parents thinking!) We were on a bus, held together with wire and rope, bouncing down the rough road from Meknes, across the Atlas Mts to Ksar es Souk, a small hamlet on the edge of the Sahara Desert. With a packsack each, we were the only non Arabic faces on the bus, chickens dangling from the luggage rack, in the heat of the day. Everyone on a bus shares what they have with others and we had a supply of grapes on hand, obligated to eat whatever the heavily robed people around us passed to us. Jenny chatted (well, simple French) to a Monsieur Bengigi, who told us the single hotel was poor and invited us to stay at his house. We did. We were to sleep in the cool basement with the two manservants. But Jenny’s packsack mysteriously ended up in Monsieur Bengigi’s room. Jenny retrieved it. It somehow ended up there again and she retrieved it. In the end Monsieur Bengigi graciously took the hint. But the two manservants were just delighted. They got to see the English girl in her underwear and their boss did not. On reflection all kinds of things could have happened to us on that Moroccan adventure. Postcards were the only communication with home and we had no specific itinerary. We might simply have not been heard from again.

As a schoolgirl, her ADD was not recognized and she was repeatedly told that she was a poor student, which she came to believe. When I went off to university, she enrolled at the Leatherhead Secretarial School, where, almost to her surprise, she excelled. The school head sent her for an interview before graduation, and as her first job she was appointed secretary to the Remembrancer to the Lord Mayor of London, at Guildhall in the City. The remembrancer is responsible for ensuring that every ceremonial detail built up over the centuries was adhered to to the letter. The key event was the Annual Lord Mayor’s Banquet at Guildhall, attended always by the Queen and Prince Philip. Miss Spy, dressed in a gorgeous evening gown, attended these as one of many staff setting every detail in place.

Story: At one of these, having completed her duties, she waited, backed into an antechamber doorway in the main corridor, to watch the Queen arrive. At the set time for the arrival of the royal couple, the door Jenny was leaning against was opened and she fell backwards, only to be caught by a strong pair of arms that lifted her back on her feet. She turned to find the Queen and Prince Philip laughing, quickly curtsied and said “Your Majesty”. Prince Philip said “Don’t worry my dear, we arrived a little early and caught them all out.” They then walked out into the corridor, guards snapping to attention. And that is how Jenny met the Queen and Prince Philip before any of the waiting toffs did.

With now separated lives to some degree, we did have other boyfriends and girlfriends. Jenny joined a Ukrainian Dance Group in London and, though I never saw it, performed in full costume with the dance group. A fellow assistant at the Guildhall, gay, a state that was precarious in those days, invited her to join him and his partner on a date and that began a long and fun relationship, she flanked by two handsome men and treated like a lady and they suitably disguising their relationship. They painted the town red together. One of her other boyfriends, more serious in intent, had a magnificent soprano voice and serenaded her from the lawn beneath her home window. I had nothing to compete with that. Sigh. Meantime, my university girlfriend was also a Jenny. Warning. Never have two girlfriends with the same name. To this day, I can hear my grandfather saying on the phone “Well, which are you, Jenny S or Jenny C.” OMG, I’m in trouble now.

We married on September 11th 1965. Jenny arranged the whole thing, crossing traditional boundaries and ignoring the even then flourishing wedding industry. I was on the Isle of Man busy with research towards my PhD. As a result, I heard her say that she would “love, honour and cherish me” with no mention of that “obey” word. Big mistake, though come to think of it she wouldn’t have obeyed me anyway. She did take suggestions.

She spent the summer of 1966 as my field assistant, surveying, SCUBA diving and joining me in my habitual all over tan. We rented, for 5 pounds a week, an old building on the shore, once the location of the landing of the telephone cable from the mainland. Water from a standpipe a field away, toilet anywhere below mean tide level, ancient propane gas stove, one hurricane lamp and a lumpy mattress on the floor. We made our own crab hooks and a lobster pot and roamed the shore at low tide.

