Tag: WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK

The week that was …

Last weekend saw me help shepherd my sister out of the shadows of a broken marriage and into freedom. Freedom from years and seasons of pain and sacrifice, and freedom born out of an indelible cost to her humanity and identity as a woman. A big group of people who love her ferried her out of her grief and into her new life on Saturday night where we celebrated into the night at a swanky bar in town. Having recognised the best thing about this ending is that there is now a new beginning that awaits her. That, and I have my sister back. Back to her maiden name and back to the person she was – not the broken, shackled woman she emerged as … there’s only so much I can share. We’re all little broken and our friends and families are the glue who build us back up to who we once were. That and love, of which she has in spades.

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But just when you think you’re getting on top of one thing, the wind changes and bowls you over. I noticed that my right nostril was a little sore when we were out, but didn’t think much of it until the next morning when I woke up a little swollen across the bridge of my nose. I hazarded a guess and thought I might have cellulitis – an infection in the skin – so I called my transplant consultant and he said to pack a bag and come to clinic the next day. It was a swift response once they saw me. After blood tests, I ended up having the worlds fastest sinus CT scan and was diagnosed with having septic sinuses. So yeah, a touch of septicaemia due to a slightly diabolical sinus infection (thanks Cystic Fibrosis – you just give, give, give …) I was taken up to ICU for a central venous (CV) line to be inserted into my jugular so powerful intravenous antibiotics could be started as soon as possible so the infection wouldn’t spread to my places like my eyes or my brain. Here was my view for the afternoon. Whoever invented the heated blanket box needs a Nobel prize.

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It was tough going. The doctor who performed the procedure was determined not to use a scalpel on my ‘soft and lovely’ skin, and because he had to push in 14cm of tubing through my skin and into my jugular vein, he pushed as though he was doing CPR on my collarbone. My chest was pushed into the bed so brutally and it really hurt me (there’s only so much local anaesthetic can do). While I was waiting for a bed on the ward, intravenous vancomycin and meropenem commenced. I’m also on oral ciprofloxacin because IV cipro totally incapacitates me and tears my gut to shreds.

I was in a lot of pain from my nose as well as having a tube shoved into my chest, so I was given some pain killers for the night. And it was one of those nights where I had a nurse who just should not have gone into nursing. On Tuesday, I woke up looking like I’d been in a cage fight and I now know what it feels like to have my nose broken. It’s really quite fucking excruciating and I have a newfound respect for boxers and other sportspeople who have their faces regularly rearranged. Here I am looking a little different to what I was on Saturday night …

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So I need sinus surgery and I need it soon. The last time I had surgery,  my ENT specialist said that they were scraping the base of my skull and that removing the actual infection (the snot) was like pulling out chewing gum.

And so the week went on. Yesterday was my graduation from my pastoral care training, but I was too ill to go. My beautiful group kept me updated with photos and videos which made me feel like I was with them. I was so disappointed not being with them as we officially became hospital chaplains, but when your body shuts down you have to listen (even if it is telling you to forget about your antibiotics, get in a taxi and go to your graduation).

The universe works in remarkable ways. I’ve always found that with pain comes great beauty. Thousands of words of poetry have poured out of me and I’ve come up with a humdinger of an idea for a poem that involves water. Of course.

After coming home today, and then having to return to hospital twice, the levy finally broke. Today was tough and I’m simply worn down from pain and the onslaught of infection in my body. My white cell count is up and the gravity of the week had me drowning. I think a little piece of me broke. I can’t even do a solid shit (and won’t for at least another ten days), I got my period yesterday, the skin where my CV line is is red and angry and my belly is bruised from clexane injections to prevent blood clots, so … I took a deep breath, put Xerxes, HWV 40: IV. Largo (Ombra mai fù) on repeat, had a long, restorative shower and redressed my CV line. This is how it looks sans adhesive dressing. The four stitches are to keep the line anchored so it doesn’t tear out of my jugular. Tears are optional.

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This week has left me feeling crestfallen. I got through the Harry Potter book where Dumbledore dies and the nurses looking after me thought I was howling in pain, but it was more existential – observational even. It’s odd because I’m so used to crying with joy – not immense sadness. Out of the mire of pain comes a stockpile of words – more than I even need, so after my blue moon ritual tonight I’ll hook myself up to my IV’s, put words down – both gently and ferociously – and feel safe in the knowledge that tomorrow is a new day.

