#I feel bad about the appointment but he just was acting lethargic again the last few days so I feel we should check it out...

[bonkalore]

Birthday is in 2 days and still don't really have plans but maybe I just need to chill. If anyone wants to draw anything this year just know that I would love anything with Jayce, even a scribble <3 😄 Or watch Daniel Spellbound on Netflix and tell me your thoughts!

We keep having a bunch of appointments around our bdays anyway so maybe for the best we didn't make plans… We gotta take Matteo to the vet on Zuka's bday and now I'm just hoping he's ok. 😓 There goes the bday money tho lol…

If anything, some positive thoughts for us and Matteo would be appreciated!

[emeraldwaves]

Title: With Blue Flames and Ice we Freeze For @villainmonth Day 1 - Monster Pairing:  DabiGeten Rating: T Word Count: 2,606 Read on Ao3 Summary:  

Living in Hell isn't Dabi's first choice, but after getting kicked out of Heaven, he's stuck. It's a pain in his ass, especially when his father forces him to undergo the Trials of Hell in order to prepare him to be the next King of Hell. Dabi isn't particularly interested in facing the various 'Sins', but this is his 'fate'. With Geten to guide him, Dabi suffers as they descend together into the depths of Hell.

Thank you to @amaisenshi and @ohmytheon for reading this over <3

Hell is shit.

It smells like shit. It looks like shit. The air even tastes like shit.

It's just shit.

He supposes it's nice being able to call it shit. Not being able to swear in Heaven sucked.

But the real reason Hell is shit is the demon standing in front of him. His father, the King of Hell, Todoroki Enji.

"Touya-"

"Dabi," he snaps. If he's going to be here, doing this whole 'demon thing', he might as well embrace it right?

Plus, he likes seeing the way his father's eye twitches when he corrects him like that.

"Touya," Enji snarls, his voice darker than the first time.

"What?" he answers, deciding not to argue with him any further. It's never worth it. For someone who's a prince, he doesn't have an awful lot of freedom.

'You'll love Hell,' his father had told him. 'As a prince, you'll be able to do whatever you want.'

What a big fat fucking joke that was.

There hadn't been one day down here that Enji hadn't bothered him. Dabi has lost track of how long he's been here, but he's seen Enji's face too many damn times so he's been here for far too long.

"Come with me to throne room," Enji demands.

Dabi rolls his eyes. He's comfortable in his bed, meaning he doesn't want to move, especially not for the sake of his father.

"Why?"

"Because I said so," Enji booms.

"Touchy," Dabi hums, swinging his legs over the bed, his turquoise eyes finally meeting his father's.

As per usual, flames cover the majority of his father's body. They lick at his face, covering his eyes, his forehead and upper lip. The demon probably thinks it looks intimidating and scary; something fitting for the devil, but Dabi thinks it’s dumb as shit.

Just like the rest of Hell.

He supposes it is fitting in a way.

"I don't know why you insist on acting like a child," Enji scoffs. "Perhaps I was wrong about you being ready." He mutters the last statement under his breath, as if he'll lure Dabi in and make him question what it is he said. The truth is, Dabi couldn't care less.

Enji stares at him expectantly.

"Alright, then I guess I'm not ready." He lays back down. Why not? Anything to make his father's flames flicker with rage.

"So you did hear me then."

"Yup," Dabi says, folding his hands behind his head as he stares at the cavern ceiling.

"Todoroki Touya," Enji snaps, the fire flaring up against his face and chest. "You will meet me in the throne room and you change out of this ridiculous get up. We have much to discuss. I will no longer tolerate your lazy behavior."

"Sure father," he hisses. Enji glares at him before he snaps his fingers, disappearing from the cavern.

Dabi sighs, running his hand down his face. On the list of things he doesn't want to do, talking more to his father is way at the top; above getting up, being active, living in Hell... etc.

But it's not like he can avoid the asshole forever. He’ll just snap his way back here if Dabi doesn’t show up.

Pushing himself out of bed, he stumbles towards his bathroom. He doesn't really think his get up is ridiculous, especially compared to his father... though he supposes the scars on his face are a bit... much.

But he likes to remind his father of what he did.

And maybe he likes to remind himself too. Every time he looks at his face, he hears his own screams, feels the flames of Hell searing into his angelic skin.

There's a small part of him that wonders what his father wants. It's not that he cares, but he wonders what Enji plans on bothering him with now.

He swallows, pulling in a long breath of air, letting the demonic horns curl over the top of his dark hair, a long demon tail curling around his body. He holds up his hand, letting blue flames cover the tips of his fingers. It burns, but it's a sensation he's used to. It's almost lethargic; painfully soothing. His eyes slowly drift to black, the turquoise of his irises covered in the demonic look his eyes now give off.

He looks like he belongs here.

He moves his fingers and extinguishes the flames, letting out a bored sigh. Hell wouldn't be so bad if his father would leave him alone.

"Morning, Touya!'

Another sigh slips from his lips, desperately trying to hold in his aggravation. "'Yumi," he mutters, turning to look at his twin sister. She's standing in the doorway of his cavern, looking far too happy for her own good. "It's not really morning. It can't ever be morning."

Fuyumi tilts her head, her bright white locks bouncing against her cheek. "Yeah, but... you just woke up!"

Again he wants to clarify they don't really sleep here, but he's not going to argue with his twin, especially not when she's coming to him all chipper. "Sure," he mutters, flicking his tail back and forth.

"You're looking especially demonic today," she hums.

"Boss' orders," he says, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"Dad? He asked you to look like your demon-self? Do you think I should too?" She glances down at herself. As always Fuyumi looks out of place for, well, "a demon" with her long pants and her way-too-hot-to-be-worn in Hell sweater.

He and Fuyumi always were opposites; two sides of the same coin. While he had been born with demonic energy, she had been born with pure angelic energy... which she gave up, to be with her family in Hell.

Dabi, on the other hand, wouldn't have given up Heaven for anything, especially not their horrible devil of a father. He had had no choice in the matter; Heaven spat him out so fast, he could barely remember what it looked like.

"No. He only asked to see me," Dabi snorts. "Besides you suck at controlling your demonic energy." He stands in front of her and notices the way her pale cheeks heat up.

"I-I don't! I could handle a little..." she mutters, glancing away. Since she doesn't try anything, Dabi assumes she hasn't actually gotten better at all. "Anyway," she says, clearing her throat as she follows him out of the cavern. He could use his powers to snap around Hell all he wants, but he doesn't mind taking the long elevator down to the throne room; anything to keep Enji waiting longer.

"Do you know why he called for you?"

Dabi clicks his tongue. "Does he ever tell me that sort of shit?"

"I guess not," Fuyumi sighs, looking down at the ground with such sadness in her eyes it almost makes Dabi feel bad. The problem is, Fuyumi is hell bent on getting them to be a happy demon family, and Dabi knows it's never going to happen; not with Enji as their father.

She had it so good in Heaven too; able to stay with their mother and Natsuo... but she had claimed she needed to be with her twin and so she willing gave up being an angel, something Dabi never would've done had the situation been reversed.

He supposes that's why he was born more demon than angel.

"I don't really care what this meeting is about," he says, pushing the button to the elevator waiting for it to rise up.

Fuyumi narrows her eyes. "Then why are you going?" She acts, for a moment, like Dabi has some kind of say in this matter.

"Well," he sighs, rolling his head back, his dark eyes looking more tired than before. "I don't exactly have a choice."

"Right," she whispers, and stays quiet for the rest of the elevator ride. He can tell she wants to speak to him, but he knows she's unsure of what to say. By now she knows she's not going to change Dabi's opinions on anything, especially not when it comes to their father.

When the old elevator clamors to the ground, halting at its destination, Dabi steps off, leading the way towards the main throne room. He hopes that whatever his father has to say, it'll be over quickly.

Stepping into the wide throne room, he stares at the flames which cover the large, stone chair. It stands tall, the flames making the chair look deceptively taller and Enji sits, basking in the heat.

The room is mostly empty, minus a few paths of lava which line the corner. It's hot in this room and though Dabi is supposed to be immune to the temperatures in Hell, he's feeling it... admittedly he's felt the fluctuating temperatures of Hell for the majority of his ‘life’. There's not much in this large room, but the throne is enough to prove how much power Enji has, with the swift movement of his hand he can adjust the size of the flames.

"You certainly took your time," Enji barks, pushing himself out of the chair.

"You told me to look the part. I had to get ready," Dabi shrugs, and he loves the vein twitching on Enji's brow.

"And you brought Fuyumi I see," he says, walking down the small steps to stand on the ground in front of them.

"She showed up," Dabi says.

"Good morning, Father!"

"Good morning, Fuyumi. Unfortunately, this is only important for your brother," Enji snaps, his eyes scanning Fuyumi up and down.

They all know she's not the strongest here, which means Enji prefers to pretend like she barely exists.

"It's alright-" she starts to say, but Enji cuts her off.

"The time has come Touya. I will be testing you to see if you are worthy to take over as the King of Hell once I am gone."

Dabi's eyes narrow, his glare burning towards his father. "Forget it. I'm leaving."

"This isn't an option, Touya. I've been training you for years to prepare you for these trials. You will face the appointed sins and they will be the ones to deem if you are worthy," Enji explained.

Sounds like a lot of effort.

"No thanks," Dabi snorts, folding his arms across his chest.

"Touya, this isn't something you can say no to. You are my eldest son and you possess the strongest demonic energy of all my children. It is your fate to eventually take over as the King of Hell."

"No," he snaps. "That's just what you want my fate to be."

Flames shoot out from the throne, Enji's temper flaring. "You do not have a choice. What do you not understand about that?" He steps forward, glaring down at Dabi. "You're holding on to a useless dream. You will never be an angel and you will never see that woman again. You must let it go and complete the trials to take my place."

