fabiochiu/medium-articles huggingface dataset:
2020 – It is not over yet.
Tags: Grief And Loss, Grief

I am 27th.

I have been married for a year and got pregnant.

I experienced an internal bleeding in weeks 35 at 2 a.m.

I gave birth to a dashing baby boy on my own birthday.

I did Caesar surgery, no other safe option for us.

I lost my dad for less than 25 days later.

I met my dad before he died, I hug him for the last time.

I remember everything happened that night, the tense horror still creeping.

I kissed his feet to apologize for every pain he had gone through.

I shouted and screamed during the burial service.

I felt blank, hurt, angry, troubled, torn, whatever it might be.

I was forced to say goodbye.

I haven’t been able to introduce my son to my dad nor my mom.

I haven’t got any chance to visit my dad’s cemetery ever since.

I cried every single middle of the night.

I almost experienced a baby blues syndrome due to my state of mind.

I failed my breastfeeding moment also because of my psychological condition.

I am so in fear that I will fail my son too, day by day.

I fall in love everyday with him, now I know what parenthood is.

I have been working from home for 8 months even before corona.

I never get separated from my boy 24/7, we get so attached one to another.

I haven’t gone anywhere except routine hospital visit for my son’s vaccines.

I never step a foot out of my house to protect my son.

I applied for an Ivy League scholarship, but I failed at the very last stage.

I missed university, I would like to take another degree.

I remember what my dad wish was to see me graduate my phD, maybe a reason.

I started reading research paper and aim to write my owns.

I collaborated with my college friends as a paper writing group.

I write renewable energy paper with them, one paper at a time.

I feel like reading those papers is a therapy for me.

I will stay up late just to write and summarize, minimizing time to grief.

I already submit one paper with them, finger crossed for the upcoming.

I plan to apply for another scholarship, hopefully.

I spend my time doing everything just to ease the pain in the back of my mind.

I just realize it’s September already. Dad’s bday on the 16th, His 62th.

I ordered a roses bouquet, I should have done that years before.

I miss our daily fight terribly, dear Papa. It still feels like a daydream.

I still can picture how you said “I will teach your kids like I taught their mom”.

I know the chance is gone forever, but I desperately longing for that.

I think about life day and night.

I do not know what tomorrow will bring us to.

2020 has been a painful, surprising, and a high speed roller coaster, indeed.

I have not overcome 2020 yet.

2020, it is not over yet.
Framed
By: Lucy M
Tags: Loss, Perinatal, Love, Perinatal Loss, Grief And Loss

I wrote this poem three years ago, 13 years after the loss of my son:

I love to look at pictures.

When I visit people’s homes,

More than small talk I enjoy wandering,

Looking at the pictures, in their pretty frames.

You can tell so much from peoples’ pictures.

Perfectly posed? Nothing but smiles?

Hiding something.

Two people, heads together, smiling, while their bodies push apart?

This will not last.

Nothing but old black and whites,

Romantic memories of bygone eras?

Avoiding something.

I like to listen while I look,

to hear the story that’s being told by the pictures in their frames.

What story do my pictures tell?

I hope they tell a story of moments.

The moment when

my daughter met her new baby brother for the first time.

The moment when

my toddler son basked in the belief of my perfection.

I’ve tried to frame these moments,

display them for all to share.

But there’s one moment I’ve framed, but never shared.

The moment when

My 23-week old son was born, but never took a breath.

Thirteen years ago today

After laboring the better part of a day

I saw my little boy for the first and last time.

This moment has been framed in my mind for years.

Framed with grief and anger.

How many things were visibly wrong

How his outward deformities symbolized my inner ones.

This year, I notice the frame is changing.

Now, when I look at this moment, I see other things too.

Yes, I see the deformities, but today

I also see a little soul, pure and beautiful.

Yes, I see sorrow, but today

I also see joy, joy for the boy and man he would have become.

The frame, which was one-dimensional and black

Now shows some facets and sparkle,

Like a diamond in the rough.

Today I know the frame isn’t finished

And I’m curious about what it will become.

I’ve always thought the black-framed moment

was never meant to be shared.

But today’s multi-dimensional, sparkly frame

Demanded to be shared.

And so it is
My Zaidy
By: Rivky A
Tags: Judaism, Grief And Loss, Holocaust, Religion

Call me crazy but as a child I was positive my grandfather was Moshiach. I don’t think I ever told anyone because I thought it was true. I truly believed it would be public knowledge at some point, I was just waiting to be proven right. I couldn’t think of a better person for the job, someone more deserving. Someone who fought for his life through anti-semtisim and torture to come out not only a lone survivor, but the most loving, caring, devoted Jew and human I’ve seen.

There were times in my life that I really struggled. Questioned my existence. Questioned everything I’ve ever known. And no matter what the situation, I’d always see an image of my grandfather. It literally kept me alive.

It’s been so hard watching Zaidy deteriorate. I cried every step of the way. When he needed a wheelchair, when I watched his sons lift him into a car, when he started forgetting and when he stopped responding. And now I cry because he’s gone.

I used to think I can’t go on without him. But I know I can. I have been. I just wish I had that unwavering supportive energy from a person that is on this earth. I hope I’ll be able to feel his supportive energy from wherever he is.