With the status of “PhD pending”, I applied to universities all over Britain only to receive the reply “3 to 5 yrs experience required”. My supervisor, himself moving to Canada, suggested getting experience abroad. Much against my English upbringing I wrote to Canadian and American universities touting my abilities. A new university, Lakehead, offered me an interview in a hotel in London, and was the first to offer me a job, “Lecturer” at $8,300 a year. My advisor said “Take it. You can move later.”. We were en route to Canada, at least for a few years.

Emigrating is adventurous enough but we did rather add a certain style to it. All that we owned was packed in the hold of the Manchester Exporter when it caught fire 200 miles off Ireland and limped back to Liverpool, its holds partially filled with sea water to quench the fire. After a 27 hr Greyhound Bus journey from Montreal to Port Arthur we were greeted with a telegram. “Regret, all is lost”. We had arrived for our new life each holding a suitcase. It could have been a disaster to our young marriage. Instead it bonded us further. “We can do this.”

Jenny had long legs (the only reason I asked her to marry me, I claim) and arrived at LU to find she wore the shortest skirts by far, Port Arthur fashions lagging behind the UK. Many years later people recalled her short skirts and black and white Mod dresses. “Two inches below C level” was the Brit expression.

Kevin was born in July 1968, six weeks premature (but surely nothing to do with portaging a canoe the previous weekend). Our earliest photo is of Jenny feeding him in the hospital where he spent the first two weeks of his life.

Warned not to have another baby unless she risked not walking again, we, as Jenny put it, consulted the Eaton’s Catalogue, and Jacqui joined the family as a tiny baby. Adoption in those days was an uncomplicated process, though during our 6 month “probation” Jenny lived in concern, needlessly, about having her taken back.

Jenny became the classic stay at home Mum, a financial possibility in those days. She never regretted having been there when the kids came home from school. She was moderately strict, with established boundaries and consequences of overstep made perfectly clear. We must have done something right, for both our kids grew up to be responsible, nice adults with long term marriages, despite our total lack of training at child rearing and without the assistance and advice of nearby grandmothers.

We very nearly came apart at the nine year point, one arena of our marriage not going at all well, as can be imagined. So, we sat down and both wrote a list of Pros and Cons and rank ordered them. What we had together far outweighed the Cons. We looked at each other and said “We can do this.” And we did. A long marriage built upon friendship, companionship and trust. 56 years! (As my Dad noted it depended how one said that. I inherit my sense of humour from him. I am entirely his fault.)

It was a long process, but I gradually persuaded Jenny that she had far more ability than she had so often been told. I babysat while she apprehensively enrolled in her first evening course at LU. She loved it and that began 14 yrs of evening courses, taking a wide range of courses that happened to be available in the evenings. Ironically, that is the kind of education universities were first established for. With her BA General degree (no Major) I often described her as “She’s the one who is educated, I’m simply piled higher and deeper.” Our kids dubbed her “Curious George” and her thirst for finding out new things and trying new things never wavered. I often referred to her as “The Oracle” and depended on her for her special love of words and etymology. “What word would you use to ….” “Ah, that’s just right, thank you.”

Among the many creative skills she had was that of acting. She took the lead role as Hedder Gabler in Cambrian’s production of Ibsen’s difficult play and in a lighter production of Ring Around the Moon. But her starring role was as Queen Elizabeth the 1st in costumed concert productions of the Consortium Aurora Borealis. First appearing as a comely Lady in Waiting in the court of King Henry the 8th, she took the regal role of Queen Elizabeth the 1st in her stride, a number of times. At one concert, she delivered, wholly from memory, the famed Speech to the Troops at Tilbury, initially delivered on 9 August 1588 to the land forces assembled at Tilbury in Essex in preparation for repelling the expected invasion by the Spanish Armada. As she ended, there were those amazing few moments of utter silence before thunderous applause.