"Dad..." Fuyumi whispers, reaching forward to take Dabi's hand. She's so kind; far too kind to be trapped in Hell for the rest of her afterlife.

He yanks his hand away from Fuyumi, flicking his demon tail back and forth. He feels the flames licking under his skin, the anger... the frustration. The thing that bothers him the most is when Enji is right.

He glances towards the throne and clenches his fists. Is this really to be his fate? Will he be trapped in Hell for eternity? A king... and a monster?

Unless...

Dabi has always loved pissing his father off. The idea of kicking him off his own throne does sound slightly appealing. As the King, he could do whatever he wanted with this ‘hell hole’ and Enji would have no say.

"Fine," he whispers. "I'll do your trials." If only to take Enji down, if only to replace him and maybe find a way to make this place slightly bearable. He lives to annoy his father.

"Glad to see you've come around," Enji says, making his way back up to the throne. Sitting down, he rests his chin on his hand. "I'll be introducing you to your guide."

Guide? Why the hell does he need a guide?

"Geten." Enji snaps his fingers.

Within an icy cloud, a woman appears. It shocks Dabi, how angelic she looks. Long white hair, flows down her back and her eyes are icy blue. She's wearing a thick parka, a bizarre clothing choice, given how hot it is in Hell. She doesn't look phased to be standing in the throne room, instead she looks bored.

"Geten, this is my son, Touya. You will be guiding him through the trials."

"Mmm." She makes a soft noise, holding her hand out. Her fingertips glisten with sparkling ice as she flicks her hand forward, creating a long path of ice right in front of Dabi. She takes a step and slides down it, moving directly in front of him, her nose inches away from his. Up close her skin seems to glisten with the ice she controls, her pale face smooth and lovely. She doesn't look anything like a demon.

She leans in towards him, her blue eyes narrowing. "This scrawny fucker? You're trying to make him the next king?"

Well, her mouth doesn't suit her appearance.

Dabi folds his arms behind his head. "Don't bother arguing with him. He's just going to tell you it's 'my fate'."

She snorts. "If you can actually make it through the trials."

Dabi shrugs. "It's not like I can die."

Enji sighs. "Touya, if you lose all your demonic energy, you will end up in Purgatory."

"Oh no," he says dryly. As if he would let that happen, and even if it did, he couldn't imagine it being any worse than Hell. It doesn't matter where he is, since he can never go back to the place he wants to be.

"Touya..." Enji growls.

"My first order as King will be to have everyone call me Dabi," he snaps. Anything to rid himself of the shitty name his father bestowed upon him.

"Aren't you pleasant?" Geten mutters, folding her arms, the ice melting around her feet. "Well let's get going. Time for you to face your doom."

"Is a guide supposed to be this pessimistic?" Dabi asks.

"We're demons. What do you expect?"

He glances her up and down, wondering if she actually is a demon. A woman who shimmers so brightly shouldn't be in the dark caverns of Hell... and why does she have strange ice powers.

"I wish you luck, Touya," Enji says, nodding as Geten begins to walk off, heading behind the throne towards the depths of Hell. Touya has never been down there, for obvious reasons. It's only meant for the King and higher-ranked demons; the Sins.

"Touya!" Fuyumi calls out before he can leave and she rushes to him, hugging him. "Please be safe."

He grunts, stumbling backwards a bit, but he knows she means well; the one person he can't push away. "Quit fuckin' worrying," he mutters, pulling back.

"I know. I just... be careful..."

He nods to her, purposefully not looking at his father as he walks by the throne, hands tucked into his pockets. He doesn't particularly want to do these trials, but if it means knocking his father down a bit, he supposes it'll be worth it.

Geten stands beyond the throne, ice dripping from her fingertips. She still looks bored, as if this is the worst burden placed on her. They share that in common.

Going deeper into Hell only reminds Dabi of what he thought all along:

Hell really is shit.

[planetsam]

prompt: could u pls pls write a fic where the bad men actually took el again (maybe when she visited the school or was with her sister) and mike finds out as well as hopper and they try to get her back. and maybe the ‘sessions’ are like 200x worse bc the bad men are mad she left in the first place

The car door slams behind her.

Papa makes a noise of disappointment but she’s too numb to hear it. She doesn’t even need the drugs because she can’t think straight. The gate is closed, she saved them. Now it’s time to come home. She can’t look at Hopper because if she does–if she does she’ll start to cry. And then they’ll come after him too. The guns on him are already terrifying. Capable of separating them.

“Kid–Kid!” She stares ahead, “look at me kid, I’m gonna get you out of there okay? Kid–Jane!” She keeps her eyes ahead, “Jane I’m coming after you, you hear me?!”

She wants to be relieved, but all she can think about is Mama and the shocks.

Hopper in a rocking chair.

She presses her eyes together, doesn’t see the needle they slip into her arm. Halfway happy, halfway happy. She chants it to herself over and over as the world slips. Halfway happy, maybe Mike will understand. Maybe he can be all the way happy too one day. Cruelly she adds Max’s name in there. Because maybe he can smile at her for real. This hurts worse than the last goodbye, she lied this time. She broke her promise. He’ll stop talking to her and Hopper and everyone will be safe.

She really is going home.

Hopper is besides himself. He thinks he sees her slump over and he doesn’t recognize the sound he makes. Just that he drives the men back, punches the other. Dares them to shoot him, practically begs for it. But they don’t. Because the world sucks like that. He turns to Doc Owens as they carry him out. About to remind him of his promise but he’s out like a cheap drunk and all Hopper can do is yell his fury at the sky. Then he has to drive over to the Byer’s house and fucking rip the Wheeler kids heart out. Which is just exactly how he wanted to wrap this up.

“Eleven?”

God it’s even worse up close. He knows that the Wheeler kid’s been acting out and that he’s called Eleven every day for the past year, but he didn’t realize how completely miserable he looked until that looks off his face. He gives a shake of his head and the kid stops dead, staring up at him like he doesn’t understand.

“It’s not her fault, she didn’t want to go–”

“Who took her?!” He demands.

“Oh my God,” he turns at the sight of Joyce, bruises on her neck and sweat staining her shirt. Something in his chest cracks and it’s the hospital all over again. Except he’s a far more broken man. “Jim.”

He unravels as she grabs him. How she’s so strong, he doesn’t know. He’s completely devastated. He never wants to move again. She catches his weight. It feels like the vines are around his throat again. Tight and tighter, like he can’t breathe. Someone’s making horrible sounds and he wants to push her to the Wheeler kid but all he can do is cling to her.

“I tried, I just wanted to keep her safe,” he gets out, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Will watches him on the couch.

It takes him three days to notice him.

When he does he swears lethargically, like he can’t put his back into it and throws a hand over his eyes. It’s disconcerting for a man whose been his mother’s bodyguard for the past year, showing up at every appointment and enforcing everything she says. Will doesn’t feel so bad about the past year when he realizes that Hopper’s been hiding a whole person for the entirety of it. But he still feels bad and he wants to help.

“What, kid?” He questions.

“Where were you hiding her?” He asks plainly and Hopper’s arm lifts slightly, “they already found her so–”

“Cabin, out in the woods.”

“That’s not very specific,” Will says. Hopper lets out a loud sigh, “never mind.”

He gets Jonathan to take him out there later.

Jonathan still looks at him like he’s going to disappear. Will feels that way too, so Jonathan is the best person to have there. Especially for what he’s attempting to do. There’s a lot of blanks in his head, like an empty space has been opened up. He tries to go to it, gingerly. Carefully. Jonathan follows him as he lets his feet lead the way, looking for anything. He can’t explain what catches him but something does, something tugs and he follows.

“Stay back,” Jonathan says and kicks in the locked door when they get to the Cabin.

Will knows they’re in the right place.

While Jonathan takes in the whole picture, Will narrows in on the few things that stick out. Girl things. Hoppers familiar enough to be recognizable so he goes for the oddities. He’s not sure what he’s after. He feel weird about being in a girl’s room, but not as weird as when he steps through the door into darkness. Panic rushes at him but he shoves it back, it’s quiet. Not like the other place. It’s still too. Like he’s standing on a lake. He steps forward, looking around. It doesn’t take long to come upon a slight figure, curled in a ball. For a moment he thinks it’s a boy, but maybe he can ask for directions. But it’s not, it’s a girl with a shaved head. He crouches down and her eyes snap open, like she can see him. She turns a swollen wrist over and he looks at the numbers on the discolored skin.

“Eleven?” He asks hopefully, “I’m Will!”

That’s all he gets out before he snaps back into the room. Jonathan is at the door and he’s in the cabin. He might not understand a lot but he’s getting pretty tired of going in and out of places he’s got no say in. He bends down and picks up the stuffed toy at his feet, shoving it into his backpack because he’s not that stupid. Jonathan picks up a sheet and holds it up.

“I think she wanted to be a ghost for Halloween,” he says, “that could’ve been great with you guys as ghostbusters.”

“Don’t say that to Mike,” he orders, shoving the sheet into his bag anyway.

The last thing he takes is a radio.

He’s not sure why.

If Steve Harrington’s parents are curious as to why he’s got a middle schooler in his car, they don’t say it.

“You should look at colleges,” Will tells him flatly. Steve shrugs, “how come you aren’t?”

“You sound like my mom,” Steve says pulling onto the interstate as Will tells him where to go, “why am I doing this again?”

“Because Jonathan knows where he wants to go and you’re a good excuse?”

Steve raises his eyebrow at him and Will shrugs. They drive in silence. Will wasn’t really there when Steve somehow adopted everyone. He’s got vague memories but they aren’t reliable. But when he tells Dustin about his plan Dustin calls Steve like that’s a normal thing to do. And Steve shows up. Sure he complains but he shows up and Will’s had a year and a lifetime too much of people saying things are cool and being very not cool.