What will you do today?

This is a post I wrote on Sunday 21st February, 2010. It always brings what is truly important to the forefront of my mind.

For just over an hour yesterday, I thought I was having a stroke.
I woke with a headache, so when it didn’t abate after I had eaten, I sucked back two heart starters and some pain killers. It had been an unremarkable morning, so I crawled into bed because I had a schedule of writing planned for the afternoon. The next thing I remember was a pain like a lightning strike cracked and that my left arm was weak and tingling. My arm then turned into a piece of lead and its heaviness was beginning to supersede the ache in my head. I called my mother. I said ‘Don’t panic’ and relayed the situation to her. Then I called the paramedics and finally, my housemates stayed with me until two crews arrived. I had some slurring of my speech and a blank moment when I had trouble getting my words out, much like what happens when I’m hit with high doses of Ribavirin, an anti-viral.

Eliza jumped into bed with me and stroked my hair; my parents arrived, as did a second crew of paramedics and some basic neurological tests and observations were done before I could be transported to hospital. My blood pressure was high, but I deduced that was from the pain, and my oxygen saturations weren’t their usual 99-100%, which are the only numbers I like them to be. One of the paramedics wrapped the elastic of an oxygen mask around my head and the smell of plastic threw me back to my life pre-transplant. Masks and nasal prongs. Old familiar. It was an old familiar that had a brutality about it. I felt as though someone had taken an eggbeater to my belly and I began to feel sick.
Thankfully, that’s as familiar as it would get. I hadn’t had a stroke and was cared for by one of the the finest residents (interns) I’ve come across in the emergency department last night. He was fastidious, lovely and made me feel less frightened. Dad gave him serious props, which is … serious. I’ve never heard my father rave about a doctor that way since Pete swooped in to save my life in November 2007.

I spent the night on the neurological ward and was discharged this afternoon. Sometimes a flash flood is better than a torrent and again, I find myself questioning what is happening. By that, I mean right now and not just about me, but with you. Here are some questions. See how many you can answer truthfully …

What did you do today?

What will you do tomorrow?

Did you tell someone you loved them?

Did you say to someone that you can’t – and won’t – live without them?

Did you kiss with deliberate passion and reason?

Did you watch her sleeping?

Did you touch his forehead?

Did you laugh?

Did you cry?

Did you sing?

Did you say hello, goodbye, thank-you?

Did you say ‘I’m sorry – I couldn’t do what you asked.’

Did you say ‘you changed my life.’

Did you say all you had to say?

Did you do enough?

Did you mean it?

Did you?

Why I forgive Belle Gibson

Last night saw unprecedented measures of anger, disbelief and absolute exasperation surrounding the 60 Minutes interview with disgraced ‘wellness’ blogger and creator of The Whole Pantry empire, Belle Gibson. For once, I went against my better judgment and watched the interview and as a cancer survivor, I have a few things to say.

Firstly, I forgive you, Belle. I forgive your lies, your shameless attention seeking, your money-grubbing, your terrible attempts at plagiarism, the damage you have caused to countless cancer sufferers and survivors, and the rest.

Over the years, countless people have recoiled at my capacity to forgive, and I’m ok with that. That is their journey and this is mine. But trust me – I’ve had to dig deep within my soul to get to a place where I can give amnesty to a person who has hurt me or the people I love.

Forgiveness can be an acutely terrifying and seemingly impossible process, but I’ve found that it’s requisite to heal and move on. Forgiveness is about you, not the other person. It’s about recognising a person’s humanness. It’s about accepting that vulnerability is a package deal with being human. The only alternative to forgiveness is anger and resentment, and one must forgive in order to strengthen ones spirit. It’s taken some bloody hard work, but it’s been worth it. But there’s one very important aspect of forgiveness that people often consign to the back of their mind, so let me set the record straight: forgiveness does not mean that you have to forget, nor does it mean that you cannot maintain the rage.

As someone who has actually had cancer over a sustained period, just like Belle has claimed to have done, I came away from the interview feeling a little despondent. But after reading the litany of comments following the  dialogue, I peeled away with fury. When people paint Belle Gibson as being ‘mentally ill’, as a woman who has suffered with depression (I use the word ‘suffered’, because I truly did), I find the branding of Belle Gibson as being mentally ill really bloody insulting.

