#wrote this between orders so hopefully its not too cringe

[fashionredalert]

Wrote something short and sweet for @hibiscusseaart between orders during my shift at work!

They have an amazing time travel AU that I'm so blessed that they found me worthy enough to tell me about!

You should all check them out and show them some love!

I won't spoil their plans, but the setting for this blurb is that they're between the ages 13 and 11.

“Hey.”

Madara looks up from behind his wet and sodden bangs, blinking river water from his eyes.

Tobirama stands on the river back, the water lapping at his bare feet. Should he take two more steps, the water would be up to his ankles.

“What is it?” Madara asks warily.

He watches Hashirama's younger brother grimace for a split second, chewing on his lip, as though he were trying to decide on what to say.

It's in that very moment Madara becomes hyper aware of what he looks like. Up to his waist in the river, completely soaked with mud caked in his hair.

It's enough to make Madara flush.

“I don't have all day you know.” Madara snips, “I need to catch that bastard of a brother of yours, he's gonna pay for dumping me into this river.”

“It's your fault for falling for his prank.” Tobirama says with a raised eyebrow.

“A mistake I won't be making again!” Madara yells, waving a fist in the air.

Tobirama simply huffs before glancing around, as though searching for his brother.

“He'd be long gone by now. If you're good maybe I'll show you one of his hiding places.”

Shocked, Madara blinks at him dumbly.

“You- you'd do that?”

Tobirama shrugs, “he ate the last of my favorite dango. You need to get out of that river though, you'll never catch anija from there.”

Madara quickly scrambles to wade through the water, absolutely drenched and caked in mud.

“How do I know you're not on his side?” Madara squints at Tobirama.

He watches as Tobirama lightly kicks a srtay rock into the river.

“You don't. All I can say is that you want revenge as do I, plus…”

Madara's eyes catch the way the sun reflects off Tobirama’s face, casting it into an almost ethereal glow as Tobirama’s lips turn up at the corners in a low smile.

“I thought you looked really cool today.” Tobirama says.

Madara's heart skips a beat and he remains frozen, eyes wide open in shock as a flush makes its way onto his face.

Tobirama spins on his heel and he begins to walk away, not even bothering to see if Madara would follow.

Love drunk and stupid, Madara stumbles after him.

[id-rather-be-an-outsider]

Take Your Time

Bertholdt Hoover x nb!reader

word count: 2360

summary: the warriors are in uni together. reader gets the news their older sister’s cancer is back, bertie boi tries to be a grounding presence for them. did I say it’s a modern/college au? it’s a modern/college au. fluff, angst???

a/n: yessirrr it’s another fic I wrote to cope w not having a good support system irl, we love moving away from toxic home environments :))) also there will be a part 2 to this for a happy ending. if there are any pronoun inconsistencies LET ME KNOW!!! I would like to fix that, reader uses they/them uwu

tw: cancer mention, pre-mourning, poverty??? if that’s triggering for u

masterlist

Professor Erwin begins taking attendance, and I can’t help but feel like something is off. Missing. Annie nudges me and whispers, “Have you seen y/n?” I shake my head, no.

Reiner mentions, “Last I saw them, they got a phone call and looked like they’d seen a ghost when they answered it.”

Annie’s face drops. “It might’ve been something about their sister.”

“Something?” Reiner asks. “Or cancer again?”

Annie quickly elbows him in the gut. “Don’t talk about it like that. You know what they told us last time.”

His tone shifts. “O-Oh. Right.”

I rise from my seat. “I’m gonna go check on them. Can I copy notes later? I’ll be back soon, hopefully.” Annie and Reiner nod, content to take studious notes. I know I’ll owe them favors.

As soon as I’m out the door, I run all the way to y/n’s dorm. It’s across campus, and I have all my stuff with me, so five minutes later I’m sweating and out of breath as I reach their dorm. I can already hear their sobs. My heart drops.

I knock on their door as lightly as I can, cringing at the thought of interrupting them during such a private moment.