This is a man that called me after my vain, and may I say “stupid”, teenage nose job to see how I was feeling.

This was a man who enjoyed spending time with me whether it was to go on a walk, sit in his study, help him with his tax receipts, or go to the bank.

And I loved and craved every minute of it.

I never felt like a burden or a waste of time. If anything I felt like I was helping him, when in reality I was getting unconditional love and support from him.

I remember walking around Toronto with him feeling so proud. I was so proud I got to walk with this amazing man. I also remember feeling so honored and humbled to tie his shoes when he could no longer bend down.

Zaidy called me before my Get (Jewish divorce) and just cried. No questions. No comments. He just cried, with me.

He constantly called me; a few times a week. To see how I was doing, to say a little dvar Torah. Always a message of hope.

One night when I was alone in my apartment, I got a call from my grandfather and almost like a voice from heaven he told me “I feel for you. My heart feels for you. You’re not alone.”

In another phone conversation he asked if I was ready to date again. When I said not yet, his response was “it was that bad?” I responded, “it was that bad, Zaidy.”

I felt understood and validated without even having to speak much. It felt like he saw deep into my soul.

He never told me to change anything about myself. To be more religious, to be less loud, to be more positive; to change anything or do anything differently. Nothing. He never said anything negative to me. Ever.

He obviously had a tremendous understanding of humans. Beyond his generation. Beyond what many people possess.

His energy was filled with warm light and love.

I hope this fills the world with a little more warmth and love, in his memory.
Never really knew how much I would think about the past.
Tags: Love, Nashville, Grief, Memories, Grief And Loss

Never really knew how much I would think about the past. All those times I was chilling in Nashville getting lit all the time lol. Doing everything under the sun.

I would leave Antioch and go to East Nashville just to hang with the “homie”. Boy… you never really know who’s hating with the door closed. I learned a lot of lessons that summer 🥴.

Then there was you…

I miss those late nights when I used to ride everywhere with you listening to the same music over and over.

You always did that lol.

I’ll never forget us going into Frugal Macdoogal’s And I started picking up expensive shit and you hit me with the “I get shit I can afford.”

We have countless memories and I keep going back to them because even though I was suffering then, I was happy with my best friend.

Some may think it makes no sense.

To love someone while they hurt you I mean…

I remember telling you that I loved you in front of your sister and she says, “Y’all already saying you love each other?”

I’m just like, “Yeah” 🤷🏽‍♀️.

But we knew we were connected more mentally than physically and that’s what I loved about you.

Something neither one of us could explain but, we both knew.

I could hear the pain in your voice the last time we chilled together.

I told you I planned on starting a business and possibly moving to Atlanta because of family.

You knew you were losing me. But in the end I lost you 😢.

They tore your brother’s house down no more sitting under the stars there.

I ride down those streets sometimes just to remember you.

I know a lot of backroads just because of you. You taught me a lot.

How I need to be treated and how I shouldn’t be treated.

I just wish I could hug you.

Your facial expressions will forever be interred in my bones.

I love you.

I scared myself one day. I pretended you were still with me and my entire world lit up. I could feel my face glow. I could see the sun breaking through the clouds. I could see your face.

“This is only going to hurt you” I heard a voice come from the back of my mind.

It was very calm but still serious. Very comforting.

Then reality set in.

……..
July 9 — Hits from C.S. Lewis’ A Grief Observed
By: Andrew Collins
Tags: Loss, Love, Grief, Cs Lewis, Grief And Loss

I can relate to these passages:

And grief still feels like fear. Perhaps, more strictly, like suspense. Or like waiting; just hanging about waiting for something to happen. It gives life a permanetly provisional feeling. It doesn’t seem worth starting anything.

It’s not true that I’m always thinking of H. Work and conversation make that impossible. But the times when I’m not are perhaps my worst. For then, though I have forgotten the reason, there is spread over everything a vague sense of wrongness, of something amiss.

I think I am beginning to understand why grief feels like suspense. It comes from the frustration of so many impulses that had become habitual. Thought after thought, feeling after feeling, action after action, had H. for their object. Now their target is gone. . . So many roads lead thought to H. I set out on one of them. But now there’s an impassable frontier-post across it. So many roads once; now so many culs de sac.

I thought I could describe a state; make a map of sorrow. Sorrow, however, turns out to be not a state but a process. It needs not a map but a history, and if I don’t stop writing that history at some quite arbitrary point, there’s no reason why I should ever stop.

All reality is iconoclastic. The earthly beloved, even in this life, incessantly triumphs over your mere idea of her. And you want her to; you want her with all her resistances, all her faults, all her unexpectedness. That is, in her foursquare and independent reality. And this, not any image or memory, is what we are to love still, after she is dead.
Namaste.
By: Deidre Kellogg Ketroser
Tags: Invisible Illness, Grief And Loss, Life, Emotional Pain

Namaste.

