#PersonalTragedy

[leonys1713]

The Tragic Story of Laura Barajas: A Life Altered by Infected Tilapia

[blogbulb]

Khloé Kardashian: A Beacon of Support during Tristan Thompson’s Personal Tragedy

Khloé Kardashian: A Beacon of Support during Tristan Thompson’s Personal Tragedy Read the full article

[jimfostercoc]

Harding: Enon

[holistic-life-by-kate]

"Turn your hurt into healing, your wounds into wisdom and your pain into power." ~ Robin Sharma

[gothitgirl-blog]

Grave

I’m not much of a blogger, so please forgive my meager attempts at such here. A lot has been going on in my life lately; and normally I get all of my angst etc. out via my fantasy writings. That’s just not cutting it. I need to be real, and I need to get it out there. Who knows, maybe hearing about what I’m dealing with can help someone else. Maybe this will just sit in my Tumblr feed and collect virtual dust. Either way, typing the words down might get them out of my head, or at least make them more of a whisper and less of a scream. On January 25th 2017 I was sitting in my living room with my husband, playing Oblivion on my Xbox One. It was a little after eight pm I think, though in hindsight the time is foggy now. Funny how something you think you won’t forget slips away. My phone rang and I didn’t recognize the number so I didn’t answer it, because I screen my calls like any sane person. I noticed, however, that the area code was local. It still could have been a telemarketer but I just got this feeling in my gut that it was important, so I asked my husband to google the number. He looked up at me confused and said; “That’s the number for Harrisburg Hospital.” I was confused. Was someone hurt? Did I owe them money or something from some long ago visit I never got billed for? I didn’t have to wonder long because they called again. I answered this time. They asked for my name, and asked if I knew David Zufall. I told them I did of course. After all, he’s my Dad. I asked if he’d been injured or something; was he okay? He owned a furniture store and moved and delivered everything himself. Perhaps he’d hurt his back. I just remember this screaming echoing waterfall sound taking over my brain as I registered what the man on the other end of the line said next. “I’m sorry ma’am. We did everything we could but he didn’t make it.” I almost dropped the phone, but my husband caught it before it hit the floor and he continued the conversation with the Doctor. I can’t recall now what they said to each other. All I can remember is the word ‘No’ screaming in my head over and over and over again and the murmur of my husband’s voice and the theme music for Oblivion in the background. It’s been six months since then and I still can’t play Oblivion. After that it was a flurry of phone calls to my Mom, Aunt, Cousins, and closest friends. My Husband can’t drive and I was way too upset to attempt it. My cousin Jenny ended up being able to take me to the hospital, and thank the Gods for Jenny. In her profession she handles post death logistics all the time as she helps to run a nursing home and she, unlike me; knew what to do and what questions to ask. I, meanwhile was trying to focus on staying upright and not crying in front of a hospital full of strangers. It’s odd that. Why did I care if they saw me cry? My father just died, and yet the idea that crying in front of strangers is a weakness and thereby dishonoring his memory in some way. That’s a social norm in my family, so I guess it’s not so surprising, but still I wish it wasn’t. I wish I was brave enough to be vulnerable. As soon as I gave them my name, the staff’s faces all dropped immediately. They knew why I was here. They quietly led us back to a room and the door opened. There on the bed lay my Dad. He was covered up from the chest down in a sheet that was specked with blood. There was a tube down his throat and one arm was hanging off of the hospital bed. There was dirt all over him. I found out later that he’d collapsed in a client’s yard after delivering their furniture. All I could do was stare at him. I remember thinking, ‘that’s not my Daddy anymore.’ And then being overwhelmed with guilt for thinking that. Irrational, I know, but it’s true. My cousin, Husband, and my Dad’s girlfriend of 10 years were in the room with me. All of them had equal rights to me to be in that room and mourn him and cry over his body. But I had to force back the urge to scream at them all to get out, to ask how dare they see him this way; utterly stripped of his dignity and life? How dare they even look at him? I know that the coroner came in and started asking questions. They weren’t questions I had answers to. Jenny took over for me. All I could do was stare at my Dad, stare hard at his face with my hand on his arm where there was still a little warmth; rapidly cooling, and will him to blink. To breathe. To move. To live and prove everyone wrong. To do something, anything, to cause the flurry of life saving activity that you see in shows like House and Grey’s Anatomy. I prayed desperately to whatever deity would listen that I would be the recipient of one of those Hollywood moments where the aggrieved family member is crying over their dead loved one, and suddenly the heart monitor beeps again. But I’m not that lucky. I’m not so blessed. The heart monitor didn’t beep. He didn’t breathe or move, or blink. He didn’t make any of those silly jokes I grew up rolling my eyes at. I couldn’t smell the familiar scents of his hair spray, cologne, and the coca cola he drank like water. I realized in that moment that I’d never see him wearing his silly Dad sweaters again, or go see a sci fi movie with him ever again, or hear him sing; or have those long in depth talks with him. He’ll never meet his grandchildren, or get the afghan I started crocheting for him for his birthday which is next month. I felt guilty because we didn’t see each other often. While he was partially at fault for that, so was I. I realize that you can only try to bridge the distance so much, and get knocked back so much before you stop trying. I get that I was technically in the right. But he’s not here anymore, and now none of that matters and I feel like the worst kind of fool for thinking it ever did. Because he’s gone now. I’ll never see him again. I don’t get to apologize to my Dad. Instead I have to apologize to a grave stone under the watchful grey gaze of the grave stones of my Grandmother, Great Aunt, and Uncle and hope for my own selfish soul that he somehow hears and forgives me. I can’t write anymore in this installment, because I’m crying. But if anyone reads this at all, please, please, please, learn from my story. Don’t ignore your loved ones. Don’t leave them behind you. No matter how busy your life is, or how put upon you might feel or whatever angst there is; if ultimately you love them still; if the relationship is not damaged beyond all repairing (and I know there are some that are and with good reason) go to them. Make time for them. Put in the work to bridge the gap even if you don’t feel like they are making the effort. Tell them how you feel, share your heart with them while they are warm, alive, and vibrant in front of you. Don’t make my mistakes. Don’t end up only being able to share yourself with cold stone, because you will regret it. This I promise you.