“I’ll be right there!” I hear them call as they weakly try to quiet themself down. As they open the door, they stare at their feet and say, “Hey Hange, sorry I’m being so loud, I know that’s-“ A gasp strangles its way out of their throat midsentence- “Probably why you’re knocking, I just got some bad news, but I’ll try to tone it down a couple notches.”

I’m not quite sure how to respond to their apology, so I stand there awkwardly until they look up at me. Their eyes have never looked so dark, and I’ve never seen their face look so sorrowful in the entire time I’ve known them. They stand there for a moment in realization, then launch into me with a hug that knocks me back a step and start sobbing again.

I return their embrace, and walk them backwards into the dorm they share with Annie, closing it behind us. They start to sink to their knees, but I pull them up. “Stay with me, y/n.” I guide them to the couch and they slump, beside themself, only held up by my arms around them. I push their hair back behind their ears, unable to say anything as their cries echo through the room, splotches of salty tears staining my pant legs and shirt. Their crying cuts off, turning into a coughing fit for a minute.

“It’s back.” They finally whisper, voice hoarse, neck muscles straining. “And it’s in her heart. We-“ They let out another breathy sob. “We can’t afford to buy her a heart. Even if we sold all of our things, it wouldn’t add up to a heart.” Their crying starts again, and another one of their gasps breaks off into a cough. Suddenly, their cough stops, and they cover their face, hopping up and running to the bathroom. I follow them, and watch with gritted teeth as they lose their entire breakfast in the toilet. They keep crying, using toilet paper to wipe the puke from their mouth, blowing their nose with another strip. I see blood and puke on the second strip and almost hurl myself, but I steel myself and keep it together. Coming undone right now will only make it worse.

“Y-you got vomit in your hair. Let me help.” I offer my hand and pull y/n up to their feet, flushing the toilet for them and maneuvering them around to the bathtub. They kneel, and I turn on the faucet, instructing them to tip their head over. I run the warm water over their head with a cup sitting on the side of the bathtub and pretend not to hear their whimpers. They either don’t realize the roaring water in their ears isn’t actually drowning them out, or they don’t care. Perhaps both.

Once the mess is gone, I turn the water off and grab a nearby towel, helping them wrap their hair in it. They sit on the bathtub edge, looking absolutely miserable and empty of all happiness, so I head to their bedroom and rummage through their drawers until I find the softest pair of pajamas they own and a pair of plush fuzzy socks. I bring them back to them, and they shut the door to change.

In the meantime, I text Annie to tell the profs I’m gonna be absent today, and y/n will likely be absent the entire week due to a family emergency, I order their favorite pizza, and find their favorite movie on Disney+. I peel back the covers of their bed and change into my own pajamas (they’re nice enough to let everybody in the group keep a pair in the extra dresser drawer in the event of an unexpected sleepover) and head back to the bathroom, tapping lightly.

Y/n opens the door, fully changed, so I help them remove the towel and comb through their hair as gently as I can, not wanting to yank on their scalp. I try to apply their serums and creams like I remember, but they step in after I almost do the wrong order. I just grab the towel and their dirty clothes and toss them in the hamper.

A knock at the door tells me the pizza’s here, so while they handle their curly mane, I find their favorite plates and serve us up slices. Chicken-bacon-spinach alfredo, just how they like it.

When they finally exit the bathroom, they eye the smaller serving almost like it’s poison, and whisper in a tone barely audible: “I don’t think I can eat right now.”

“That’s okay. I’ll come grab it if you get hungry later.” I say, sticking their plate in the microwave and putting the box in the oven to lock in their heat. I lead them into the bedroom and plop down on the bed, inviting them to sit between my legs. When they’re settled in, I pull the covers up and grab their stuffed animals for them when they can’t reach them.

The movie starts and eventually I find myself holding y/n and their head tucked into my chest. If I’m being honest, I’ve watched this movie with them a million times, so I don’t need to see it to know what’s going on. Good thing, too, because I can’t keep my eyes off their face even though it pains me to look at them. How can someone so beautiful know so much pain?