Thank you, Beth, for this very enlightening and timely article. I am feeling very broken, and more dysfunctional and depressed by the day as I try to cope with my beloved husband and soulmate’s unexpected death, and the overwhelming amount of work I have to do to thoughtfully and ethically close down his medical and legal practices, clean up his/our affairs, and the life-changing decisions I must make (all while battling Secondary Progressive Multiple Sclerosis and other health issues, complications of which killed my husband).

Somehow I thought that this would get easier, but it has been nearly six months and I am heading rapidly towards that “darkness visible,” which William Styron so brilliantly described. I think that the reality, and enormity, of my life being completely turned upside down is hitting me very hard now.

I have been thinking a lot about Buddhist practices and study. I am a very spiritual person, and I draw from the teachings of all major religions (Judaism, Islam, Christianity, Buddhism, etc.), incorporating what works for me and letting go of the rest. I’m not keen on organized, or institutional religion, as that has historically been the cause of so much violence and killing.

I really appreciated coming across your article when I did (I’m kind of new to Medium, and an aspiring writer). It is was very insightful and inspirational. Thank you.

With gratitude,

Deidre A. Kellogg Ketroser
The Flavors of Anger
By: George Heimel
Tags: Grief And Loss, Grief

As I settle into life after my father’s death, I realized I have become a connoisseur of the flavors of anger as they swirl like a bitter bad wine in my mouth and stomach.

There is anger at the universe (the Universe, god, God, Goddess, Allah, Shiva, Yahweh… whatever), for taking my father with such sudden determined ferocity, when a man that good did not deserve it. This anger is old and lingering, flat but persistent.

There is the anger at my father for not taking his “being tired” more seriously at the time. As if it really could have made any difference with AML. I know cases that were diagnosed and still resulted in fatality in 3–7 weeks. This anger is a bit stronger and sour, intermingled with a hint of sweet compassion for my dad.

There is the anger at others who say things like “just get over it”, and “people die all the time”. People trying to “fix” instead of just listening, witnessing. This is a particularly sharp tasting anger, bitter and acrid; fortunately fleeting because idiots don’t deserve my time or energy.

There is the anger at myself for not leaving the moment he went to the hospital. If I had left 3 hours earlier I might have had more than a few minutes of consciousness with him. He might have been able to communicate with me without that fucking breathing tube. More could have been said than the desperate look in his pleading eyes. This anger is particularly bitter and has a long after-taste.

There is the old old anger of my mother being taken so quickly too. How could they both have been taken so suddenly? Is it possible I loved them too much? Did I contribute to burnig out their candles too fast. Did I anger some spiteful spirit that sought vengeance on my dearest things? This anger makes me choke and spit up blood.

I hope that I can finish this particular bottle, but it seems to have an endless flow.
My fairytale love story
By: Umzila Kawulandelwa
Tags: Lovestory, Reflections, Mourning, Relationships, Grief And Loss

My angel man was cremated yesterday. It still feels so surreal just thinking the love of my life is no more. Anyway today is the first day of my grieving and mourning journey. We’ve been so busy with the logistics surrounding his passing that I haven’t had time to sit with my thoughts like I am right now.

I’ve been messaging people who lost loved ones and are still here today asking them how they survived such tragic loss cos in the first few days I wanted to die. It wasn’t until my therapy session on Tuesday that I realized I actually didn’t want to die, I just wanted the pain to stop. I’m grateful to my therapist for making me realize that.

I always told my angel that my worst fear was one of us dying before we got married because black families do not acknowledge girlfriends and boyfriends. You’re either a wife, husband or nothing. My worst fear happened. He died before we were husband and wife but true to his nature, he instructed his family to take care of me.

On the day of his passing I went over to his house to see his family. Once I arrived everyone was called into the lounge and they gave me an opportunity to speak. I told them of my fear of my pain as his girlfriend not being acknowledged. They listened and held space for me. I was included in everything till the very end. I got the opportunity to sleep in his room on his bed. I wore one of his t-shirts to sleep.

I got to speak as his girlfriend at the memorial service. I had elders paying their respects to me at their house. I was not banished to mourn alone because we were not married. There isn’t anything marriage would have given me that my love didn’t already give me. I was loved till the very end. After everything yesterday his family took me to the farm he’d said would be our wedding venue. His younger brother told me I was his sister for life and made me promise to never, ever leave him. Baby brother, I promise to never, ever leave you.

The family has opened up their home to me and assured me that I am welcome WHENEVER I want to come. I was telling my therapist this morning that I can’t believe my angel man and I really broke all the black families’ rules like we did. We went on SO many holidays together. Something people didn’t understand. How our families would approve of the holidays because we were not married. In fact for our very first getaway a few weeks into our relationship I took him to my mother’s house when she was still in Botswana.

My love and I shared a fairytale love story. Even after his passing this love still surprises me. My therapist and I were laughing at that I’m probably the first girlfriend in the history of black families and loss to be acknowledged like this. Love didn’t die with my angel man. I feel it still even after he’s gone.

I’ve always said I’m the luckiest person you’ll ever meet. I consider myself INCREDIBLY lucky to have experienced that kind of love. My angel gave me forever in our five years together and for that I will ALWAYS be grateful.
February Heartbreak
By: Orphan Ish
Tags: Valentines Day, Fatherless Daughters, Grief, Girl Dad, Grief And Loss

Around this time in February of 2019, my Dad was diagnosed with stage IV lung cancer. He spent his last Valentine’s Day in the hospital with my Mom. He passed away less than a month later. 106 days later on June 24th, my Mom went to be with him.