The radio tower is big. But if Eleven need a signal maybe this will give her one. Steve waits with him for eight hours, until it goes dark. When their stomachs growl he’s got food and when Will finally realizes this is fruitless, he claps him on the shoulder.

“It was worth a shot,” he tells him and drives them back.

“You should be a teacher,” Will says when they get to his house. Steve looks at him, “maybe the bad stuff that happened wouldn’t have gotten so far if we’d had teachers like you,” Steve seems to consider this and Will presses on, “you can write about helping me with my project for your essay. Jonathan wrote about me for his, I need a ride next week again.”

“You’re a good kid, you know that? Weird but good,” Steve says.

“Yeah that’s because I got possessed,” Will says and hops out of the car.

“I can’t use that in my essay!” Steve yells after him.

Will laughs for the first time in months.

They get caught on their fourth outing.

By Mike.

He steps in front of the car when they’re pulling out, face twisted in anger and they stare at each other. Mike walks to the back of the car with measured steps, like he’s thinking about each one and maybe he is. He rips open the door and throws his bag in, dropping into the seat and crossing his arms. He doesn’t say a word but Will gives Steve a look that says they should probably drive. Steve nods back and throws the car into gear. Mike doesn’t say a word, not until they’ve been there for an hour.

“I can’t believe you’ve been trying to contact her and didn’t tell me!” He explodes and Will looks down, “why?!”

“I wanted to find her,” he says quietly.

“No you don’t!” Mike yells back, “no-one does, not really! I’m the one who called, I’m the one who didn’t replace her. I’m the one who lost her!”

Will squares his shoulders, surprised and not at how furious Mike is. How hurt he is. Mike’s taller than him too now but Will’s faced down a lot of things taller than him recently.

“I did everything for a year and you were just gone!” He yells and Will knows that it’s not just him he’s talking to, “you came back and then you left! You promised!”

“Okay, okay that’s–” Steve steps forward and Mike rounds on him.

“You’re not going to get back with my sister so just stop trying! She’s gone! She doesn’t love you, she left and that’s it!”

“Hey!” Will begins to protest.

If they’re going to get Eleven back this isn’t helping. He watches Mike’s features twist in anguish. It’s like seeing him again for the first time, seeing the past year. Mike’s been the one closest to knowing the full story, the one sleeping in hospital chairs and pulling him back. And he’s still radioed Eleven every night. Faithfully. Mike’s dug his heels in and carried things no one should have to, standing on the fringes and desperately trying to fight his way in.

The yelling continues as the blank space in his mind opens.

Will goes for it eagerly.

She looks worse, her skin is sallow and her eyes are dark. She’s thinner too. The buzz cut is even shorter. He walks over to her and kneels down. He can hear Mike and Steve yelling at each other but it’s like it’s underwater.

“Tell them I’m sorry,” Eleven whispers, “compromise.”

“No,” Will says and she looks surprised, “no compromise. We’re coming after you. We’re not going to stop. You didn’t stop for me.”

“Hurt,” she says, “like mama.”

“They hurt your mom?” He says. She looks down, “they hurt my mom too, but she didn’t give up on me. Moms don’t give up.” He sees the doubt in her face, “Dad’s aren’t supposed to either, or friends. Mike doesn’t give up on people ever.”

“Mike,” she says like it’s hope and Will seizes the opportunity.

“Mike needs you,” he says, “you have to hold on for Mike. Mike and–and Hopper. He came to every doctors appointment I had last year, he was there. He didn’t give up on me either. He won’t give up on you.”

“I’m stuck,” she confesses finally.

“Okay,” Will says, “do you know where you’re stuck?” She thinks for a moment. Then she seems to realize something. There’s a flash in his head of numbers, a street sign and then there’s something wet and sticky under his nose and he’s standing at the radio tower, “I need a pen,” he croaks, grabbing at the numbers. He turns to the two of them, “Shut up! I need a pen!”

“Language!” Steve yells and then hands him one, “here.”

Will looks at the numbers.

“Hang on.”

Several maps later, they’re looking at a back highway, not that far from their location. They have the choice of calling their parents, getting help or going for it themselves. One look at Mike’s face tells them that car is going one place only, it’s just a question of whose driving. Steve sighs for effect and they clamber in. Will catches Mike’s eye in the mirror.

“Sorry,” Mike says quietly.

“Me too,” Will says and nudges Steve.

“I didn’t do anything!” The older boy protests, “look I’m not–just because of what happened between me and Nancy that doesn’t mean I don’t care about her. Or I don’t care about you.”

Mike looks doubtful for a moment before giving the slightest nod.

“Thanks for taking us,” Will says and Steve sighs.

“Don’t thank me yet.”

The second the van turns onto the road, he knows. He doesn’t know how, but he does. He gets that same punch feeling he did all last year. The thing that kept him going back to the radio, looking over his shoulder a bit more, reaching out. Will is down there next to him, crouched behind the side of the car. Steve is looking like he’s psyching himself up and they both not encouragingly. He puts on his best pathetic face and flings himself out to wave the car down. It tries to swerve but Steve gets in the way, forces it to stop.

“Oh thank god,” he gasps, “my car, I need a jump,” the driver says something but Steve keeps going, “please there’s no-one here for miles. I just need a jump.”

Will pulls a face but Mike’s too focused as the car comes closer.

“See this is–” Steve begins as they move to the back of the car. The van door eases open to reveal multiple slumped over bodies. But he only has eyes for one. Will takes the balled up bag of clothes as he eases the limp body from beneath the blanket. Steve’s got it stuffed so that it vaguely resembles a human shape, he swears it works. They crouch on the far side of the car, El huddled between them still unconscious. Mike can’t look, if he looks he won’t see anyone else. Won’t care about anyone else. Steve shrieks when the car starts. “Thank you! You saved me!”

The man hurries back to the van, muttering about teenagers and drives off. They scramble into the car and Steve immediately starts driving, checking the rear view mirror as they go. But the van pulls off and Steve takes the nearest exit to get them back to the highway before he floors it. Will turns towards him. He squeezes his eyes shut, not having expected any of this to happen and then forces them open again.

It takes a lot not to be sick.

She looks like she stepped out of a picture of their history textbook. There’s no color on her face. Even her lips are pale. Her hair is gone too. He remembers her clutching the wig and anger surges through him at them taking something from her. Without the blanket she’s just in a hospital gown. There’s very little of her that’s not bruised or marked. Pens, suction cups, needles–overwhelmingly its needles. Her wrists and ankles are very bruised too. His fingers touch a mark on her neck. He looks up at Will desperately who immediately scrambles for the first aide kit and starts to wrap her ankles and her wrists with ace bandages.

“She’s breathing right? Pulse?”

“Yeah,” Will confirms, “she’s just unconscious,” he grabs a wet wipe, “here,” he says. Mike looks at it, “for her face.”

The blood would be alarming if it wasn’t old. What’s new is very little, like what he’s seen before. It’s like they’ve just let her work and not bothered to let her clean up. Some of its smeared, most of its just dried there. He carefully wipes her face, leaning over her anxiously and trying to will her to wake up. He starts with her eyes, then her nose, the her ears. All the while trying not to linger on the fact that this is more the girl they found in the woods than the one who stepped into the Byer’s house. There isn’t a lot that they can do first aide wise. Can they even take her to the hospital? Doctor Owens? Mike’s head flies up as they pull up outside the Byer’s house.

“Stay here,” Steve orders all of them and runs inside. A moment later he comes out with Mrs. Byers, they floor the gas and are off.

“You did so good boys,” she says to both of them before turning to Eleven, “Sweetheart can you hear me?” She calls, but gets no response either. She smiles up at Mike but he just tightens his hold on her.

They get to a different nondescript building. He hasn’t been so relieved to see Doc Owens since Will started screaming. But something instinctual has him holding Eleven tighter, not wanting them to go. Will grabs his hand.

“They’ll help her,” he says.

“I’ll stay with her the whole time,” Mrs. Byers promises. His fingers go white knuckled as they pull her to the stretcher, “you boys stay with Steve!” She orders, running after them.

Steve grabs his other hand and pulls them inside.

He hates hospitals so much. Especially shady hospitals that aren’t really hospitals. Every move has him jumping up. Hopper shows up and blazes past them. Nancy and Jonathan do too. He won’t let go of Will or Steve. Jonathan sits on Will’s other side and Nancy kneels in front of him, putting a hand on his knee. Hopper staggers out and Mike throws them all away, jumping up, his heart pounding in his chest. Hopper comes over to the three of them.

“She’s drugged,” he rasps, “doesn’t recognize us. They think–they think they used us against her.”

Steve stares as everyone looks at him.

“Don’t look at me, I don’t even know her!”

In hindsight it’s the wrong thing to say, which is how he winds up slipping into the operating room. It’s not a pretty sight. Things are flung everywhere, tables overturned and instruments scattered. Steve tries not to think too much on the scalpels embedded in the wall. He can’t see her, but the overturned table in the corner gives him an idea of where she is, especially with the surgical drape on top of it.

“Hi, El,” he starts, “I’m Steve,” it sounds stupid even to him, “I know Nancy,” he says, “I took her to the Snowball, a few years ago, she was wearing that pink dress Mike gave you. I think Jonathan was there too, Will’s brother, I don’t think he was allowed to have his ‘I hate parties’ phase yet,” he moves towards the table, waits for a sign this is not ok, “Mike–” there’s a crack on the wall, “okay, okay, uh, I liked what you did with your hair,” he says, changing tactics, “I’m more of a high volume kind of guy but the slicked back thing worked too. How’d you like being a blonde?”