And their sister. They have two. I’ve seen them before, in pictures. Even when they’re mad at them, the way they talk about them, you can just tell how much y/n loves them. They’ve always been protective over them both, especially so their younger sister, but since their older sister’s first run-in with cancer, y/n almost talked about her like she was fragile, to be handled with care.

I can’t imagine what their sister’s feeling right now. Anguish, for sure. I’m sure losing your own life is worse than mourning. At least when you’re the one alive, you can remember them.

“Thank you,” Y/n says, voice barely above a murmur, “For helping me. I... I think I’m going to need a lot of help to get through this.”

I say, “It’s no problem, really. That’s what friends are for. I’m here for you, and so is everyone else.”

They wince. “Everyone else already knows?”

I shrug. “Well, maybe not everyone. But me, Annie and Reiner connected the dots when you didn’t show up to class.” They nod in understanding. “I don’t think they’ll tell anyone, though. Not unless you want them to.”

They suggest, “I think I should be the one to break the news. I’m probably gonna take time to visit, spend as much time with her as possible.”

I rub their back supportively. “We can visit you while you’re away. Or, if you’d rather, we can wait here for you to come back. When you’re ready, of course.”

“One of the two.” They murmur. They look up at me, eyes glassy. “I’m really glad you’re here, Bertholdt. You’ll never know how much it means to me.” We share a look, communicating what words don’t want to, and suddenly I feel myself leaning in, and I see their eyes fluttering closed, I feel their breath lightly fanning my face, then my lips as I get closer, until-

“Y/n!” Annie’s voice rings out as the front door all but slams open. We both sigh quietly, scooting away from each other. “Y/n, I’m so sorry, I came as fast as I could after class got out, where are you?” She pushes the bedroom door open, dropping her bag, then looks over and sees us, but not the tender moment we nearly shared. She runs over, sinking to her knees and pulling y/n into her signature crusher hug. “Y/n, I love you so much, you have to know that, and I’m here for you. Roommate or not, I’m here for you. You’re my best friend, don’t forget that.”

Y/n quickly finds themself and returns the hug with only half as much power, weakly saying, “Thanks, Annie. I love you too. Today’s been... tough.”

“It’ll be tough for awhile. The important thing right now is figuring out what you need and doing that.” Annie reassured them. “Also, if you’re worried that Reiner’s going to barge in here and say something stupid-but-well-intentioned, he’s not.” She pauses, looking y/n in the eye. “He’s waiting outside to do that.”

A knowing smile passes between them, and y/n actually huffs, the happiest noise they’ve made all day.

“Well.” Y/n says, “I can’t keep him waiting out there forever, now can I?” And pushes themself up off the bed. I follow, hoping against hope Reiner manages not to say anything insensitive. When they pull the door open, lo and behold, Reiner is indeed waiting outside awkwardly. He dips his head in greeting to me and pulls y/n into the gentlest hug I’ve ever seen him give.

“I’m so sorry, y/n. I don’t know what else to say to make you feel better, but I’m here if you need me.” He says, and his eyes reflect the sincerity of his tone.

Y/n sniffs again. “That’s all you need to say.”

Annie interrupts, “I hate to be a downer, but there’s a pizza box in the oven and me and y/n had a movie night planned. Unless you’re not up for it anymore?” She turns her gaze to y/n questioningly.

“No, yea, a plan is a plan. I could never skip our movie nights!” They respond, cracking another small smile.

Annie returns the smile, then fixes Reiner and I with her signature cool stare. “Get out. Roommate night is commencing.”

Reiner mutters, “Don’t have to tell me twice.” And slips out the door, while I linger. Annie looks at me and arches her brow.

“I’d like to get a word or two in with y/n.” I input. She sighs, walking into the bedroom to afford us some privacy. She does mother y/n a lot, I think.

Y/n looks up at me expectantly. I start, “Y/n, I- I want to- I really like you. But I don’t want to push you into anything you’re not ready for.”

They nod, frowning a bit. “I figured you’d say that. But you’re right. Realistically, it just doesn’t make sense for us to jump into anything when I’m probably about to leave. But?” They perk up again, hope in their eyes.