I will always remember the moment my Mom spoke the words, “stage IV.” What the hell happened to stages 1–3??m How was this missed?? I was furious, angry, heartbroken. I stepped out of work into the corridor, I began to bawl. At the time, I was working not too far from home. It was a 2 hour and 20 minute drive. I decided to drive home in the morning. I was too distraught. Driving back to my apartment was a bit much at the time. After deciding that with my parents and *gathering myself* I decided it was best to update my boss that I needed to go home. Boss seemed sympathetic but reluctant to agree to an early weekend. I was thankful but worried that in the event this needs to happen again, there will be more pushback ( There was another scenario in the year where I needed an extra day to the weekend and some additional days after getting all my wisdom teeth removed and there was pushback).

The next morning, I raced home in record pace getting home in under 2 hours. I barely put the car in park and shut it before I jumped out and ran to the door. I ran through the kitchen and down the short hall to the tv room. I jumped on my Daddy’s lap and burst into hysterical tears. He just held me. He knew how devastating the news was, that is why my Mommy told me. I also think he knew he wasn’t feeling well and that he could only be treated at this point and not cured. He told me not to worry about him, that he was going to be alright. The genuineness in his voice consoled me a bit. He was still able to be brave at this time in February. It wouldn’t be until later this month that his physical condition started to deteriorate and was in a lot more discomfort and pain.
Grieving in a digital age
Tags: Death, Grief And Loss, Chatbots, Artificial Intelligence

Last year I lost many people who were either close to me or had a great impact on my life. I’ve been reluctant to write this post because it’s very personal and I didn’t want it to feel exploitative, but writing has always been therapeutic.

The loss I’ve experienced this year, just reminds me of the losses to come.

I’m lucky enough to have those closest to me still on this side of the plane of existence but I also know that life is fragile.

Lately I’ve been thinking to what extent it’s easier or harder to grieve in a digital age.

Each day, I have records upon records, massive amount of data, on my relationship with the people in my life.

They’re represented in push notifications, in reminders through time hops and “last year, this time” functions on social media.

Instead of choosing when to be reminded of your grief, you are constantly reminded through push notifications, tags in pictures, unread emails, joint social media accounts etc, and you can either log off and ignore or embrace the wave of emotions. To look. To remember. To process, or dwell.

Someone I frequently talked to passed away last year, and for the first few weeks after the funeral I would open our conversation-thread on my phone and start typing when I had something to discuss, until I half way through the message realised what I was about to do.

And I cried.

Each time.

New conversations have since filled my feed, and our conversation thread has been pushed down, out of sight, but not out of mind.

I think about how easy it would be to create a chatbot, to ease the pain. Like Eugenia Kuyda did when her dear friend Roman Mazurenko passed away.

But just like the Black Mirror episode Be Right Back, I realise that it would (in the long run) just prolong my grief and pain.

Black Mirror — Be Right Back — Netflix

Or would it?

Would an AI or a simple chatbot be a bandaid for the flesh wound that is grief, or is it just salt in the wound?

I don’t know which it would be.

If one ignores the legal and ethical ramifications of recreating loved ones based on their direct messages, how would I feel recreating someone? How would I feel if someone recreated me?

Flattered, worried, both?

Would they take me out of context, change my personality, would it still be me they are talking to, or a watered down version of me. Would it change their opinion of me if I said something that hurt them?

Would a flawed AI change my opinion of the one I’ve tried to recreate?

Is it fair to form new memories with someone who’s not around to take part of their own words?

I don’t know.

I just know that I’ve experienced grief before and after social media, and I cherish the fact that I can read that the last words I said to you were that I admired and appreciate you.

But I also know that I can read all the times I’ve fought and disagreed with loved ones, hurt them, been unfair, intentionally or not, it’s there.

Technology and grieving is a double edged tool.

It let’s us remember, but will it let us heal?

And I’m not sure what I think about it yet.
Your Grieving Doesn’t Have a Timeline
By: Ashley Crivea
Tags: Coaching, Death, Spirituality, Grief And Loss, Self Love

Your Grieving Doesn’t Have a Timeline

I found out shortly into Christmas day, just after midnight on Christmas eve, that a friend who was battling cancer for the third time, had passed away. While I knew it was always a possibility, part of me just felt like he would beat this too, that he was going to come through- that he was unstoppable. As if he’d win against anything thrown his way. I had hope and faith that he’d win again.

Last time I’d talked with him he’d been given bad news. Despite that, they were going to try a new therapy. They said if it worked: he’d be cured. I was rooting for him. I was praying for him so, but sadly that was not to be. I will admit I was in shock when I found out. It felt like it happened so fast.

When I found out, I messaged mutual friends to let them know. We talked. We cried. One friend felt they didn’t have much right to grieve, compared to how many people he had touched. It hit me at that moment. I had lost another friend a year or so ago. He had died suddenly at 40. I hadn’t kept in touch with this friend very well, and regretted it. I know I was busy, we were on the other side of the country and I was also dealing with my health issues, but still. I felt bad to be grieving for them, since I had lost contact and it had been a while since we last talked.