He’s made it to the table and he’s not sure if that’s good or bad. His mouth is dry as he crouches down, coming to the side that might be the front. He expects not to open the curtain but he lifts it without trouble. Looking inside at the girl who is the smallest thing he’s ever seen even though she can trash an entire hospital room by herself. And close inter dimensional gates. She’s in a ball, her head hidden in her folded arms, knees drawn up tight. He knows what he has to do and climbs into the fort with her, even though it feels like it’s a death sentence. He mirrors her posture. When she lifts her head there’s a lot of blood and her eyes look horrifying. Pupils wide and struggling to focus. She’s high out of her mind and he can’t believe someone would dope a kid like that.

“They took my hair,” she whispers tugging at her scalp, “no hair,” her face screws up, “no clothes, no Mike, no Snowball–”

“Hey, hey, okay,” he says, before the table can tremble more, “we’ve all had bad haircuts, is your hair curly?” She nods, “that’s gonna be rough but we can deal,” he fumbles in his pockets, “here,” he says handing her his sunglasses, “and, uh, here,” he rips off his jacket and holds it out to her, “clothes taken care of. You didn’t miss the Snowball,” he says and her head flies up, “but you can’t go if we’re in here. And Mike–he’s waiting out there,” he says. Hope flies into her eyes and he swears if he gets another chance he’s going at those guys with his bat, “but you gotta let the doctors look at you. So you can put the jacket on like this,” he says draping it over her shoulders, “and the doctors can still look at you.”

“Compromise,” she says.

“Compromise on the jacket,” he agrees, putting the glasses on her, “keep those on, the light’ll hurt otherwise.”

He stands up and she nudges the table out. His eyes widen as blood leaks out of her nose.

“Woah whoa stop,” he says quickly, “here, come on.”

Before he can overthink it he’s lifting her up and carrying her over the edge of the table. It’s hard to say whose more stunned at the action but he looks around for somewhere to set her down. One of the doctors opens the door. They both look and then look at each other.

“You’ve lost enough blood just hold on, there’s glass down here,” he says and carries her out. The hallway is empty, thankfully, except for the lone doctor. He sets her down gingerly, a hand lingering on her back. She winces at the cold floor and takes an unsteady step forward, “be–”

Mike’s there.

He catches her before she topples, steadying her carefully. She cringes like she’s worried for a moment, like he’s an illusion or angry at her. For all the anger he’s shown, he doesn’t pull back. He keeps his hand on her and makes sure she’s not about to fall. There’s a kind of selflessness in that you can’t fake. Not well anyway. Her lips tremble and her head dips. Even with the sunglasses he can tell she’s about to cry.

“Mike, sorry,” she chokes out, her fingers fumbling on his sweater, “sorry–”

Mike pulls her to him and she finally seems to break apart, wailing into his chest. Mike holds her closer, his hands finding the places that will hurt the least but somehow knowing what to do. She latches onto him like he’s the only real thing in the world, sobbing like her heart is breaking. He and the doctor look at each other before she slips around the corner to signal the other people to wait. The two of them wind up on the floor, Eleven still holding him. Still weeping. And Mike, Mike just lets her. Puts all his own stuff aside and puts her first. Eventually her sobs quiet and she’s just leaning against him, tremors racing along her body as she hiccups.

“Come on,” Mike says quietly and gets to his feet with her, “the doctors are gonna help you.”

She gives a little nod and they make their way to the exam room. Steve stays with them as the doctor does a few checks. Eleven closes her eyes when they start the IV and buries her face in Mike’s shoulder. They let her leave the jacket and sunglasses as they settle her into the bed. Mike sits in the chair next to it and the hold each other’s hands in a practiced gesture.

“Snowball?”

Mike looks at her and his face cracks into a wide grin, even with tears in his eyes.

“Yeah, we can go to the Snowball,” he promises, “it’s in a few weeks, do you think you’ll be ready?” She gives the slightest nod, “I didn’t go last year,” he blurts out, “I said I was sick.”

“You told me,” she whispers.

“Yeah,” Mike says. One of his hands comes free and hesitates only a second before it combs over the back of her head. Eleven burrows into the pillow, tension draining from her, “still pretty,” Mike whispers.

“Bitchin,” Eleven says hoarsely.

“Bitchin,” Mike agrees.

[benandmollycohen]

It's finally time. Time to tell everyone what's been going on in our lives over the past year. It's not that we've been hiding it; we've just been at a loss for words. Just when we thought we understood what was going on, things would change and again we'd be left with even more unanswerable questions. But we've finally reached the end of one road, and we've got a "plan" to get us on a new road. I say "plan" lightly because nothing is promised. Since January 2016, Ben has been hospitalized for 52 days (10 days in 2016 and 42 days in 2017 thus far), and has had 46+ hospital visits for cardioversions (shocking his heart back into normal rhythm) and other appointments/check-ins. The conclusion? Ben has been diagnosed with severely dilated idopathic cardiomyopathy. What the heck does this mean? Basically, Ben's heart is failing and no medication can fix it. The solution? A heart transplant.

I feel weight coming off my shoulders as we are finally able to have a "solution" and to share it with everyone. My husband, Ben Cohen, needs a heart transplant. We've known this was coming. This was briefly discussed last January. We figured that by the time he actually needed a transplant, science would have progressed and an amazing artificial heart would be developed and he could just get one of those! But our lives have been turned upside down since May when Ben was hospitalized for 24 days and a heart transplant became our immediate future.

How did all of this happen? Ben is a young, healthy guy! Well, truth be told, the doctors aren't even sure. Ben has been a confusing case for the doctors. Since Ben was 19, he has had heart issues that seem to run in his family. Those issues have been medicinally managed until about a year ago. Ben's heart started changing and having more and more problems, and medications just weren't working. For so long, Ben has been "tired", "short of breath", and overweight. Now we know that Ben's sudden weight gain and shortness of breath were huge indicators of his failing heart. From January 2017-July 2017, the doctors took off over 35 pounds of water weight. When your heart is failing, it overcompensates causing water to retain in your body. Doctors kept checking his ankles and his wrists where most water weight gain is evident. But, for Ben, he stored most of the water weight in his belly. So, when doctors checked Ben's ankles and wrists, they didn't appear swollen so the doctors couldn't tell at that point just how badly his heart was failing. The doctors continued checking Ben based on his current heart condition and trying to treat it until May 2017.

Ben was away for the weekend at his best friend’s bachelor party. Ben had been really sick on and off since January, so he knew better than to drink alcohol. He was increasingly short of breath the second night up in Maine and was texting me saying he didn't feel right. Thank God Will’s dad was there and was also sober because he drove Ben from Sebago Lake, Maine, to the hospital in Boston, MA at midnight. Ben was admitted to the hospital and began his longest stay yet. Countless blood draws, EKG's, and other tests were done yet no answers were surfacing. They concluded that Ben's heart was in bad shape and decided it was time to implant a double lead defibrillator into his heart. One lead would act as a pacemaker to keep his heart steady if it falls below a certain BMP (beats per minute). The other lead would shock his heart if he goes into a dangerous rhythm. Ben's heart was so bad that he was at an extremely high risk of a heart attack. After 12 days, the doctors finally released Ben, but none of us felt good about it. We wanted him out of the hospital, but we all knew something wasn't right. They changed his medications up a bit, got him "stable" and sent him on his way.

Ben returned to work that Monday. On Tuesday I begged to take him back to the ER. He declined saying that he just needed more time to get used to walking around again rather than laying in a hospital for twelve days. I didn’t believe him for a second knowing he just didn't want to be stuck in the hospital again (rightfully so). Ben was only able to work about half that week and finally Saturday came. Ben was hardly able to get himself off the couch, and that's when he said to me, "Molly, I'm ready to go in". I knew there was a huge problem when he finally admitted he was ready to go back to the hospital. I grabbed the diaper bag, our two boys and we were out the door.

When we reached the hospital, I dropped Ben off at the front door so I could park and wrangle the boys inside. I was later told that about 20 doctors and nurses surrounded Ben hooking him up to an EKG, blood pressure cuff, and using other instruments to get a good picture as to what was going on with him. By the time I got the boys inside and they allowed us to go back and see Ben, the doctors and nurses were gone. Ben was sitting there super lethargic and just looking like a ghost. The heart monitor he was connected to started beeping and a nurse promptly came in. All of a sudden, his room was filled with doctors, nurses, and equipment and the next thing I knew, the boys and I were being shoved out of the way to make room for more nurses, doctors, and equipment. They began inverting his bed so his feet were higher than his head in order to "save his heart and brain". Wait, what?! What is happening?! I've always kept my faith and confidence in the doctors and believed they knew what they were doing and that they were going to keep my husband, my children's father, safe. But at that moment, I was terrified. I literally hid behind the double stroller and cried. I cried as fast I could while my boys weren't looking. I cried in fear for my husband. I cried in fear for my boys, especially for Jackson. He's only 4 years old. He shouldn't be watching this right now! I quickly pulled myself together knowing I needed to lock it up and stay strong for my boys and assure them that Daddy was going to be okay. I needed to stay strong for my husband so he could focus on himself and getting better and not on me or the boys. I had to get the boys out of there. I didn't want Jackson seeing anymore. I didn't want him seeing his "Honey" this way. Luckily, the doctors worked quickly, and by the time I realized we needed to leave, the doctors had cleared out. Jackson was able to say good night to his Honey and end on a "good" note.

I felt so numb and so very alone. What the heck was going on and how can I help? I can't raise these two boys on my own. They need their father! Ben was admitted into the CCU. It's the ICU but for cardiac patients. And there he stayed for another 12 days. In that time, the doctors had no answers as to why this was happening. At first they thought this was just the normal progression of his heart disease, only later explaining to us that this has all been caused by a virus. A virus that attacked his heart. A virus that could have attacked my heart or your heart in the very same manner. A virus that has completely messed up my husband’s heart past the point of return.