Story: The occasion was the Mayor’s Annual Luncheon, not long after the infamous Mayor Assef had patted the visiting Queen Elizabeth the 2nd on the bum and thanked Prince Philip for bringing his charming wife. We, as Queen Elizabeth 1st and Lord Cecil (one of her close advisors who actually died a natural death), were invited to attend as part of the entertainment. We devised a graceful dance routine that certainly looked historically appropriate, frightfully regal, and with me with a white handkerchief fluttering in my hand. Later, Mayor Jack Masters invited the Queen to cut the huge cake. But, her voluminous skirts were such that she could not get close enough to the table. Jenny haughtily announced, “My man, I command you to cut the cake on my behalf.” Jack took the big knife and stretched across the table to reach the far side of the big slab cake. At which point, improvising as ever, Jenny very obviously looked at his bum, then looked at the audience, and, folding her fan, gave his bum a smart tap. The inference was so obvious. The audience broke up and Jack could not stop laughing. Jenny’s face remained regal and unsmiling. She had taken just revenge.

We both got in trouble from time to time because of our British sense of humour, particularly a play on words or the “double entendre”. We blamed it entirely on our upbringing. We held a pot luck and our neighbour arrived at the back door, oven gloves holding a hot tray. “You should feel my hot buns” she said as she came in. Tempting, but really not plausible in the circumstances.

We seem to have had the bad habit of picking up “Sorta Daughters”, all three of which are with us today. For various reasons, they came to live with us for a year or two until their lives straightened out enough to move on. And, all these years later they still often refer to us as Mum and Dad. I suppose the most obvious is Mabel, who came to Canada age 15. I recall well, the odd looks in the grocery store as Mabel called out across the aisles “Mum, should we get some of these.” On one occasion, unable to resist, I looked directly at one puzzled woman and said seriously “It must have been the delivery man.” On the birth of her first son she rang us. “Mum, Dad, you have a black grandchild”. Zephaniah, 20 months, with us today, is our third.

Initially attracted by the field of Social Work, Jenny completed her HBSW at LU, but quickly decided that it was not quite for her. I was granted a 6 month sabbatical to do research and write papers in the Winter of 1999. In a bold move Jenny wrote to the head of the Pastoral Care program at the huge Breckenridge hospital in Austen, Texas, asking if she could apply for a 4 month Chaplaincy Internship, a very forward looking and respected program. She was admitted. I then wrote to the University of Texas asking if I could come to do research and writing on campus, no office required. I received a magic card titled “Visiting Scholar”, a card with which I could enter any of their 15 libraries, use the student union facilities and even hang my coat in the Geology Department if needed. In appalling weather, we abandoned Kevin and Jacqui, technically old enough to fend for themselves, and drove down to Austen, Texas. After a short hotel stay, we had an unfurnished apartment, rented basic furniture, signed out paintings from the Austen Public Library and set up a temporary home.

The internship was a very thorough and gruelling one, and she found herself chaplain to the Adult ER and to the Children’s Emergency Ward, meeting helicopters landing on the roof, present in operating rooms and at the side of people dying. She was partnered with an Oblate Brother, Patrick, close to our son’s age, whom she referred to as her “Priestling”. Several years later on a visit to see her Mum in the UK, she flew to Rome and stayed at the Oblate Residence in the Vatican where Patrick was now studying. One day he asked her to join him at Mass in St. Peter’s Basilica. She was going to sit while he went forward, but he motioned her to join him and so, though not Roman Catholic, she took Communion and, as Patrick commented afterwards, apparently said all the responses at Mass. Some things are not easily explained. We expect Patrick to be Pope one day.

Returning to Thunder Bay, she became the first Chaplain at the Cancer Centre, then attached to the Port Arthur Hospital campus. She roamed the corridors and wards talking with patients and nurses (who are also in need of pastoral care), meeting with families in the privacy of her office and helping many people die peacefully.