[bills-bible-basics]

Are Personal Tragedies Due to Sin?

My original BBB Blog post is here: https://www.billkochman.com/Blog/are-personal-tragedies-due-to-sin/.

Post tags: #Accident, #Accidents, #Afflict, #Affliction, #Bible, #BillKochman, #BillsBibleBasics, #Blog, #Chastise, #Chastisement, #Christian, #Faith, #Judgment, #PersonalTragedies, #Sickness, #Sin, #Temptation, #Tragedies, #Tragedy, #Wordweaver

[strawberriesinthefreezer]

como um louco, devaneio, tentando entender tua inconstância e mais uma vez deixo você me levar para baixo e sozinha, me afogo.  acaba meu ar, enquanto você me assiste debater, sem demonstrar emoções,   em meio a suas águas pesadas e turbulentas, e a sua face apática é a ultima visão antes de minha mente apagar em completa escuridão. esse barco quebrado já partiu faz tempo sem mim e eu perdi o controle da situação em meio a tempestade que insiste pairar sobre nós... como um naufrago, em alto mar, já tonta, acordo em sua praia sem entender como parei aqui e sinto o desconforto de não saber como agir em tua presença, mas não tendo pra onde fugir. como um prisioneiro, das tuas vontades e de teus beijos, que já não me tem mais amor e que já não me trazem mais paz.  sou seu capricho e você, mais um vício ruim que persisto em manter. como um cigarro, que preciso largar, mas acendo, trago lentamente e assisto queimar.. eu queimo por ti. sabendo que a culpa é toda minha por me permitir ser levada nessas ondas de esperanças inúteis, e me perco, procurando o paraíso perdido do teu olhar... eu não encontrei nada, muito menos amor.

-S.

[simplyshelbs-blog]

Why can't I be strong enough to just do it?