Before Ben was released from the hospital, they put in a PICC line. A PICC line is a long-term IV port. This port was in his right arm with a tube going into his heart directly administering medication. Ben’s PICC line delivers medication 24 hours a day. Every other day, Ben has to glove up and change his medication bag. The whole process takes about 5 minutes and can now be done independently. (Update* Ben’s PICC line in his arm got infected July 3, 2017. Due to his defibrillator implantation, they could not move his PICC line to his left arm, so they had to put it into his chest. Luckily, Ben likes it better there!) Ben’s PICC line runs off a small portable pump that he carries with him at all times. In a fanny pack. (If someone could help bring fanny pack’s back in style, that’d be great! This new medication through the PICC line has made Ben feel better than he has felt in over a year!) At the end of the last 12 day admission, we were told he would need a heart transplant. Ben's heart was so bad that they expedited his case and did all the crazy amounts of testing to get him listed for a transplant. As of June 12, 2017, Ben has been listed for a heart transplant. 

Ben was released from the hospital May 31. The following day, I was nursing Colton and remembered I had a whole bunch of frozen breast milk that I needed to donate before it expired. (I promise there's a point to this.) Colton was asleep but still nursing and for the first time in a long time, life went back to "normal". My husband was home and feeling "well". The baby was asleep in my arms, and we weren't sitting in the hospital listening to monitors beeping and having constant nurses poking their heads in causing the baby to wake up. The baby was finally able to have some peace and quiet, and I wasn't about to interrupt that. Nursing him seemed to be the only constant in my life; everything else seemed to be swirling around in a tornado. I was going to donate it all to a breast milk bank, but once I found out that the receiving families had to pay for it, I dropped out. I asked on my town's Facebook page to see if anyone locally was in need of my milk. Amazingly, many people responded with the same message, "Ali could use your milk! She just had a baby via surrogate and is unable to induce lactation due to her toxic heart transplant medications!” 

My jaw hit the floor, and I got goosebumps so bad that I shivered causing the baby to wake up. I was able to get Colton back to sleep and in his crib. I needed both my hands to anxiously find this "Ali". What are the chances that someone close to me has already had a heart transplant and needs my milk?! And someone young at that! Side note: one of the reasons I felt so alone is that on the cardiac floors in hospitals, we are surrounded by older people. Like way older than us. It was really hard to relate to them. For a couple of years now, Ben has been receiving notices to get his AARP card... c'mon, really? End rant. Anyway, to hear that there was another YOUNG person who already experienced our nightmares... I HAVE to find her! She reached out to me saying she heard I had milk that I was looking to donate. I told her, "I will give you all the milk that I have in trade for you to sit down with my husband and me and talk to us about your experience because my husband needs a heart transplant, too.

Ali agreed to meet us just a few days later. As it turns out, she lives a few blocks away from my mother-in-law.  We were truly meant to meet each other, and oh, how amazing it has been. Ali spoke with us for two hours. Ali got a heart transplant in June 2014. She lived in Boston at the time she found out she needed one. Her father, who worked in the medical field, did research and found an outstanding doctor in Tampa, Florida. Long story short, Ali was able to move to Florida for her transplant. From the day she moved there to the day she received her gift, was 19 DAYS. In Boston the average wait time is 3+ years with the last year+ being hospitalized. Let that sink in for a minute. We did. And so we jumped right in making a million and one phone calls trying to get a meeting with the doctor in Florida.  Ali is beyond incredible and such an inspiration. She gave us names and numbers of doctors, nurses, coordinators, apartments, nanny’s, pediatricians, and more. Ali even wrote her own book about her journey. (A link to Ali’s book will be available on this blog. Support your local author!) 

I can’t even begin to describe the headaches we worked through in order to make it happen. But we did it. We got Ben a 3 day appointment with Ali’s doctor in Florida. At the end of the three days, the doctor we came to meet and the entire team had a meeting about Ben and whether or not they were going to accept Ben and get him listed for a transplant in Florida. We finally received their call on August 10, 2017. They have decided to accept Ben as a patient and get him listed for a transplant at Tampa General Hospital! 

I didn’t expect this first post to be so long. But, once I got going, I just had to get everything out. Thank you to all who have made it through this post! My plan is to do a weekly blog entry to keep you updated on Ben and the rest of us. We’d love to hear from you! We enjoy hearing your questions and love answering them! We will put a FAQ’s page up once the questions start coming in. We hope you sign up to receive our weekly updates and please take a look around this blog! 

I’m finally bringing this post to a close. I’ll leave letting you know the last details we have. We signed a lease for a beautiful apartment 15 minutes away from Tampa General Hospital. We have a move in date of September 14, 2017. We are in the process of packing up our house and finding movers. Look out Florida because here we come!  

[themigrationofbirds]

I remember my last Chicago apartment on the corner of Southport, the year “Till the Sun Turns Black”, Ray LaMontagne’s follow up to 2004’s brilliant “Trouble” came out. It was a strange and trying period for me.  A time of un-layering, remembering, and release.  And there was this little song called “Empty”, second item on the new record, that felt almost personal to me. Soon, Saturday afternoons meant that track two tripped on repeat in the front room of my Lincoln Park apartment with the soft light, reverberating.

The song had a haunting, misty quality with lyrics to match.  Sad, sexy, thought-provoking, and right up my ally. I read somewhere recently that when you are happy you hear music and when you are searching you hear lyrics. I think I’ve been missing the beat my entire life….  

These lyrics in particular reached out at me, cupped me in resonance. My mind easily carried me through the same garden rows the girl with bare feet ran across.  “Will I always feel this way, so empty, so estranged,” LaMontagne’s voice refrained. Whispery, deep, furtive. I was in the cornfield.  I had on the thin skirt.  And I understood all too well the emptiness and separation.

Sometimes a song’s melody, story, verse, and mood completely mirror your soul, and this one stared back at me with resigned grace. Every time I think of that apartment, I remember the front office I painted a balmy orange, the night I had a lucid dream, and the song “Empty”.

Now, years later, I feel less barren.  Actually, on a recent trip back to Chicago I walked the familiar streets with a distinct degree of distance from the girl who had previously resided there.  I felt warmth, compassion, and tenderness toward her. But was also aware that she had slipped ghost like into the patchy cracks of my past and another girl had grown up strong around her. I had taken her lessons and pasted them to my heart, eaten her pain to make me stronger, and wrestled her anxiety into a neat, manageable pile.

And on these sturdier, facile limbs I have found a family, a fiancé, and a richer, softer heart.  But still, at the end of this arm, there is a bucket that can nevertheless feel empty.

I have heard other writers describe this emptiness as a God-sized hole, which is beautiful and apt. (Meaning that only God, or however you describe Universal Love, can fill it). It’s as if we are all sent to this earth-school with a vacancy mysterious and grand. A space we are confused, hopeful, curious and refiled about.

So what do we do with it? Habitually, we look outside of ourselves to fill this emptiness.  Sad? We want the person who hurt us to say the right things, validate our pain, and admit they were wrong.  But this is is a passive and plodding way to heal.  Feeling hollow?  We ask TV, pizza, wine, the internet, ice cream, shopping, sex, attention, ANYTHING to make us forget for awhile. Feeling insufficient? Let’s tear the people apart who make us feel inferior.  But what we do to others we ultimately do to ourselves. Then there are the people so terrified of the emptiness they steadfastly refuse to look its way. They “fill” their lives with appointments, errands, tasks, parties, work and any other busyness they can get their hands on. These people never know who they truly are or what they sincerely desire, so they never get it.

So why do so many of us keep ourselves a vulnerable conversation, an act of forgiveness, or ten pounds away from wholeness?  Why do I shove (delicious) Valentine's Day chocolates down my throat with my wine when I'm truly not even hungry? WHAT AM I STARVED FOR? (I am not suggesting we NEED to lose 10 pounds, but that often times we have goals that are quite within our reach that would make us prouder, happier and more confident, but we make the CHOICE not to reach them). Nearly all of us can open our mouths to start the conversation that’s been trapped in our throat.  And the dark cloak of unforgiving that has been bogging us down can be thrown off in seconds.  The choice whether to have a chocolate donut (thank you, Oakmont Bakery) for breakfast or something better for my body is entirely up to me.  Why is that choice entirely up to me? Because we have all been given the extravagant gift of free will.

Recently I found myself feeling anxious and guilty over a situation I felt I had failed someone in.  For nearly a month, this worry swirled in my mind and my body felt the ache.  I awoke tired and lethargic.  Stagnant. I knew I would have to confront the issue, but as a classic avoid-ant, I pushed this day further away time after time.  One Saturday night a few weeks ago I had to pick my mom up at the airport from a late flight.  Finding myself forced to stay awake well past my ideal bedtime (8:30 anyone??), I decided to drive to a local coffee shop and sit down and journal, a practice I had not  attended to in quite some time.  On the drive there, I thought of something that I often use with clients when they are stuck in their head and getting nowhere…. I start by telling them that the heart’s electromagnetic field is the strongest rhythmic field produced by the human body.  (Sixty times greater than that of the brain!)  Yet, it is so much more common for us to get marooned in our head vying for an answer to a problem than turning to the powerful intelligence held in our hearts.

When I parked outside the empty coffee shop, I became the client.   I closed my eyes, breathed in deep, and put my hand over my heart.  I felt its intelligence, its beat, its calm grace.  And then I simply asked my heart (instead of my brain) for insight into the situation I was struggling with.  

My heart’s answer made me cry.  

My heart spoke to me with such compassion and understanding.  And I don’t know why I wasn’t expecting this from something called a HEART, but I wasn’t.  My heart told me it was okay.  It validated the feelings I was having and succinctly said there was no reason to feel guilty for them. That considering the situation, they were just normal feelings that many people have.  A whole wave of pressure exited my body, my shoulders, my neck.  I wasn’t a horrible person? I was OKAY??  Even understood?? About a week later I stopped by and spoke to the person.  And the situation turned out fine. Maybe even perfect…

And I started to wonder if all the lower emotions, including emptiness, are simply appeals...