Ultimately, she left and became a Grief Counsellor for Blake Funeral Chapel. I thought of it as out of the frying pan into the fire, but as Jenny said, now she was helping families deal with their grief, very different in her view. She retired in 2001 when I did, apparently not ready to keep me in the style to which I was accustomed.

I am immensely proud of her work as Chaplain and Grief Counsellor. No disrespect intended to chaplains who are are retired clergy, but the Breckenridge internship program taught Jenny to act as a non denominational, all and no faith counsellor. She quietly studied world faiths to gain some understanding of them, ready to talk to anyone. Long after she retired, people would come up to her in the mall or street and thank her. She seemed to have a label above her that read “Compassionate”, for quite often I would find her in earnest conversation with a complete stranger, recognize that she was in counselling mode and wait patiently at a distance until she was finished.

Story: Told against herself. One of her grief counselling visits was to see a man who had recently lost his long time male partner. During their chat he tearfully told her that he he simply could not bear to look at his partner’s urn and had put it away in the closet. Ever unpredictable, Jenny said, “Well, in the circumstances that seems eminently appropriate.” They both belly laughed uncontrollably. When her client recovered, he said he felt so much better, opened the closet door and placed the urn on the mantle shelf. Well, that is one form of grief counselling!

When the new TB hospital was built, MEMO was given the opportunity of removing unwanted equipment from the Port Arthur and the McKellar Hospitals and sending it to Cuba. Never having learned to say “No” convincingly, we spent two months of one summer inventorying every piece of equipment, assigning individual codes and building a huge Excel spreadsheet for each hospital. It was at times eerie, wandering the silent corridors and exploring the sub basements, crammed with parts and broken bits. It was a huge job, much bigger and more complicated than anyone had realized - analog X-Ray machines, darkrooms, huge steam autoclaves…..But, we did it - together.

Jenny was proud to be a Rotarian. She was nominated by the Salvation Army member of my Club, who knew her well from her Chairmanship of a Salvation Army committee. The club was all male. She was denied membership without explanation. Denial is usually because the candidate is known to run an unethical business. Her nomination was submitted again. Denied again, but this time the Salvation Army member broke protocol and demanded a full explanation from the Board. They had none. Jenny became the first female member of the Club. A long time member had said to her that he would resign if she was made a member. Jenny replied “What a pity, I’ll miss you.” After attending one District Conference, she was well known.

Long practiced at working together, we were soon appointed Co-Chairs of District 5580 Youth Exchange Program, a volunteer task we did together for 7 years. District 5580 covers North Dakota, Minnesota north of the Twin Cities, part of Michigan and part of NW Ontario. We travelled extensively through this huge area, visiting clubs and conducting Outward Bound interviews of High School candidates thinking of going abroad for a year. We also initiated contacts with our equivalent officers in many countries, seeking to exchange Inbound students, who would be hosted by members of 5580 clubs and study in local high schools. It was a huge task but an immensely rewarding one. A year abroad is life changing and we have many thank you letters from District students and foreign students of many countries telling us how this experience impacted their lives, matured them and opened new opportunities for them. We had only a small office budget, no travel expenses, so we spent many hours and dollars in this work. One year, we brought in students from 29 countries, our record. Jenny was an ideal “den mother”. Of necessity, even then, I remained aloof, leaving the hugging and touching to Jenny. Of course, once again, the way we operated Youth Exchange would be impossible today. We never went through any security checks. We were asked to do a task and expected to do it well, and within the ethical context of Rotary International. The whole program is now centralized in an entirely different way.

I retired in December 2001 and Jenny said “We need to leave town and make a clean break.” We took our trailer out to BC for Kevin and Katy’s wedding and then spent several months exploring the west coast, turning inland before reaching San Francisco. At Easter we found ourselves in a primitive campground called “Hole in the Wall”, about 15 km into the Mohave Desert National Preserve. Water, but no sewer or electricity. The staff at the Visitor Centre, said “If you want sewer you can come back as a campground host.”