That people are throwing around a diagnosis of Münchausen syndrome (otherwise known as Factitious disorder) has riled me no end. It has rattled my cage of compassion because after hearing her trying (and she tried really hard) to rationalise her catalogue of lies, including her stories of having heart surgery, dying on the operating table (that one actually happened to me), having multiple strokes and an inventory of other self-perpetuated medical myths; lying about her age, telling Tara Brown she has two birth certificates and has had four name changes and other fictitious ammunition, there was a moment when I actually burst out laughing. If I hadn’t have laughed, I would have cried. As Brown said, that’s a hell of a lot of bad luck for such a young girl.

But then I thought about my own (real and lived) catalogue of illness, or as I call it, dis-ease. Cystic Fibrosis, double lung transplant recipient, diabetes, osteoporosis, depression, addiction, cancer, dozens of surgeries and more. Now considering I’m writing a book about my life, am I going to be offended should someone ask for direct proof in the form of my medical records? Well, thanks to the virtue of Belle Gibson and other charlatans selling their own brand of snake oil, I would expect a publisher or agent to ask for proof about my medical conditions. Is that right? No. Is it now necessary? Yes. Which appalls me.

Belle Gibson claims she had a traumatic childhood which her mother vehemently denied. Here’s the thing – people survive fucked up childhoods all the time. My own childhood was punctuated by dying and death where I lived in constant fear that my dis-ease would kill me. With C.F having killed over seventy of my friends, through the greatest of odds, I have survived. I’m a compassionate human being who wants to help others, and I’ve never felt a desire to embellish my own suffering, because the thought simply never occurred to me, and to be honest, my own suffering was enough.

People survive the unthinkable – genocide, rape, torture, violent relationships – and still, they grow into exceptional human beings with passion and purpose, determined to create change in the world. They don’t feel the need to weave a tapestry of corpulent mistruths for financial gain and communal pity. But Belle Gibson did. The thing is, I picked her as being a charlatan when a friend told me about her book and app last year. For me, her story just didn’t add up. I’ve known people with brain cancer and in most cases, they do not look the picture of health, whereas Belle always looked remarkably well and fresh faced. I also knew that it was next to impossible for brain cancer to spread to your liver, spleen, uterus and blood, and for a woman who suffered a forty minute seizure at her son’s birthday party, after which she did not go to hospital (instead going overseas not long after), my hackles went haywire. But who was I to question Australia’s wellness sweetheart? It was going to be a waiting game until Richard Gulliatt from The Australian cast serious doubts over her cancer claims after donations promised by Gibson to various charities hadn’t materialised.

Gibson manipulated the public with intent and great skill over a sustained period of time. She cultivated an empire that would ultimately be her undoing – one of lies and gross mistruths about her supposed battle with brain cancer and how she cured it by eating whole foods and engaging in alternate therapies such as coffee enemas. As she created this false empire, she made a great deal of money and inadvertently (or perhaps knowingly), lured people who actually had cancer away from evidence-based medicine, instead drawing them into her world of fantasy-based medicine and therefore death.

Perhaps she has complicity lead people to their deaths, just as Jess Ainscough did. We may never know. Ainscough touted herself as being the ‘wellness warrior’, also creating an  empire based on woo (fantasy-based medicine), and while I do not wish to speak ill of the dead, her belief in woo, such as Gerson therapy (which ultimately killed her mother who had a treatable form of breast cancer), ultimately cost Jess her life. Aincough’s fanbase will debate otherwise, but the truth is, this ‘medicine’ has no basis in reality or science. What’s just as disconcerting, is that Belle Gibson attended her funeral as a fellow ‘wellness warrior’. She mourned with Jess’s family. How must they feel?

Healthy eating and Gerson therapy was not going to cure my vulval cancer. Only surgery and the option of chemotherapy was going to save my life. Thankfully, I had world class surgeons who managed to remove all the cancer, so I didn’t need chemotherapy. By excising (cutting) all the skin away from my clitoris to my rectum, extensive skin grafting from my left thigh, as well as redirecting my bowel into an ileostomy (a poo bag), I survived. But only just. The aftermath of the surgery very nearly killed me and my family were told that I may end up in a vegetative state. That aside, I survived to see my 31st birthday. I am now 38, and had I not had the surgery, I would be long dead.