What if the emptiness is there for a reason?  What if it is simply a call, a proposition, an extended hand — to accepting ourselves AS WE ARE. An invitation to jump-step out of our minds and enter a warmer space. To use our free will to sit back and eat delicate puffs of self love and diamond shaped tarts of compassion for all the parts of us.  The guilty parts, the loving parts, the envious parts, the lazy parts, the strong parts, the petty parts, the funny parts, the hidden parts and every part in between?  If we filled ourselves up with acceptance and forgiveness and gentleness for all we are — would there be as much room for the ghost of emptiness?

The emptiness is not inherently “bad”. As an artist (yes, that is what I am yet I resist it due to fear of judgement and failure), I have a relationship to the emptiness.  Ray LaMontagne’s song called “Empty” doesn’t depress me, it presses me.  It cradles me in its waves of words and melting melodies like a mother would her child.  With love.  With kindness.  With UNDERSTANDING.  Ray Lamontagne was working 65 hours a week in a shoe factory in Maine when one morning his 4am alarm awoke him to a song by Stephen Stills, “Treetop Flyer”.  That week, he bought the Stephen Stills album, quit his job at the factory, and decided to become a singer-song writer.  His daring leap straight at the beckoning.

We are not empty.  We are, by definition, immensely full.  Yet habitually we go to the wrong magnetic field to affirm this. We like to try to “figure things out” and control outcomes rather than sitting back and just allowing life to be.  Do you have any idea what you could accomplish JUST BY ALLOWING LIFE TO BE LIFE?

Perhaps this is the act of praying now. Throwing it all on the line each morning with no edits on my heart.  No fear of who might read this or who might NOT.  It is truly the only way I know to soothe the emptiness completely.  For me, words are the path to simplicity.  They may thrust out of me like swords. They may contain wounded, darker corners.  But when they tumble forth from me, they are gone.  When they bounce across eternity they take with them what created them. Our pain is meant to bend us, teach us, fold us.  And then we are to go outside and let it go.  Words are the way I take things and make them bright again.  I dive straight into the emptiness and burst to the surface more alive. They are the way out  AND they are the way IN.

Because I don't want anyone covering up my hole. It is MINE.  The Universe gave it to me nice and empty and sent me here.  Fill it up, girl! Fill it up.  God trusted me, and in a dramatic turn of events, I started to trust him, too.  To follow his gentle voice, his whisper, into the woods of my soul.  Climbing bare trees with weak hands but strong legs that have never failed me. The bare trees are my trees.  And when the Spring comes with the birds and the buds, those full and singing trees, those are God’s trees.  And my trees mix with his trees because they both need each other to become their most daring, full expressions.  I need to be stripped bare (empty) in order to be filled.

And when Ray LaMontagne’s soulful voice skips across the room, it catches a place in me that’s old and new all at once.  Part of me has succumbed like he has yielded - lain down in the field, given my heart up.  But we have both made something soft and useful out of our pain.

And that is how it will unfold at 2619 N. Southport. The apartment with the warm light and the front room I painted a balmy orange. The year I had a lucid dream. It’s a Saturday afternoon in Spring and I have nowhere I have to go. Or anything I have to do.  Or anyone I have to be. So I will lay on this bed with the green and white gingham comforter. In the jut of sunshine piercing through the blinds. With coffee churning in the kitchen just outside the door. And joyfully, unapologetically and deeply allow “Empty” to fill me…….

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0XXzg1-lOOY

[cornbyte]

It all happened within 24 hours. I got home from work around 7pm, usual for Tuesdays. I had had such a bad day at work, nothing really that bad happened, but I was cooped up in a room all day with just my thoughts and I had been so hard on myself. I just felt like getting home and snuggling with Jasper and crying. But I got home and started getting Jasper ready to go for a walk, and he was SO excited to see me that he was bouncing around and was literally bounding down the hallway, turning around to make sure I was close by and then bounding at me. He was being so goofy that I thought to myself, “Aw man, he makes me feel so much better. None of that matters.” Our walk was so great, we went on his favorite route and he saw three of his friends: The old man that loves him (Jasper is a little suspicious of him but accepts the pats), the angry chihuahua (that he loves pestering) and Mr. Corgi (who he also loves to pester). It was very exciting. All of the plum trees were blossoming and they smelled so good that I kept grabbing some and smelling them and he wanted to see what they were, so I showed him some and he gave it a good sniff then decided he didn’t care because he couldn’t eat it. So I set the flowers on his head, and one stayed on there for awhile. We went back to my apartment where an hour later I started getting sad again, so I laid on his dog bed and was hugging him and being sad while he rolled around on me and nuzzled me. It was making me feel so much better, and then I thought, “what the hell am I going to do when he dies?” And I started crying. 

No more than two hours later, I started getting ready to pick up Andrew from work. He was acting sad, like something was wrong, and I thought it was because he thought I was leaving and not coming back (I’d just recently come back from a 1 day trip to see my mom). I texted Andrew that something was wrong with Jasper, but I just thought that he was sad. I picked up Andrew from work and we went straight back to my apartment to take him out for a walk. He wouldn’t get up even when I picked up his leash, and he gave me that sad look again and I knew something was wrong. I offered him his favorite treat to see if he’d get up and he wouldn’t even take it. I was thinking, maybe he was blocked up? He did just get into the garbage yesterday and didn’t poop much on his walk earlier today? So we eventually lifted him up, and he hobbled over to the stairs and refused to go down them. I carried him down and we took him outside, and he just laid down and looked at me, like he was trying to tell me something was wrong. So Andrew carried him back inside and we laid him on my bed while we called the emergency vet at WSU (it was close to 12am at this point). They told me to bring him in, so we did immediately. It was a long car ride, because he was deteriorating fast (drooling, shaking, looking completely bewildered). We finally got there and they rushed him to the back, and that was when I could really tell how much pain he was in. 

It was a long night of sitting in the waiting room. The vet came out and told us that he had fluid in his abdomen. Then we waited some more. She came back out with three tubes filled with blood, and said it was bad. That’s when I started crying. We waited some more. She came back out to tell me that he had a bleeding mass, most likely on his spleen. She gave me about a million different ways that it could play through, from best case scenario, the bleeding would resolve itself, and worst case scenario being that it’s a cancerous mass and he has 6 months to live. It was so overwhelming. But it was clear that he probably needed surgery to stop the bleeding, but they needed more imaging done so that they knew what they were dealing with and to also keep him overnight. She gave me a quote of $5000-6000 for the surgery, which I needed to pay upfront as a deposit in the morning. The plan was that they’d keep him overnight and do surgery in the morning, after the imaging. We were able to go see him in the ICU before we left, and he was doing a lot better after getting IV fluids. He came out of his cage and we hugged him a lot, and then he went back into his cage on his own and plopped down and was acting generally happy and okay with his sleepover situation. The vet was optimistic that fluids helped so much. But was still bleeding, and the 6 months to live prognosis was repeated.

So then we had to go home without him. We were barely out of the parking lot when he broke down. I put my car in park at a stop sign and we held each other and cried. Neither of us really slept at all that night, I kept waking up thinking I heard my phone ring. Morning came around and I got ahold of my parents, and they said they’d help me with the deposit. The WSU vet tech called me at 7am, saying he made it through the night but needed the deposit because he needed surgery. We got it figured out and they started on imaging on abdomen (to see how big the bleeding mass was and if they could remove it with a splenectomy, and to also see if his liver was affected) and cardiac imaging (to see if it was affected as well before they proceeded with surgery). Then it was just waiting. Andrew and I just sat on my bed and waited. It was around noon I think when the vet called back.

He said that Jasper had masses on his spleen and throughout his liver, and they took a biopsy and had it tested. He was diagnosed with hepatic hemangiosarcoma in his spleen and liver, an aggressive and fast spreading cancer. They gave me the option to do the surgery and remove his spleen and portions of his liver to stop the bleeding, and afterwards chemotherapy. With this they couldn’t even guarantee that the bleeding could be stopped, but if it could he would have only 3 months to live. The other option was to just do chemotherapy, with no guarantee how long he would live, what response he would have, or if the bleeding would stop. The last option was exploratory surgery and then reassess. 

I called my mom and talked to Andrew, and decided that the best option was to bring him home and do an in-home euthanasia. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I knew that he was already such a sensitive boy, and recovering from surgery would have taken many painful months and that doing that to him would just be cruel and selfish. I could barely wrap my head around it, because how could this be happening? He’s so active and happy. In January, we saw the vet to test one of his new fatty lumps (he had a lot, and they were always fatty tumors but I had every single one checked). He also had a cough and we did chest xrays and blood work, and the vet gave him a clean bill of health because he was completely healthy (except for his weight and that his teeth needed cleaned again). It was literally 4 months ago. It was literally the night before he had been romping around down the hallway and letting me put flowers on his head.

So I called my vet and made the appointment for 5:30 pm. We went and got him at 2pm, but the wait took forever. I just wanted to be with him again because we only had hours left. When we finally got him, he was so lethargic and confused and just collapsed on my lap. The team that worked on him said goodbye to him and gave me the blanket he’d been using and reassured me that I was making the right decision. He had to be carried to my car and I sat in the back with him on the way back and held his head. I couldn’t believe that it was happening

We finally laid him down in his bed and laid down next to him. We cried and gave him a few pepperoni. I held him and stroked his ears and his face. He was shaking and kept snapping his head up, looking around all bewildered. I think he was in pain and didn’t know where it was coming from. He was so in and out of it. But I had a heart to heart with him, close enough so he could hear me and his eyes locked with mine as if he understood what I was saying. Our vet was delayed to 6:30, and at that point I was just crying because I couldn’t stand seeing him in so much pain. I felt like I was prolonging it. He was so painful and was scared except for when he would realize it was me or where he was. It hadn’t even been 24 fucking hours since our walk when he’d been perfectly fine.