When my friend said those words to me; I told them, “I think you can grieve as much or as little as you need to.”

It made me stop and pause. It hit me that I was giving my friend permission for something I hadn’t given myself. It’s always so much easier for me to be a better person to someone else. To guide and teach them and offer them the empathy I cannot give myself. I sat there a bit in shock by my own words. Words I could not utter to myself. And even with him, even with this friend who just died. I felt terrible because it had been a bit since we talked. I’d made a mental note to send him a message on Christmas day. But Christmas day didn’t come. Not for him.

I’m trying and struggling to give myself the same empathy I showed my friend. To be loving and acknowledge that I’m sad. I’m mourning, and even though it had been a bit since we talked last, I have to be loving in knowing I’ve been sick, stressed and so busy the last month and a bit. That I’ve been trying my best and there are so many people I do love and while I may not talk to them all the time, I still love them. It’s okay to be sad when they leave. So this is my mantra right this moment. There is no right or wrong way to grieve. I will grieve as much or as little as I need to and every day will be different.
Happy New year.
By: Sabrina Jones
Tags: Happy New Year, Death, Grief, Christmas, Grief And Loss

Happy New year.

I thought I was ok.......

But every time someone wishes me a happy new year I feel a crushing sadness come over me right now I'm in Starbucks working with my daughter opposite fighting tears. So irrational, but so real for me, what difference does a day make, 2018 will turn into 2019 and I will leave my dad there.

2019 will exist with me and me fatherless. Christmas came and went, people will make resolutions, and cheer in the new year, my birthday will go by, and we will keep living, breathing smiling and loving while my dad won't. I'm struggling to articulate what this feeling is. Is it guilt, anger, grief, all of the above.It doesn't even make any sense that this arbitrary date is causing me such pain.

I was asked yesterday what I was doing for the new year and a wave of sadness and anger hit me like a stack of bricks and for a minute I couldn't speak. I do feel a little guilt that I may be making people feel bad when Merry Christmas sticks in my throat, but then I feel anger, because why does it matter if I say it back to you, it doesnt mean "I hope you have a shit Christmas, I just can't say it.

I do hope you have a great time, I hope that you showed your love ones that you love them because a lifetime, is a short time.
Remembering Kai, Meeting Addiction With Empathy
By: Lars Schmidt
Tags: Opioid Epidemic, Addiction, Empathy, Mental Health, Grief And Loss

Remembering Kai, Meeting Addiction With Empathy

What comes to mind when you picture an addict? What thoughts fill your head when you hear about the opioid epidemic? How distant are those thoughts from your day-to-day existence?

Four years ago I lost my brother Kai, another casualty in the opioid epidemic. Before Kai’s death, I was blissfully naive about addiction. I knew it was a disease that impacted millions, but somehow up until that fateful October day in 2015 it never impacted anyone I knew or loved — or so I thought.

In the years since Kai’s death, I’ve grappled with understanding addiction. I struggled with processing my own feelings of grief and loss. Both of our parents had passed away. Kai was all that was left of my immediate family. Now he was gone. Why?

I turned to writing to try and cope with the maelstrom of emotions and feelings that swirled inside of me. I wrote Kai a letter on the one-year anniversary of his death, hoping it would provide a cathartic release to the feelings of loss I still couldn’t process. Naive perhaps, but something else was happening.

In my quest to understand addiction and chip away at some of the societal stigmas that make it so difficult for addicts to get the help they need, I discovered how widespread addiction really is — and how difficult of a struggle it is for those battling the disease.

I heard from friends, family, colleagues, clients, executives, and strangers — all opening up to me about their own struggles. They shared how Kai’s story, and my story, touched them. Through their stories I learned how difficult this disease of addiction is to overcome — and how the struggle for sobriety is a daily battle.

My blissful ignorance towards addictions has been replaced by a deep empathy — for both addicts and those who love them.

I had to come to this place of understanding in the hardest way imaginable. The truth is I’ll never fully heal from Kai’s loss. That’s the reality of grief — and I know that. What I can and will do is to try and use this grief and honor Kai by telling his story, and hopefully in doing so change perceptions around addiction.

I recorded the podcast below is a tribute to my brother, Kai. Like all addicts, Kai was so much more than his addiction. In this episode, his friends and family share stories of the man Kai was — and the impact he had on their lives.

If his story resonates with you, please considering sharing so others may reconsider their views on addiction.

Rest in peace, sweet brother.
Grief, You’re Like A Sunflower
By: Nicole Rivera O'Donnell
Tags: Grief, Mental Health Awareness, Mental Health, Grief And Loss, Grief Counseling

While yesterday may have been beautiful, it was also a sad day. Yesterday would have been my grandparent’s 55th wedding anniversary.

My grandpa passed away this past December after a very long and hard 2020. He did not die of COVID, but died during COVID times. I miss him every single day. My heart hurts as the hours and days go by without him. Over the last few months I have tried to find him; connect with him; feel his heavenly presence around me. I have been very lucky to find his gifts every once in a while.

