death

It’s been ten years, and I’m still reckoning with his death

Reckoning With Grief In The Wake Of A Suicide

Death, we know because it’s drilled into us from an early age, is a natural part of life.

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Since my battle with breast cancer in the spring of 2013, my life changed forever.

Compassion Is Complicated After Cancer

Upset you lost your keys? Try losing your breast. Pissed off about missing that train? Try missing your son’s 8th grade graduation because of a horrific infection from fluid buildup in the previously-mentioned missing breast. See what I mean? It kind of puts life into perspective.

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image credit: Staci Sheets

 The Things I Didn't Know About My Rainbow Baby

A year and a half later, in 1995, I would give birth to my first living child — the child that the world considered my first child, that is really my second child. No one used the term “Rainbow Baby” in 1995; the designation didn’t exist. Even if it had, I had no “Rainbow Baby” to name because no one had heard the name of the baby before the Rainbow. The thing you don’t know about having a Rainbow Baby, until you have a Rainbow Baby, is the baby that is made after a baby is lost feels like so much more than just a baby.

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"I’ve needed a happy place lately. My lifelong chronic depression, usually well-managed by the medication I take daily, is having one of its occasional flare-ups." Image: Pixabay, kerttu

How Walking Around In The Cemetery Is Helping My Depression

...[B]eing among the dead rightsizes my problems, makes me feel small like staring at the ocean. After all, we are all being carried along toward the same inevitable fate as the men and women whose headstones I pass on my daily strolls. The best we can hope for is that someday someone will stop to calculate our ages and wonder about our lives after we’re gone.

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I went to the pet store, peered into some glass bowls, found a reasonable facsimile of the original fish, and voila: Boonga Two-nga. Image: Thinkstock.

On Killing And Replacing My Kid's Fish

My son is particularly anxious about death. He’s generally sensitive — he’s yet to make it through a full movie because anytime there’s a minor conflict he gets too upset and we have to turn it off. We left Zootopia in the theater when the big animals were being too “mean” to the rabbit. We left a screening of Toy Story in the park because he got too anxious when Woody and Buzz got left at the gas station. (We didn’t make it to the genuinely terrifying broken toy hybrids.)

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Support your local brick-and-mortar bookstore! Image: Jody Amable.

A Grown-A** Woman Reads Harry Potter: The Magic of Death 

So far, Deathly Hallows is, to me, about the divide between the living, the dead, and the living who have seen death. Harry and I are part of an exclusive club: Those under 30 who have experienced death. And when I say “experienced,” I don’t mean “witnessed.” I mean really, really felt it, all the way through.

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