And then our vet and a vet tech came over. We’d been saying our goodbyes for a couple hours by then, but we said bye one last time. Seeing and feeling him shake and the heat coming off of him was killing me. I held him in my arms and kissed his head when he fell asleep. He was already so limp to begin with that there was no difference from awake to asleep. And then he was gone. I held him while the tech got his pawprint. Eventually I had to leave his side. Andrew held my face against his chest and wouldn’t let go until they had his body inside the little cardboard coffin that they brought. 

And just like that my best friend for 10 years was gone forever.

The treat I had used to try to get him up was still on my counter. There’s still food in his bowl with his tennis ball right next to it. The three empty dog beds so that he would always have a comfy place to be. His treats, supplements, and poop bags are right next to the door. The hook on my fridge for his leash. My tiny studio apartment was just mine and Jasper’s. That’s what made it so great. It still feels like he’s still at the vet and he’s coming back. He was my best friend and my roommate. My schedule revolved around him. 

It’s been 5 days since he’s died but it still feels like yesterday. My mom came up the day after he died. I took work off and so did Andrew, and today is the first day in my apartment by myself. I don’t know what I would’ve done without Andrew. He’s held me and cried with me and has barely left my side. I know that it put him back to when he lost his mom. He had been alone for that. I don’t know what I would’ve done without him. The day after Jasper died, we had to go down to our vet to pay for the euthanasia and his cremation. He helped me pick out an urn. And when it came time to pay he refused to let me pay, even though it was almost $400. I had the money but he wouldn’t let me and said it was the least he could do. His kindness and love has really held me together.

I know that Jasper loved me so much and that I was his person. He was my soul dog and my best buddy. At 15 years old I know that he lived a good, long life, even though that doesn’t stop this from being so sudden. I’m so thankful that we came into each others lives. He always wanted me to be happy and was quick to investigate and nuzzle me whenever I was crying. He loved Andrew too, and Andrew loved him. I hope Jasper rests easy knowing that Andrew will always keep me safe. I’ll never have another dog like him. I keep expecting to see his face, or hear him walking across the hardwood floor. Every second I spend away from my apartment, I get hit with that guilt of “I need to get home to my dog”, and then I remember. I know that with time it’ll get better, but whenever I think about that I think about wanting to go back into time just to spend more time with him. I miss him so much.

[the-vinedresser]

Good days and bad days; concept: Cody. LOL jk these are photos taken from my family group chat. Cody got a haircut today and was traumatized by bigger dogs? Not sure, that’s what my mom told me. Although he does seem more on edge than usual.

1. Today was a bad day. It was raining all day. Usually it doesn’t bother me, but I do notice that anytime I’m working on a rainy day, my body shuts off. I almost turn lethargic, and I’m hardly exaggerating. The fatigue is insane to the point where my eyesight sometimes gets blurred. I drink all the coffee but I still end up not being able to function, no matter how much I have to do or how much sleep I’ve gotten. But this whole season (do I really even want to call it that anymore?) has basically been me on edge of a breakdown and trying to hold it in all day and not fall into the deep end when I’m out doing obligatory things like school, work, errands, etc. But the rain, along with working with my mom, something about it all just triggered depression again and I couldn’t do anything. I was paralyzed and just wanted to cry.

2. In a way, I thought it was almost cool how connected I am to nature, but for the most part it just sucks because society doesn’t glorify stuff like that. They just like people who don’t feel as much and get the job done. I know that someday I’ll also give in and reach that point but I’m trying to delay it as much as possible.

3. Last year was interesting in part because I found myself trying to resist adulthood responsibilities as much as possible. While my friend was graduating early and asking me about my interviews for internships and all this stuff, I was fighting to keep my childlike and laid back attitude but I felt like shrewdness and worry just kept getting pushed onto me and force fed to me. I don’t want to wear loafers and be on edge all the time and become jealous of young people who don’t have any idea what’s coming to them. I mean, that was me less than a year ago.

4. I shut down and sat at my desk just thinking about how enormous life is (again) and how people are so selfish and hypocritical and how I would love to have a zombie apocalypse come in. I told my friend that and I realized then that I would actually be in the most in my element of a zombie apocalypse occurred because of anxiety. I told her that I definitely don’t want to die, but I also would not mind having a terminal disease.

5. I was angry at my mom because I felt forced into doing this job because she kept begging me to and my dad said I should help out my mom. All good intentions and that’s what I went into it with. But I started growing bitter because I feel like she has selective hearing and never truly hears what I’m saying. Is this a universal mom/parent problem? Why do I feel like it is? I’ll say something like hey mom, I really want to see a psychiatrist to get medication because I’m really struggling. I thought it out and I’ve tried a lot of things, but this is the step I want to take. However, I’m really scared to make an appointment. Can you help me out? This went on for a really long time. I had to keep reminding her which is fine because she’s busy, but she didn’t seem to have any problem calling massage parlors to see if they have any appointments available multiple times. That made me pretty angry. Because it’s honestly enough to feel like I’m going crazy and I’m making all this shit up and doing this to myself, let alone not getting help on something I made really clear. At work I kept telling her I feel really nauseous and I’m losing feeling in my hands and feet. I think I’m going to throw up. But she kept teaching me how to do this complicated work thing and I have no idea what’s going on and I’m only working there for three more days so why would she even teach me this when there’s someone who already knows how to do it really well? Also, why does it take crying and throwing a shit fit to get people to actually hear you out? Like why does it have to get to that point? Can’t people just listen when you say something to them is it really that hard I don’t understand

6. So I went home early. This is great, nobody knows enough about mental illness and it’s also on me too because I don’t know how to communicate my needs either. I just know someone is going to need help in the future with some sort of mental cloudiness and struggles and I’m going to tell them it’s ok to seek help and I highly recommend it and they’re going to immediately retract in repulsion because all society ever told them was that therapy was for crazies. I hate this. I know because I did the exact same thing instead of listening to the 4 people who told me it’s ok to seek help.

7. I don’t know why I don’t think of myself and why I constantly stretch myself too much and let myself be taken advantage of, even by my own mother. I used to think of it as sacrifices you take to make a relationship grow and to make other people happy, but now it just seems like people expect me to act this way to them all the time. You like going to the mall and that’s how you relieve stress? Ok, I’ll go spend the day with you at the mall even though I get really tired but I try not to show it too much because you’re energetic and you’re having a fun time. Why am I always thinking about ways to make my mother happy and feel like it’s my duty to put her needs before mine? She always brings up her childhood and then I just feel bad for her.

8. The weird thing is I would never like or hang out with or look up to people like my parents, if I just objectively look at them as people and not my parents. My mom is the neurotic boss who won’t leave me alone, is entirely insensitive to the nuance of feeling in other people, and makes it clear to everyone that’s she’s sad when we don’t do things as she expected, like going to the mall. My dad is the boss that makes sexist and racist jokes and pretends he knows everything by making vague, cryptic statements in a loud voice. But I can’t bash them, they’re great parents and good people and they have me a good childhood that could’ve been significantly worse. I just wish I could look up to them more as mentors because it was easier that way, but our interests and the way we deal with problems can’t be more different.

9. I’m not sure why, but another thing that really annoys me is how everyone I know seems to use my education at NYU as a thing for them. Like, oh I know someone who goes to this top-ish college like honestly I feel like nobody should care, especially because I personally don’t, but everyone does for some reason. Like does that grant me the access to be prideful and feel like I’m better than you just because I went to a college? Every time we meet a group of people, nobody else ever says anything more than their name or talk about what college they go to but somehow someone else always has to mention it. Like my dad was like oh she’ll get the job for sure, I mean, she went to NYU. WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN. ARE WE REALLY ATTACHING VALUE JUST TO A NAME OF AN INSTITUTION. Like we’re all depressed and in debt I’m glad you like using the institution of college, a place that brutally preps people for nauseating adulthood and crushes people’s dreams, as a way to boost yourself up that’s great. Let’s encourage more people to hate their lives and work under insane amounts of pressure it’s great.

10. People are so stupid I can’t deal with the lack of knowing and disregard for other human life that is happening. Do you think videos about glitter on instagram are going to make your lives meaningful? THAT’S GREAT GOOD FOR YOU I am honestly so jealous, I’m not even kidding. People suck so much which was why being a Christian was so frustrating at times because they’re so exclusionary. They say, no gay marriage no this, no that but the Bible also says to be compassionate and giving, and they all of a sudden become so shy when it comes to outreach and showing grace to other people. I guess my perspective is just different because I don’t have those deep relationships where I can tell people anything on my mind and vent to, I’m too busy trying to just help other people who I barely know WHY DO I DO THIS

11. Life sucks and nowadays I’m drawn to topics about death, sex and drugs. Just stupid counterculture things because I feel like they hold more truth amongst whatever the fuck people are doing these days? My teenage angst seems to have delayed about 5 years it’s great. I mean, the later the better for this kind of stuff so in a way I’m thankful I guess. I just don’t believe in humanity or anyone anymore I hope we all die in some kind of natural disaster to be completely honest. Like I heard people all the time saying that politicians suck and the world is corrupt but it isn’t until now that I truly understand what they mean. Capitalism literally drives everything. This is why I would rather kill myself than go to most things that are business related. I refuse to be part of the problem just so I could live a quaint life, not unless I had my future children in mind or something more altruistic like that. Other than that, it’s terrible and takes advantage of the most vulnerable people. Our president is a narcissist. I want to just live on an island for a little while and do something like make surfboards or something this is bullshit

[badbitch-goodwitch]

Is anyone out there? Has anyone noticed I’ve been gone? Do any of you miss me? I think it’s time to over-share. Long life update below. Is anybody reading? Does anyone care? It’s okay if you aren’t, I won’t hold it against you. Just wondering if I’m shouting into the void by myself or if there’s someone here with me.

