People are meant to be resilient and aim to recover from traumatic life events so when you lose a beloved pet, it is natural for those who care about you to ask when you are going to fill the void by adopting another lucky fur-child. Emotionally, we may process it as someone trying to get us to replace the love we just lost.
I have my own ideas about what it means to control your own life and the right a person should have to end that life if they choose. But I'm not writing this to spout my opinion on suicide. I'm writing this to tell a story I'll never have the chance to tell Robin Williams, as if I would've had a chance of ever meeting the man.
Hope is truly something beautiful. But so very easy to forget when faced with the pain of loss, when faced with the pain of separation. When faced with death. And while we might forget such when in the midst of great trouble, marked by betrayal and rejection, by the tragedy of disease and unexpected loss of both minor and grave proportions.
We can go days without talking, but I still know their love is there. Most of the time it's comforting, like a hug or a warm sweater. But sometimes it's heavy, almost suffocating, as if their happiness depends entirely on my actions, my life. I don't blame them because I know this intensity only stems from their greatest fear: losing me or my brothers.
Seven months later and I'm still stunned by the palpable pain I feel in the pit of my chest when I think of him. I marvel at how grief just patiently sits there quietly, waiting for me to suddenly catch a glimpse of someone who looks like him, or for a whiff of someone's Aqua Velva aftershave, that cheap blue stuff he splashed on his face when I was a kid, and suddenly pain, like a searing knife, cuts through me. Seven months of firsts. The first Christmas without him, first New Years' celebrations, first Easter, and now... the first Father's Day.
Imagine, one day, without any warning, you find yourself in a hospital in a life-threatening situation, unable to communicate. Who would speak for you and make health care decisions on your behalf? That's a question that all Canadians need to contemplate -- but recent studies indicate that most of us have not.
If all this sounds too daunting, here is some language you might want to consider. Imagine turning to the person you have in mind and begin by saying something like, "I love you." If that feels like a stretch, you can always start with: "Look, I care about you, most of the time" or "What matters to you matters to me."
There have clearly been security lapses which need explanation -- as much to Malaysians as to anybody else. And at the outset, the crisis management could have been better coordinated. However, there is no indication there is something that could have been done to alter the realities of this tragedy. So why has Chinese diplomacy targeted the Malaysian authorities so harshly?
Colour can be used as a powerful identification tool. Even our personal feelings can be described in colourful ways. If we're feeling melancholy, we're blue; if we're jealous, we're green with envy. But there has been one environment where colour has traditionally been less than useful: medical diagnostics.
I like to tell this story because I feel that our job as yoga instructors is to do what artists, poets, and priests do; to remind us of the great truth that to cling only to sweet as our only form of happiness is a trap. Sorrow teaches us about love and even bliss... if we let it. Ultimately, we can't share the light if we aren't cracked open.
People like me who get excited about poring over the cheapie bins for bargain-priced cult classics should be positively ecstatic about the October programming at the Vancity Theatre. I talked to VIFC programmer Tom Charity about the VIFC's late October schedule -- including the Vancouver-shot porno chic Sexcula; the inspired decision to have Vancouver's Funerary Call do a live score for Häxan: Witchcraft Through The Ages; and the two films paired with Häxan: Ken Russell's The Devils -- a serious favourite of mine -- and Dario Argento's Inferno.
My mother is dying. When it got to be too much at home we put her in hospice. Hospice, for those who are not familiar with the term, is a place where folks go to die. The criteria to enter are you have three-six months left to live with an expectation of no heroic measures. The goal is comfort and dignity in your final days. My brother and I camp out in the room with my mom. Me in the Murphy bed and him on the Lazy Boy. We fall asleep listening to her whisper to herself and hallucinate on the shadows she makes with her hands. My mom had lung cancer and it progressed to her brain, so she is not safe to be alone anymore. She could fall. She could leave and get lost. She could take all her clothes off and run the halls naked. So we move in to the tiny room with her.
What we leave behind will be our legacy; how we want to be remembered at the holiday table when family gets together to reminisce. How do you want to be remembered? I've yet to speak to anyone nearing death regretting not spending more time at work. Regret is always for the hours away from family and friends.
Well another school year has just started and "Bullying Ends Here" is in high demand across North America. I am on a mission to continue telling the world about a boy named Jamie Hubley and hope that his story, along with my own, will show youth that they have support and have someone that they can communicate with through email at any time. I have received over 5000 emails in 6 months and I respond to each and every one of them. That is my commitment to youth. I will help any way that I can.