“Eventually, yes,” I say, nerves making my stomach flutter a bit. “I’ll be waiting for you. But I only want to explore that when it’s the right time. I want you to *take* your time.”

They grab my hand. “And I will. I will take my time. Just- don’t forget about me.”

I laugh, the smile impossible to wipe from my face. “I can’t ever forget about you when you’re always on my mind.”

“You guys disgust me!” Annie calls from the other room. “Hurry up! The movie’s starting!”

Y/n laughs. “You better go, you know how serious Annie is about our movie nights.”

I give their hand a squeeze and say, “Try to have fun, okay? And eat some of that pizza. It was expensive, as far as pizza goes. Don’t neglect yourself.”

They walk me to the door as they say, “I’ll try. Don’t let Reiner get into any trouble. I’m pretty sure Annie’s not the only one eavesdropping on us right now.”

Annie calls again, “It’s impossible to not hear you guys! Learn to whisper!”

“You’re no fun!” I retort, a bit louder for Annie. “And I shall do. When can I see you again?” I ask y/n.

They smile. “Whenever you want. I’m gonna need the company now, anyway. Goodbye, Bertholdt.”

“Goodbye, y/n.” The door clicks into place after they shut it behind me. I’m feeling such a mix of emotions right now. Longing? Sadness? Sympathy? Happiness? It’s all so jumbled up. There could’ve been much better timing for me to admit that. Much better timing for everything, though I suppose just because there’s a better time for something doesn’t mean it won’t happen when it wants to.

There’s a slight bounce to my step as I meet Reiner who’s already halfway down the hall after he got all his juicy details. I’m not sure where everything is going to go from here, but I know my next step is going to be taking life as it comes, and doing what I can to be supportive of y/n. I smile to myself, ignoring Reiner rolling his eyes and saying something about me being lovestruck. As terrible as today’s news was, it wasn’t all bad. At least the person I’ve crushed on forever feels the same way. The hope I feel in my heart sparks something in me.

“Reiner... we have to help them.” I say, determination running through my veins.

“How?” He asks.

“We have to help them get their sister a heart.”

[shebeafancyflapjack]

First Strike

One last mini-fic before it’s back to work for me. Inspired by something @cecret-with-c said months ago about if Chris revealing himself had been more intense. It’s been a while since I wrote some whump as well.

What if Chris had done more than punch Eleanor in the face? (Sort of a sequel to Let Me In).

Once again, Michael is grateful that he was given a human suit with such long legs to help him sprint in such far strides. He’s had to do more running than he ever expected to do in the past couple of years and the only time he was ever ‘caught’ was when he willingly gave himself up, not that he counts that time as a loss.

He races across the town, ignoring the heads of the Janet babies who turn in his direction out of vague, programmed curiosity, making his way towards the most dull-looking beige bungalow on the corner. It’s the house of the grandmother no kid ever wanted to visit because all she did was sit in her armchair and forbid laughter while she ranted about the noisy ‘illegals’ living next door.

The door is closed. From the outside, there’s no obvious sign of distress. 

And of course, every resident’s home is made to be sound-proof in the interest of privacy (a feature Tahani pushed on when Janet revealed the ‘surveillance’ feature of Michael’s previous experiment. They weren’t happy about that). It explains why the others are all going about town as normal despite being close enough to hear any sort of ruckus.

He braces himself before rushing forward, finding the door unlocked as he turns the handle.

“Eleanor?” He calls, immediately. 

What awaits him inside is as bad as he predicted, furniture turned aside, a few smashed vases and torn, hideous flowery wallpaper. But at least nothing is on fire. Michael feels that’s always a plus to be counted in most situations.

He stumbles in, almost tripping over the leg of an upturned side-table. 

“Shirt...Eleanor?!” Michael tries again, looking down the hall, the house seeming like a small bull just charged through the place.

“I’m here.”

He follows the dejected voice to the living room, finding her sat on the one half that remains of broken sofa. The tiny bit of relief he feels at first to see her in once piece shatters when she raises her head up from her hands.

An uneven pattern of swollen bruises decorate her face, tearful eyes shining between the puffy lids, blood still dripping from a cut on her lip and to the side of her left eyebrow. There’s marks on her throat, her hands and where her jacket has been torn on her arm as well.