I’ve missed me. My craft has been suffering lately, I don’t practice as much as I’d like. I fell behind in working with my tarot cards and now I worry I’ll need to start over learning the associations of the cards. Some of my herbs have begun to lose their potency. I haven’t been a very good witch.

I don’t write as much as I’d like. My book has been sitting stagnant for months. I don’t really do any of my hobbies as much as I’d like, besides maybe shopping, if that can be considered a hobby, and I really try not to do that. I own too much stuff--specifically beauty products. I mean, who needs twenty-nine eyeshadow palettes? Honestly.

But I’ve just been so busy, it seems like. Even though I only work part time, and spend three to four days every week doing literally nothing. I don’t know where my time goes. I just sit around, I can’t muster the energy to do anything but binge TAZ and watch youtube makeup videos, and all of a sudden my day is gone. 

I have taken on a second job. Sort of. My grandmother owns a court reporting company and needed transcriptionists for a big case recently, so I helped with that, and she was so impressed she found someone to take me on as an apprentice to become a fully certified stenographer. It’s not as easy as it sounds but I actually kind of enjoy it, and it’s pretty good money. The only downside is that I have to dye my hair. Blue hair in our society is still considered unprofessional so, even though I’ll essentially be a freelancer and not an employee of the courts, I can’t go to court with blue hair.

I’m more sad about it than I thought I would be. It’s just hair, and I always knew if I ever got a job other than dog grooming, I’d probably have to dye it. Grooming is considered a fairly creative field, and the pool of talented young groomers is smaller than you’d think, so things like piercings, tattoos, and colored hair, are generally more accepted by employers in the field. In fact I don’t think I’ve ever worked with a groomer who didn’t have at least one of the above. We’re a wild bunch.

So I always thought I’d probably have to dye it someday. But now that the time is here...I’m sad. I’m going to miss it. Unless I win the lottery or something, I’ll pretty much always have to have a job, so I may never be able to have blue hair again. And that makes me sad. I think it suits me, it looks really good, it fits my personality, and I love it. I just love it. I’ll get over it, of course, it is just hair after all. But I’m going to mourn it.

One of my dogs is dying, too. He was diagnosed with cancer, osteosarcoma specifically. He’s only 2, which is very very young to have gotten this. Osteosarcoma is one of the more aggressive cancers in dogs. Statistically, by the time the dog has a noticeable tumor and is able to be diagnosed, 90% of the time it has already metastasized. To the lungs, usually. In younger dogs, it tends to be even more aggressive. The only treatment options are to amputate the limb with the original tumor and do chemotherapy. If you do both things, on average the dog will live a year. And again, he’s young so it’s extra aggressive, so he likely wouldn’t even get that long. So after looking at all the options, the cost versus the chance he’d get from the treatment, the pain/stress factors, etc, we decided to amputate the leg and not to do chemo. We decided once he lets us know he’s getting bad, we’ll let him go. That seems more fair to him, to let him go without dragging it out, before he suffers too much. I watched my father die slowly of cancer over nearly a year and I know if humane euthanasia had been an option for him, that’s what he would’ve chosen after a certain point. My dog can’t speak for himself, but that is an option, and that’s the choice I’m going to make. I’m crying as I type this, I’ve cried over this for the past month and a half. It is the hardest decision I’ve ever had to make in my entire life and I do not enjoy making it. I don’t want my dog to die. I want to wake up tomorrow and find this has all been a terrible dream. I want to never have had that feeling that day, that something was wrong. I want to not have looked out the window to him in the fenced yard playing with our other dogs, limping and with a massive lump on his leg that sprouted overnight, literally. I want to not have known, even before seeing it, that something was terribly wrong. I want to not have had that feeling confirmed by my vet and the UGA vet school. I want to wake up tomorrow and never have this dream again. I want to cuddle my happy, healthy, four-legged Alastor again. I want this to go away. There is nothing I want more in the world than for this to go away. But that isn’t going to happen. I have to make the best decision for him. I want to make the decision to keep  him with me for as long as possible. I want to make the selfish choice and damn the consequences. But I can’t do that. He can’t choose for himself and I can’t make him suffer just so I get one more month, one more week. I can’t. It isn’t fair to him. None of this is fair.

So I know the choice I have to make, for him. If the chemo was likely to save his life I would absolutely do it. But it won’t. It would just be constant vet visits and feeling crappy and slowly getting worse. If it would give us five more years, even, I’d do it. But for an average of a year, and most likely not even that long due to his age....I can’t. I can’t.

The choice is made. My vet knows what I want. But the problem is, he already acts different. Even right after the surgery, he was still his normal self. Constant tail-wagging, jumping around, running, wanting to play even though he had stitches. Eating anything and everything you put in front of him. Now, five weeks post-surgery, when he should be right as rain since the incision is completely healed, he just lays around. Doesn’t want to walk more than he absolutely has to. Doesn’t jump. Doesn’t play. Just lays on the couch. He’s eating still, but where he normally finished his dinner in five minutes or less, he now takes all night and into the next day. His joints ache. He still wags his tail when we talk to him, but not constantly like he did. He’s just not himself. And so I have to ask myself, how long do I wait? He doesn’t seem to be in pain exactly, just uncomfortable, so I can start giving him his pain medicine again and see if that helps. But what if it doesn’t? Is he bad off enough already that we should let him go? Should we let him go preemptively so he doesn’t get worse and truly suffer? Should I wait until he does get worse, in case this is just a phase and he gets better? I don’t know where the line is, I don’t have a deadline, and so I can’t tell when is the right time. I don’t know that there will ever be a right time, I’ll always have a reason not to let go, so when do I do it? I wish never was an option. I can’t stop thinking that I wish never was an option. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to explain what I’m feeling, I don’t know how to make this decision, I don’t know how to make him feel better, I don’t know how to do any of it, and I don’t want to do it anymore, I just want it to be over. Please, can it be over now. But not his life, I don’t want that to be over. I want it to go away. I just want it to go away. I can’t stop crying.

So I’ve had a bad few months overall. I’ve been shopping way too much, because I don’t drink or smoke or do drugs, spending money is my vice. It makes me feel just that tiny bit better about myself for a minute. When I get packages in the mail it makes me happy to open them and play with my new things. I got a Corsair K70 RGB gaming keyboard that makes me so happy. It’ll wear off, but for now, that’s bringing me a little bit of joy so I don’t regret spending the money. And it is a really good keyboard.

The week of Thanksgiving my brother came up with his family and brought the dog they picked up that day. Actually, picked him up about an hour before I met him. And this poor thing...was emaciated. Did not have a single bit of fat on him, could count every bone in his body. My brother said the last owner told him that he wasn’t eating, hadn’t had a full meal in ~5 days, had been throwing up everything he ate until they took him to the vet, about three days before my brother got him, and the vet gave him some anti-nausea medicine which stopped the throwing up, but he still wasn’t eating. The vet they took him to said it was probably worms causing his issues, so gave them some panacur, the anti-nausea, and some fortiflora, which is dog probiotics, and sent them home. I decided that was bullshit and took him to my vet. And my vet is just the best vet. When I panicked over Alastor’s leg because I knew it was bad, I rushed him in without an appointment, they saw me anyway and my vet didn’t even make me wait very long, just until he finished the client he was with at the time. And same that day. This dog needed immediate care, he was starved but refused to eat anything or drink more than a couple drops at a time basically, was lethargic, didn’t even hardly want to stand up. He needed to go. So, the Monday before Thanksgiving, I took him in without an appointment, and same thing, they took me anyway, didn’t even make me wait very long. My vet is the best vet. It helps that I have eight dogs and six cats so I’ve established a pretty good relationship with everyone there. But they did a fecal, discovered he had no poop in him at all basically. Tried to palpate his stomach, couldn’t feel any foreign bodies. Did a couple of x-rays, saw big air bubbles but no foreign bodies. So he told me, either there is a foreign body and it’s just hiding on the x-ray, or his organs aren’t working properly for some reason. Did bloodwork and found heartworms but nothing else abnormal. So he recommended surgery. Said if it’s a foreign body and he didn’t do surgery, he’d die. If his organs weren’t working and he couldn’t figure out why, he was weak enough that he may not make it through surgery at all. If we did nothing, and he didn’t get better in a couple of days, euthanasia would become the only option. So we opted to do the surgery, he rearranged some things and fit us in the surgery schedule for the very next day, because he’s the best. Discovered that it wasn’t a foreign body, a part of his small intestine had gotten looped in on itself and stuck inside the opening to the large intestine (Or something like that, I’m not a doctor. Intestine looped and couldn’t unloop so nothing could get through) so whenever he ate something, it would get stuck right there, so his body would reject it and he’d throw it back up. He would’ve died if we hadn’t done the surgery, but now he’s doing just fine, eating again, pooping again, set to make a full recovery. And now my brother will never doubt my advice when it comes to dogs.

My grandmother thinks I’m crazy for spending that kind of money on my brother’s dog, because he couldn’t afford to pay for it and my vet lets me make payments if I need to. My brother is supposed to pay me back, but even if he doesn’t, I still would’ve done it. I couldn’t let that poor baby die if there was anything I could do about it. I’ve done it before and I’ll do it again. But this dog, so soon after Alastor’s diagnosis, which I can’t save him from...I had to do it. I had to save this one since I can’t save him. I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself.

So that’s my life update. It’s been a very stressful time lately and I just haven’t been feeling very motivated to do much of anything at all. I barely even eat. I’ve been so stressed I gave myself a cold. But I think maybe shouting this into the void has helped. Been cathartic, in a way. So if you’re here with me, thank you for your help. And if it’s just me here with the void, thank you anyway.