Gibson has fabricated her empire of lies for the sole purpose of gaining attention and garnering money to live an unsustainable lifestyle that she would not have enjoyed unless she had duped people into buying her ‘lifestyle’ app ‘The Whole Pantry’, followed by the publishing deal with Penguin and finally, her app appearing on the Apple watch. For me, this is unmitigated fraud masquerading as mental illness. Belle claims that she ‘cured’ her brain cancer with whole foods and alternative therapies, except that she didn’t. We all now know that she never had cancer, or any other of the medical conditions she lied about on skateboard forums and what not.

I have to ask – at what point are we not responsible for our actions? Many people would say when we no longer have the mental capacity to make safe decisions for ourselves. But does this absolve us of moral and ethical responsibility? It’s a very grey area. Belle has undoubtably harmed others by offering false promises and platitudes to the point where evidence-based therapies are called into question and oncologists are made to look like big Pharma pariahs for their trouble. The thing is, doctors take an oath when they begin practicing medicine, and we can only hope they honour it (primum non nocere, or ‘first, do no harm’). 

While Belle claims to have ‘lost everything’, I remember thinking the same thing after my cancer surgery, but I soon realised that I had come away with my life. If only Belle would come to the same realisation and tell the truth.

I do not know what will become of Belle Gibson. There is a part of me that understands the witch hunt, but I also feel an immense sense of compassion for her. Or perhaps my compassion is just misguided pity. Compassion and pity may be poles apart, but today both burn deep inside me. Does she deserve to be punished? I believe so. There are still so many unanswered questions, and after another soul rummage, I know that we may never know the truth, because Belle certainly doesn’t. Or does she? In a messy little corner of my mind, I can’t help but wonder how many people Belle has literally made sick. And what of the voiceless who can no longer speak their truth because they have died after believing her misguided and inexpert ‘advice’? People may be willing to forgive. Let us ensure they never forget.

Autopsy of a marriage

Thrumming away from each other like broken mountains,

by your second year, you had been excommunicated.

Wrought by the passage of God, your clipped speech and ruddy cheeks

made it hurt to be alive.

 

Her dowry – platelets swimming under skin and a fertile womb.

Yours – a cellar of wine and an insistent mother whose teat you never could retire.

At one time you were fleshy hips and languid tongues,

begging eyes and fast of foot across the floor.

 

With a God she could never swallow, nor your stewed kicks –

pissing on tyres your watermark

only to lurch into clarion cries of cocky rapture.

Days of wine and roses capsized into nights

of swollen heads and an ugly mouth.

 

Now foreheads cowl in fury –

screaming at divorce lawyers who bathe in the blood of your children,

you’ve learnt how to torch yourself with mediators papers –

slack words spilling from the moorings of your mouth

with cataracts of guilt you will never feel.

Where was this when I needed it?

Today I found the most amazing resource for people – young people – who have ileostomies and stomas (poo bags). You can read about my experience with my poo bag HERE. Ever so glamorous, though it was really the most harrowing time of my life and I physically and spiritually felt a part of myself disappear. A part of my womanhood and a massive chunk of my dignity where I lost myself. I guess that happens when your vagina is peeled like a grape, you have to have your bowel redirected in the form of a poo bag and you nearly die.

There is a lovely and courageous young woman called Talya blogging over at Feeling Ostomistic, and here are her top ten things people don’t tell you when you have an ostomy. The only point of difference is that I still have a normal belly button – I just have a gnarly scar next to it.

If only this support was around when I had my ileostomy, then I really believe it would have made my whole experience a little easier to bear knowing there was another young woman out there who was struggling just as I was. Knowing I wasn’t alone. Because I truly felt it. Talya is beautiful, brave, boisterous and I hope she keeps blogging forever. The world needs her.

I’m going to be a TEDx talker!

I have super exciting news. Yesterday, I was asked to speak at Brisbane’s TEDx event in October. In case you haven’t heard about TEDx, click here to find out what an inspiring global platform where people such as Bill Gates, Liz Gilbert, Jane Goodall and Al Gore have shared their ideas.

The 2014 speakers have been announced today on the Weekend Edition. I am equal parts excited, terrified and honoured to have been invited to speak at such an exciting event. I knew this year was going to be big, but this? I’m still pinching myself …

Am I nervous? I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t. I’m speaking alongside people like Samuel Johnson and Bob Downe (I can’t wait to do my impersonation of him to him), as well as brilliant game changing Professors and artists!