We applied to the National Park Service, equipped our trailer with a solar panel and for the winter’s of 2003 and 2004 were campground hosts, and a lot more. We operated the Visitor Centre at times, raising and lowering the American flag and learning to fold it in that triangle and not let it touch the ground. We were given one day a week to explore on our own, the more we knew about the huge area the better. We asked whether we could run a field trip on Saturdays, present a powerpoint slide show in the evening and were permitted to. Our supervisor told us that a field trip down the Hole in The Wall Canyon should not be longer than 1 hour and should have a theme. Our theme was “Everything of interest to be seen on the trail” but we did not tell her that. Some Saturdays we would return to the Visitor Centre 2 hours or more later, still answering questions from our group of visitors. Jenny had quickly learned much about the desert floral and faunal assemblages and I focussed on the geology, geomorphology and archaeology.

We somehow surpassed ourselves and annoyed someone in a head office miles away by completing a plant trail between the campground and visitor centre swiftly and efficiently, a project that head office had been mulling for several years. If asked, Jenny would sum up the NPS as a “bit anal”.

Coincidentally (or otherwise) we volunteered to take part in Earth Day at the school in Needles, the nearest community to which we had been going to for their weekly Rotary meeting. It was quite an experience, and confirmed that I should be teaching adults. The enthusiasm and energy of those three classes we took was exhausting. Recovering in the teacher’s common room afterwards, a lady from the Bureau of Land Management came over and said, “If you ever want to work for us, let me know.”

From 2005 to 2014 we worked as volunteers for the BLM out of Needles. The first year we arrived, they showed us a list of projects that their small underfunded and understaffed office could not handle. “Where would you like to start” we were asked. Well, the Crucifixion Thorn does not, according to the book, grow in California, but they had a report of one perhaps being seen in a wash. We were assigned office space and a 4 wheel drive vehicle, given radio call in codes with San Bernardino Dispatch, and off we went. Three weeks later we had located, GPS’ed, photographed and health assessed 53 Crucifixion Thorn bushes growing down the wash. We set it up as a repeatable survey, to be conducted again at a later date so that the health and future of these rare plants could be assessed. “What would you like to do next?’

Staying in a small campground every year we did numerous projects, driving and walking all across the huge Mohave Desert. It was a win win situation. We got to explore the desert and photograph plants, snakes, scorpions etc in a Federal Government vehicle which, in theory, could be located if we did not radio in by 6.00pm (but in the mountains radio contact was often not active). The BLM got well documented research reports, for free, in return. We were asked by someone why we were not armed when out in the desert. Said Jenny, “There is nobody else out there but us.” In fact we did meet a couple of desert dwellers over the years, anti government, anti social people who sought isolation. Very interesting people, though perhaps more than a little crazy.

Jenny did much of the 4W Driving while I navigated. I wish you could see one of the short videos I took of us driving up narrow canyons, way beyond the point at which I would have stopped, sometimes leaving me wondering how we would ever turn around. More than once we got centred by a big rock, all four wheels off the ground. Jenny leaped out, laughing, to take photos while I leapt out to assess how we might jack ourselves out of this one. One valley we needed to enter was blocked by a huge boulder. Jenny tightened her seat belt so that she could not slide into the passenger seat and drove up the side of the wash such that the truck was at a perilous angle before rounding it successfully. I was out of the truck taking the photo.

Another time, crossing a large playa (a dry lake bed), Jenny wondered “What would it be like to drive at 60 mph with one’s eyes closed?” She aligned the vehicle, closed her eyes and accelerated. My hand hovered over the wheel ready to steer if necessary. At the 60 mph mark she kept going, the far shore approaching rapidly. “Stop, stop” I urged. Just in time.