One would think Michael had seen enough beaten up humans in his existence for it to no longer affect him, but the sight of Eleanor in this state cuts deep.

“Shirt...”

She braves the smallest smile; “You should see the other guy.” She then winces, possibly regretting speaking.

“Linda?!” He still can’t believe it. It doesn’t make sense!

He’d been leaving his office to head over to Tahani’s when he’d bumped into a furious Janet, frog-marching a pissed off looking Linda in her grip. Before Michael could ask what the fork she was doing, Janet simply ordered him to get over to Linda’s house, for no other reason than ‘Eleanor is there’. He didn’t need more than that.

It was only after he’d left he smelled the blood on Linda’s hands. Eleanor’s blood. The same that is sprinkled around the room in its destruction and still leaking from her fresh wounds.

“Turns out Linda’s not as boring as we thought.” Eleanor scoffs, raising one of her blackened hands and cringing in further pain; “Fork...”

He puts aside the issue of Linda for a moment as he goes to kneel in front of her.

“Here...” He gently takes her wrists, cradling what looks to be an almost crushed set of fingers, delicately; “It’s okay...”

He snaps his fingers.

Eleanor hisses again, in discomfort more than pain this time, as the bones reset and fuse, her cuts seal up and the bruising settles down, hopefully taking the pain away with it. She lets out a deep sigh, now simply looking pained with exhaustion. 

“Thanks, bud...” 

He stays kneeling before her, eyes full of concern.

“What happened?” He asks, carefully; “Why didn’t Janet do that?”

Eleanor shakes her head, “Y’know what? It’s crazy. I don’t even remember...I just came here, wanting to try again with Linda, see if I could have a talk and understand her...For a few minutes she was just quiet, sitting and sucking on her mints while I did all the talking...And then out of nowhere...she got up and...”

She clenches her fingers on her lap, clenching her jaw to the point Michael hears her teeth grind.

“Take your time.” He tells her; “What did she do?”

“Not she...He.” Eleanor smirks again, annoyed; “Suddenly Linda was speaking in a guy’s voice...Calling me an annoying little bench, raging at me about how he got so sick of having to ‘play nice’ around me, and put up with me, when all he wanted to do whenever I opened my mouth was...Well. You saw for yourself.”

Michael takes a breath. He saw the result. He dreads to imagine what actions the clearly-not-human took to leave Eleanor looking like that.

“I just kinda blacked out, I guess. At first it was almost funny...this little old woman picking her chair up and throwing it at the radio, that was kinda neat. Then he started throwing things at me and I wasn’t ready to get out the way. And then, when I tried to call for Janet...his hands were on me and...” 

It might be more terrifying than the scene he walked in on, to see Eleanor Shellstrop this shaken and struggling to form a sentence. 

He flips the coffee table back upright and slides it close so he can sit and take Eleanor’s healed hands in his. He cages them safely in his own, rubbing them warm.

She laughs again, tears spilling; “Fork, Michael....I dunno what’s wrong with me!”

“You just took ten rounds from a demon, no one is going to judge you for not being yourself.” At least, that’s what he’s assuming. If Linda isn’t a human then angel is also very improbable, which leaves one last option. 

“I’ve dealt with ashholes on Earth trying to cup a feel when I wasn’t interested and I had no trouble handling myself or knowing how to get help. But this...” She trembles in his grip; “I was so....frozen. Like I couldn’t do anything! It was only when I thought he was gonna throw me through the window, I managed to call for Janet. She did offer to fix...” Eleanor gestures to her face; “But I just told her to get that motherforker out and somewhere secure...And I asked for you.”

She...wanted him? That causes a selfish little ball of light to glow inside of him, that he was the first one she wanted, out of the others. 

Then he reminds himself that he’s the only one out of them with magic to heal.

“You said this guy talked about having to put up with you before?”

She nods; “Yeah, I can’t remember if he was in those memories I saw...He might have been at that bar in Canada, I don’t remember. Might be the concussion.”