So what am I going to talk about? Life, survival, writing, death and my journey to becoming a spiritual carer. You can register for tickets here. I hope to see you there!

Here’s a likeness of how I looked when I got the phone call, except I was at home …

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Another angel at my table

I am, right now, stuck in that stinking, mephitic mire that is grief. It is as though I am cemented to the one place. Just about everything hurts, and just about everything makes me cry. Some photographs arrived in my inbox around lunchtime, and that mallet of sorrow swung a blow so hard that I lost my breath. Tonight, my eyelids are heavy, and the circles under them tomorrow will make my face look overcast and I will feel bone cold despite the spring. I am finding that optimism is just one more step into fear, and that I am a heavy peg that just doesn’t want to fit.

On Friday morning, I’m getting out of the city for a few days to celebrate the birthday of one of my best friends. This time last year I was in Barcaldine and Nic and her husband were about to join me at the cattle station I was staying, where they got to meet my friend Meagan’s family. Meagan died from CF in May 1999. Her ashes lay in a granite boulder at the family homestead under a weeping willow, and I’m looking forward to getting back out before too long, for it is always too long between visits.

I haven’t written for some time, and in that time, one of my oldest friends has died from Cystic Fibrosis. I am yet to work out whether Sean is number sixty-nine or seventy, but I know that he would have preferred to be sixty-nine because he was a dirty bastard.

About ten days before I went down to Melbourne to see Sean, we had an incredible two hour conversation. I was taken aback by his energy. He was enjoying having his family at home with him before he went to the hospice where he would die. We talked about our fuck tonne of dead friends (because there is a fuck tonne); about his greatest loves, all of who had CF and had died long ago, and what we used to get up to as kids. He said that after all the friends we’d lost, he’d always wanted just one sign. ‘Just one person to come back so I know that there’s more to this. Just one person so I know they’re there’, he said. I told him about the visit I had from our friend Rachel Murphy when I was around six. He was stunned – and a little pissed off, I think. He just wanted there to be something. Just not nothing. I told him there was something; he was still very unsure.

When I got to Melbourne, my dear friend Camille picked me up from the airport. It was a Sunday, so we headed to a homely and hipster little place where we sat by a booming fire. Cam has also had a double lung transplant, and we shared an afternoon of secret women’s business by that fire. We CACKED ourselves silly for a couple of hours and both enjoyed some highly diabetic-unfriendly food.

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By the time we got back to her place, it was night time so I thought it best I call Sean’s sister, Shannon. She asked if I could get there as soon as I could? He was fading fast and wasn’t expected to see through the night after having been put on a morphine pump that day. We had about a forty minute drive ahead of us, but it was Sunday – the traffic was light, but Cam still ran a red light did some quality organ donor driving while I willed Sean not to leave me without getting to say goodbye.

‘You’d better not fucking die on me’, I kept saying. ‘Don’t you fucking dare.’

We reached the hospice where I was met by Shannon’s husband, Troy. There were a few close friends and family in the waiting area who had spent some time with Sean, and Shannon basically pushed me into the room and said to spend as long as I needed. I walked into the darkened room. His breathing was fucked. I knew he was fucked. His mouth was open. I sat beside him and stroked his hair. I said quietly, ‘Hey Seany. It’s me, Carly. I’m here, sweetie. I made it.’ Not immediately, but after I’d said his name a few times and given his head a rub, he started to wake up. He said my name, and I just kept saying, ‘I’m here, I’m here mate. I love you.’ 

And then he began to talk. We talked about sex and politics; he said the entire front bench were useless, with which I agreed. Then, holding my hand he said, ‘Everyone’s here. Everyone’s here and they’re looking at you.’ He’d got what he wanted. A sign, if you will, and what a crowded sign it would have been. All of our friends, his early loves Rachel, Carolyn, and Leanne and his last great love, Veronica. I looked up and whispered, ‘Hi’ to acknowledge our friends who had surrounded us. I felt them there. The air was buzzing with an energy I’ve only experienced a few times in my life, and I silently thanked them for being there to ferry Sean on his way.