I’ve noticed that my grandpa talks to me through music: songs I most likely would not have listened to on my own. When I hear one of those songs, I know it is him playing them. Yesterday was one of those days.

I went to Trader Joe’s to buy some flowers for my grandma and for my grandpa’s grave. As I stood in front of the fresh flowers, trying not to make eye contact with the succulents, music began playing from up above. Now for whatever reason Trader Joe’s always has the best music playing, something that every employee and shoppers happily sing along too. Bruce Channel’s “Hey Baby” began playing and my eyes surely welled with tears. The very first “heeeyyy babbyyyy” I could hear my grandpa singing it. Anyone who saw me must have thought I was crazy for standing with several bouquets of flowers in my arms, just crying. What’s funny is as I was combing through the different flowers I had asked my grandpa which flowers he liked the best; of course it was the sunflowers. I got one for him and one for my grandma.

Later on, I went to my grandma’s house and my mom was telling her the story about me hearing grandpa in Trader Joe’s. As I retold the story I started crying again with both my mom and grandma crying besides me. My grandma told me that “Hey Baby” was their song; the very first song my grandpa sung to her when they first started dating.

Grief is crazy and so unpredictable. I hate it, but then there are times like yesterday where I have to thank my grief for recognizing the blessings and gifts from my grandpa. I started to read Grief Day by Day by Jan Warner who talks about her own grief as a sunflower.

She writes:

“I often think of my grief as a sunflower. The center is always dark. My grief is dark and unchanging…the yellow petals surrounding the center are bright and numerous. At the beginning, my poor sunflower hardly had any petals. However by nurturing it and allowing it to grow, the sunflower’s dark center is now surrounded by many bright colored petals…”

Grief, you are my sunflower — but only the center. Out of my sadness a new bright yellow petal appeared. A tiny reminder that my best friend is here with me, every day.

Nicole xo
From is to was: Two months after Ma left us
By: Megha Sandhu
Tags: Cancer, Death, Grief And Loss, Daughters, Mothers

Dear Ma,

Distraught that the end was inching closer and overwhelmed with love for you for the same reason, I said to you a few months ago that it felt so good to say that you were only my mother. Nobody else’s. Only mine. That there was one thing in this world that I could say was all mine. You, and your love. And you told me, “I am only your mother, and nothing else”.

That you are (were) so much more is not even a discussion. But during those distressingly painful months of being stricken with blood cancer, when you fought so selflessly to be alive for 10 months, you did it for me — that’s more love than an entire lifetime of love, Ma. You saw my relentless attempts to just keep you with me and delay that finality of separation. I know that you saw it. And I know that that’s what made you fight till the very end. And then it got too much. You knew I wouldn’t stop you when the time came, because I knew you weren’t unreasonable.

That afternoon, for the first time in 10 months of living with acute myeloid leukemia, you said you were tired and wanted to rest. I told you I won’t stop you from resting. But I also said I didn’t want you to go away in that state. Almost like people lose some weight before enrolling for the Soul Cycle so that they “fit in”.

But you had made the decision.

Though we got caught, and as swiftly, came out of the dilemma of an emergency surgery that wasn’t going to do you any good, you proceeded as planned. You knew this decision was yours alone.

When I heard those unusual-sounding gasps, for a minute I thought you were trying to say something. But then I saw your eyes and realized this was unlike anything I had ever seen.

The doctors rushed there, told us it wasn’t looking good.

We gathered around you, held your hand, talked to you, cried by your side, kissed your cheeks and forehead, said silent prayers, swung between disbelief and absolute shattering sadness. Told you we loved you, and you are a dear one.

One by one, I saw the flat lines park themselves onto the monitor, like it was their territory now.

I asked Dr. A, “is this it?”, he nodded. Told me, “Remember how we had discussed we’ll try and make it as peaceful and gentle as possible for her. This is it.”

It’s been two months since the day that I’ll forever live in parallelly.
‘The Weight’ — The Heaviness of Grief
By: Moe Russ
Tags: Grief, Covid Diaries, Covid 19 Crisis, Grief And Loss, Family

It’s the weight. It’s the exhaustion of pushing back at the evidence.

Collectively we are fogging the awkward realities of gradual decline.

Oh no no no, it’s not a tragedy. Hers is a long, full, rich life approaching completion.

You don’t want the waiting to be over, and the alternative is this interminable weight.

It’s not up to us. Our will is irrelevant. We are here as witness, not agent.

She is dying on her terms. Naturally. The hospice people tell us she will sleep gently out of life.

My friends in Boulder assure me the appointment for the end of her life was set before her birth. This force of nature will slip through the some smaller-than-the-eye-can-see and larger-than-the-dearly-departing life can fathom, to some other side. Beyond the veil is the phrase I would use if I was feeling philosophical, which I’m not.

There are no suitable words in these moments of anticipatory grief. We find ourselves surrendering in the corners. Backs up against the wall, teardrops spill. There is no reprieve this time.

With her life she graduated a legion of people from her breast, to her table. Spoon-feeding eight little bird mouths. Birthdays we celebrated by her signature chocolate cake. Rainy days were for potato pancakes. Reunions were for pies and exotic pastry creations.