Our winters in the south were halted with Jenny’s diagnosis of breast cancer in mid 2014. That winter we added a ground floor extension to the house and, unable to wield a hammer, she acted as researcher and orderer of all the things we needed. She was pronounced cancer free after surgery and breast reconstruction. Her oncologist retired shortly after and she did fall between two stools, failing to obtain regular follow ups as a result. Breast cancer patients are often told that once past the 5 year mark they are safe. Not so. It is not that the doctors are untruthful, but cancer cells can mask themselves as other cells and lurk in the shadows undetected. Jenny would be the first to urge you all, whether female or male, to firmly insist on regular check ups.

A diversion. The number of times I have found myself saying “OMG, I can’t take her anywhere” is legion and the stories numerous. Today, two memorable ones comes to mind.

Story: Driving down to Duluth, Jenny exceeded the speed limit on the divided highway just before the city. A sheriff’s car appeared out of nowhere and pulled us over. A tall, rather handsome young officer approached. “Who owns this vehicle?” “I do” said Jenny. “Who’s your passenger?” “My husband” said Jenny. Clearly surprised that the man of the family did not own the vehicle, the officer proceeded. “Your age, height and weight, Ma’am?” Jenny said “Do I have to tell you?” “Yes” he replied. Jenny gave him her stats and he wrote a ticket. “Do you have any questions, Ma’am?” “Yes” said Jenny, “What’s your age, height and weight?” I had visions of police cells, but without blinking, he replied giving his details. “Thank you” said Jenny, “and very nice too.” We continued our journey.

Story: We were at a cross cultural wedding, half the congregation ebony, half pink. After the ceremony, while people milled around in the lobby before setting off for the reception, Jenny suddenly appeared in the middle, a tall, handsome black man on each arm. At which point she exclaimed loudly “Look, Oreo Cookie”. Everyone laughed. Again, I heard myself say, “OMG, I can’t take her anywhere.”

On our adventures in China in 2018 and in Vietnam, Cambodia and Thailand in 2019, her painful hip sometimes limited her and she chose to rest rather than see every detail of the places we were visiting. She had both rheumatoid and psoriatic arthritis that was clearly getting worse. In hindsight, the bone cancer was probably already developing. We planned a less taxing trip to South America for 2020, but Covid intervened and, asthmatic and bronchitic since childhood, we went into voluntary isolation and I into a very restricted lifestyle to protect her as much as possible. She was perfectly happy at home.

In early 2021 her arthritis was much worse and then, in July, her ribs and her back began to be very painful. This was more than arthritis. A CT scan was booked for September 30th, many weeks ahead. We received four changes of date for a follow up at the hospital, the last for October 21st before we would know the results of the scan.

On October the 12th her pain was so intense that she was taken to emergency. After checking for heart etc, the emergency doctor suggested a CT scan and Jenny told her she had just had one. The doctor went to check her files and returned ashen faced. “You don’t know?” She asked. There, in the file, dated September 30th, was the report stating that her 2014 breast cancer had metastasized to her hip, ribs and spine. To find the out in the ER was shocking. Two days later she had her first appointment in the Cancer Care Centre.

Our aim was for her to become well enough and less affected by the many side effects of her medications, so that she could enjoy her garden in the summer, but that was not to be. She became increasingly confused, delusional at times, and it seems that her cancer had metastasized to her meningeal fluid, from which every organ can be reached. On the Friday she was Jenny, a bit out of it at times, on Saturday she was unable to communicate at all and on Sunday she transitioned from life to after life. But, her very great wish was achieved. She passed at home, with the view of the Giant, her two dogs on the bed, her small family with her and her soulmate tending to her as promised in our wedding vows. She chose her own moment to leave.

There was much potential life in her yet, but her premonition that she had not long was right. We had hoped for years, but it was eight months only. We had plenty of time to talk so we parted complete. Yes, a great loss, but we started today by deciding to take the High road. She made the best of the baggage she had to carry, she helped and influenced many people, she was a good mother and a loving partner in life.

A life well lived. A life to celebrate.

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(Back to Pastor Matthew)

July 27th 2020

#celebration of life

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