His sister Shannon and his friend Kate came in, and we had a Baileys. Sean wanted a Baileys coffee, so I gently placed a palm behind his head and encircled the other around the cup, which he swiftly brushed away, determined to drink it himself, HIS way. And here’s where I understood why. Here was a man – a real man – who had so desperately wanted to die with dignity. And to die with speed. I spent some more time with him, got the nurse to give him more pain relief, then left thinking that by the time I got to him the following morning, he’d be gone, or very close to. He told me he was happy, and I said I’d see him in the morning. Our last words were, ‘I love you’ – the best anyone could hope for. Camille drove us home and we had cuddles on the couch with her dog until just before midnight.

I didn’t sleep. My head may have felt like a medicine ball, but I was still in the room with my friend – and all of our friends. My body was buzzing with pings of energy, and I could see sparks firing off my skin in the dark.

*

When I arrived at the hospice the next morning, Sean was sitting up in bed, fully cognisant (think intelligent, rude and witty) and eating. He had not long ceased taking all of his medication and wasn’t having any artificial feeding so he could control his dying process and make it as short as possible. It was now I began to wonder how fast it would be if he was still eating and fuelling his body. When you’ve grown up surrounded by dying, and  dying and death is your vocation, you tend to ponder about things like this. He ate his entire lunch; even closely inspecting the viscosity of the pumpkin soup. It was then I realised that he needed more morphine and a relaxant to make him more comfortable. The nurses agreed. I know the trajectory of a CF death like the topography of my own breasts, and so he was given a higher dose and by the time I left later that afternoon, he was quite sedated.

Not long after lunch, we were introduced to a lovely lady who was taking photos for the hospice who were updating their website. We were so grateful for the fortuity and relief it provided for those of us who were in the room. Sean had never been camera shy. Below is one shot that Sean’s brother-in-law took while we were snuggling. He cracked dirty jokes and grabbed my ass 😉 For someone who’s dying, I think he looks fucking spectacular.

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When the shots from the photographer popped into my inbox today, I proceeded to completely lose my shit, particularly over this one, because I feel as though he is  comforting me, when I should have been comforting him. 

the comforter being comforted

Sean never regained consciousness and died just after midnight on Saturday 9th August. I was able to see him one more time, but by this stage he was deep in the warmth of a CF coma. It surprised and upset me that it took him so long to die. What didn’t upset or surprise me was that he wanted to die alone. He didn’t want anyone seeing his last breaths. As usual, but most importantly and as he wanted, Sean was in full control.

Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve come to learn more about Sean than he had ever told me. Mostly because he was modest and we were too busy trying to outdo each other with dirty jokes. He was one of Stanford University’s ‘who’s who’ – an invitation only club of great minds from around the world. Doctors and professors spoke at his funeral in Melbourne, and on the 23rd August, we had a memorial for Sean’s Brisbane family and friends, so this was to be my first time as a celebrant.

I had been doing well up until I sat down for the photo montage that Sean’s sister Shannon had put together. When I saw the photos of his transplant recovery, I was fine. And then all of a sudden I wasn’t. I walked back to the lectern and expressed my excitement, happiness and cherished relief that Sean had received his second chance just seven days after I had received mine. The day before Sean’s memorial marked sixteen years since I had my transplant. I had felt strange for having celebrated it, and then guilty because I wasn’t celebrating and I was alive and Sean was not. I took a sharp intake of breath to seal off any more tears, but the levy broke and a rush of tears descended, which would have been awful for everyone there because I look like a drowned hog when I cry.

I’ll always remember Sean as the tall, skinny, lanky kid who grew up too fast, simply because of our illness and his place in life. I also hadn’t known how much he had suffered at the hands of bullies in school. I wanted to scream when I heard his brother speak of this. I wanted to know every last asshole who had teased or tried to fight him. I was enraged and devastated that this had happened to my friend and I began to feel indignant with the world. Why did this have to happen to Sean? I will never understand. Suffice to say, kids will be kids. And kids can be assholes.

And so here I am. Anchored to grief. In fact, my skin stings from it. The hurt trickles into every crack and it permeates every cell of your being. You physically hurt. You ache. It’s like ripping yourself off narcotics when you’re addicted. I thought I was prepared and now I don’t know how to go on, except that I have to. I have study to do, a body to nurture, books to write, a soul to feed, family and friends. I can’t help but feel like an empty vessel. But then I think about those who aren’t even close to treading water – the sinking stones of this world. I want to pick them up, but can’t. I’m in the water with them, but they’re out of my reach.

And you know what? Sean would be PISSED OFF. He may have wanted people to be sad, but not like this.