We were deluded by circumstances (and cultural lullabies of course) into thinking this is OUR mother — our Mother forever. The mother we get to keep.

Last night as I was tucking her in, I put a second blanket over her. Explaining that chilly air was forecast overnight.

Looking up with great concern, her eyes flew open as she asked, “Does everyone have enough blankets”? “Yes, mother”, I said, kissing her cheek as I reassured her, “We all have enough blankets”.

There was intention in my lingering kiss over her in those final nights, fully appreciating the warmth of her body, knowing, the wait will be over soon enough. Knowing the wait will be over too soon, and ever after.
Things My Daddy Told Me
By: Valencia Bey
Tags: Fathers And Daughters, Peace Of Mind, Grief And Loss, African American

My daddy has a warm way of engaging people. The best part of him is that he’s very charming and has a great sense of humor. Many times inappropriate, yes, but he makes me laugh almost every time I’m with him. Sometimes we do get on each others’ nerves, yes, but I know he loves me.

A few years back I lost two dear friends within months of each other, one was closer than a sister. Another longtime close friend had stopped speaking to me over something trivial, and I was in the middle of my divorce. Nothing was going well, really. My emotions were all over the place, me and my oldest daughters were at odds on top of that, and I was just kind of going through each day, not wanting to share everything I was experiencing because I didn’t want to burden anyone with my issues.

One day though, when I was absolutely overwhelmed, I saw my father at church, smiling and happy, walking from the sanctuary to the benches by the door. I still don’t know why, but for some reason I walked up to him and asked him how old he was when his friends started passing away. Yep, just out of the blue.

He smiled at me a little bit (he knows and understands my emotional states, mostly) chuckled and said “I don’t know, maybe when I was about 25, 26. Why?”

He walks with a cane and hadn’t had double knee replacement yet, so he moved a little slowly, I walked alongside him. “That’s young. I’m having a hard time in my 40s. How did you get through it? Weren’t you sad?”

“Yeah. I was.”

“What did you do?”

He kept walking, looking ahead of him. “Well…you can go there, but you don’t stay there.”

He made it to the benches and sat down. He looked at the space next to him on the bench and looked at me. I sat down.

“Go there but don’t stay,” I repeated.

“Yes.”

That was actually the best advice for me, simple as it was. I’m the kind of person who can’t gloss over emotions, I have to feel every one, analyze, sometimes express, and make sure I’m done before I can move on. Breakups, deaths, divorce, ended friendships, financial loss, job loss, lifestyle changes…each one had brought its own set of emotional and physical challenges. Someone told me early on that I didn’t need to allow myself to feel everything, that some things I should just “get over”. I agree that some things can just be “gotten over” but someone needs to share how to “get over”. I’ve found many ways to cope, to move forward, to “not stay there” through the years.

Since that day, that simple piece of advice I’ve kept in my heart. So when something bothers me, I go there, but I don’t stay there. Works for me.
My Grief Talks
By: My Grief Talks, Angela Romero
Tags: Death, Grief, Child Loss, Grief And Loss, Hope

When the screaming and crying stop for a second

My Grief Talks

Andrew and me— the beginning. Jan 1996

I am Angela, Mom, mommy, momma, mum. I am a mom of 2 boys. Andrew and Alec. My babies. My guys. My why. I’m also the youngest of 5 and the only girl which makes me my dad’s favorite daughter. My mother died in a car accident in Colombia, where we are from, in July of 1971. She was 38 years old. I was 3 and a half. That’s when my life with grief began. That’s when I started talking with me, myself and I. Silently yet: Loudly. Daily. Sanely. Insanely and always emotionally. My paternal grandmother moved in with us right after our mother died and stayed with us for the rest of her life. She even moved with us to the States in 1975 even though she had to leave everything she ever knew behind in Colombia. She became our rock. She saved my life with her blanket of love and compassion. She lived 98 magnificent years on this floating rock and died peacefully in my arms on December 12, 2007.

Why am I doing this now? Because my son was an unbelievable force on this earth and he made a fatal mistake one day because 22 year olds are still prone to acting impulsively. Andrew died from an accidental overdose of Fentanyl/Xanax/Alcohol combo and since his death I’ve met countless moms and dads and siblings and families who have lost their kids to the same thing and I’ve seen so many people fall apart completely and lose hope. When I lost Hope at the age of 3 and a half years my grandmother stepped in and let me cry and talk while she made me rice pudding or soft boiled eggs or pancakes or scrambled eggs. She wrapped me in her blanket of compassion and love and those things she did allowed hope to sneak back in. She brought a smile back to my face and softened my falls along the way. She was a giver. She raised me with a giving heart and I hope I can give to others a little bit of what she gave to me. I hope my gibberish will soften someone else’s fall.

Some say, “Hope anchors the soul” and I believe that. Hope is beautiful. My mother’s name is Esperanza. Esperanza is Hope in Spanish. The truth is: Hope never died. Hope lives eternally in the space we feel around us. Hope is always with us.
Freedom 55
By: Jennifer Hammersmark
Tags: Fentanyl, Social Issues, Mental Health, Retirement, Grief And Loss

I will be turning 55 at the end of this year, and it seems weird. Perhaps it is because I grew up in the generation that was fraught with those Freedom 55 commercials. Do you remember them? Where everyone looked happy and relaxed, enjoying their early retirement, because they had done such a good job of investing their money. Ya, right. Stupid commercials.

Well, here I am, almost 55 and no end in sight for retirement. Don’t get me wrong, 55 is super young these days given our extended lifespans. I honestly do not think we should be retiring at this age anyway. Not in the traditional sense of the term, that is. You know, the old “don’t work another day, play golf, join a bridge club, find a hobby…” That traditional meaning. Fifty-five is definitely too young for that type of retirement these days. I wrote a post called “Retire Retirement?” back in 2014 about this very issue. We are younger, healthier, and have more to contribute now at this age than at any time prior.

Photo by Marisa Howenstine on Unsplash

So why am I so unhappy that I can’t? I clearly remember a conversation with a client many years ago who was “fortunate” enough to take early retirement. He confided in me that it was the worst decision that he ever made. Cognitively, he had noticed his own decline over the years (he was about 72 when I was counselling him). He also shared with me that he was lonely, and that he missed the social aspect of working and connecting with his peers on a daily basis. If he could have a do-over, he would have kept working.

Photo by Sebastian Herrmann on Unsplash

Whether we should or shouldn’t aside, I apparently did not pay attention to those commercials and invest wisely either. I am self-employed, and a risk taker. I win some, and I lose some. I am also a world wanderer, investing in my education of other countries and cultures. Nope, no magic savings plan happened. Couple that with the very high cost of living just to live in a desirable part of the country, retirement is definitely not an option for me anyway. Maybe I am a little mad at myself for living in the moment, and not for the future? Perhaps that is part of my angst. I can’t really say that I have any regrets, though. My experiences have been truly amazing.
JavaScript — Console API. Console API is one of the most…
By: Vaibhav Tandon
Tags: Debugging, Console Api, JavaScript, Console

Console API is one of the most important tools used while debugging. It helps the developers or more appropriately prevent the developers from applying the alert() again and again.

Console API can be used for:-

Logging

Asserting

Clearing

Counting

Timing

Grouping

So let's start with the first one,

LOGGING

console.log() is the most common method that is used to log the values to the console.

const name = "JAVASCRIPT";

console.log("--> " + name + " <--"); // --> JAVASCRIPT <--

Instead of log() there are some other logging methods such as info() , warn() and error .

console.log("Hi...");

console.info("How");

console.warn("are");

console.error("you");

Outputs will somewhat look like this,

Output of the above code

Now, the stack trace can be triggered by using trace()

function hello(name = 'JAVASCRIPT') {

console.trace(name);

return `${name}! is a programming language`;

}

hello();

There are also console.dir() , console.dirxml() and console.debug()

console.dir()

const program = {

laptop: '💻',

mobile: '📱',

television: '📺'

} console.dir(program);

It is basically used for printing the object in a formatted way

Output for the above code

console.dirxml() is used to print the DOM elements.
From Rubik’s Cube to Genomino
By: Saul Bernal
Tags: Genomino, Debugging, Wwdc 2019, Rubiks Cube, Machine Learning

Rubik’s Cube, the famous 3-D combination puzzle, was invented in 1974. Navigating through the history of the Rubik’s Cube one finds that it is the world’s top-selling puzzle game and widely considered the world’s best selling toy according to Wikipedia sources.

No doubt the Rubik’s Cube was and still is a popular puzzle game worldwide. I was born in 1994 and I remember seeing the cubes on TV shows all the time and some of my friends owned them as well. Some friends inherited from their parents and others had just heard about it for the first time. I never really understood the mechanics of it until I tried solving one. After solving it for the first time, I had a moment of pride but I never sought to solve it again. It just became an item that I owned. Opposite from my experience, solving the Rubik’s Cube can become a competitive game for many and ‘speedcubers’ are found all around the globe.

Today’s kids have most likely experienced a Rubik’s Cube, but possibly not physically like previous generations. Instead, they can download a Rubik’s Cube app on their smartphone. Smartphones have changed how we entertain ourselves. Hardware is now practically required to have a software component to it.

Observing how kids and adults entertain themselves, interact with technology, and leverage all the uses of items of technology have been pillars in the foundations of Genomino.

Today, physical Rubik’s cubes are used as giveaway items. I was given this one at #WWDC2019 advertising Bugsee. In this case, I’m using the Rubik’s Cube to train my machine learning (ML) algorithm. It is recommended to use unknown items while using ML algorithms since it increases the accuracy of your project. The colors and shape of a Rubik’s cube make it our perfect unknown item.

While the Rubik’s Cube is considered a combination puzzle, the inventor of the cube has publicly expressed that he did not know he had created a puzzle. It wasn’t until he tried solving it that he realized the complexity of it. Genomino’s vision is to help us understand DNA at a deeper level so we can make better informed decisions in our daily lives. However, in the future how people will use it is still unknown.

Visit our Kickstarter today and become a backer! http://kck.st/2VL2kR2

Genomino is the first mixed reality genomics learning platform. Learning genetics and understanding yourself was never easier.