“Ah...I think I know who Linda might be underneath. I...put you with a lot of demons who posed as your fake soul mate and...one of them kept coming to me with a lot of complaints by the end because he was sick of it. It was only because he had the most handsome skin suit out of them all, he claimed I was being objectifying.” Michael waves off that bit; “His name was Chris.”

If he was working for Shawn to infiltrate them, posing as one of the humans, did he agree to it purely for the chance to finally get to physically hurt Eleanor like he always begged Michael permission for? He feels sick at the idea that he contributed to this in a way. 

“Well I’m glad Chrissy got it out of his system, now I know how guys really feel after having to put up with me.” Eleanor lightly jokes.

“No guy who’s been close to you would ever dream of hurting you like this.” He says that, earnestly.

Even before he changed sides, no matter how crazy Eleanor drove him, no matter how often she foiled his designs, he never wished physical hurt on her. Just to make her miserable by pranks and mind games. Nothing like this.

This was the last thing he ever wanted.

“I’m so sorry, Eleanor.” He brings one of her hands to his lips, “This is my fault.”

“No it’s not, dude.” She says, tired; “I should’ve waited for you to be done at Tahani’s before we checked on Linda...We agreed to do these things together...”

Damn, will he and Janet have to chaperone all the humans now until this is over, in case something else threatens them?

“I’m just pissed that we didn’t see through Linda’s whole boring schtick. Tahani even said something was up with her but I ignored it.” She groans and rubs her head.

“Does it still hurt?” Michael frowns. It shouldn’t do, if he did it right.

Eleanor shakes her head; “No...Not from the fight, just...all of this. I was so sure I could handle it but this...I wasn’t ready for...”

“Blame me. You wouldn’t be in this position if I hadn’t had that break down at the start.” Michael tells her, feeling twisted with guilt.

“You didn’t make me choose to take this on, Michael. Stop it. None of this is on you...I’m just glad you’re here now.”

“Of course.” He gets to his feet and offers her his hand; “C’mon. I think we better call Shawn and tell him we’ve got something of his. And the Judge too while we’re at it.”

Eleanor looks up at him and gives a smile, then a nod, before taking his hand and standing up.

They’re half-way to the door when there’s a sudden tug on his hand.

Michael turns, frowning, seeing Eleanor standing motionless behind him. Her fingers are gripping his with such ferocity, his fingers would probably crunch if he was human, while her shoulders tremble, the smallest wince of panic on her face.

“What is it?” 

Her bottom lip wobbles, her eyes on the ajar pink door; “I...I dunno, I just...I d-don’t wanna go there yet.”

“Eleanor, he’s restrained. Janet’s way stronger than any demon, remember? And I wouldn’t let him touch you agai-.”

“I know that, dude, all right?!” She raises her volume, frustrated; “I don’t need your forking rational argument - I know that he’s all chained up and I’m safe and, whatever, because I’m a sexy badash who doesn’t get scared of anything so, fork you, this isn’t because I’m scared because I’m not! I’m fine! You’re the one who’s scared, I’m just protecting you, got it?! So lay the fork-.”

Once Michael has pulled her into his arms, she shuts up. It’s hard for her to keep babbling once her face is smothered into his chest. He waits for the resistance, to be shoved back, but nothing comes. Instead she stills, before her knees buckle, and her arms slip around his middle to cling to him. He places one hand on her neck and the other on the top of her head, stroking gently.

He just holds her tight for a moment, closing his eyes to stop his senses from seeing all the clear signs in the mess around them of what that deckhead did to her. How there’s a dent on the wall from where she was clearly thrown, or how that particular drop of blood stained on the carpet must have come from a blow to her mouth.

“Michael...Bit too tight, bud, you just fixed these ribs...” Eleanor sniffs against him.

“Sorry, sorry.” He loosens a little, still keeping her close, for as long as she clings to him. He pulls back after another minute to touch her face, searching for those green-blue eyes; “Listen. I know you, remember? No one’s aware of what a badash bench you are more than me, okay? But I also know you’re still human...And humans break, that’s what you guys do, it’s what makes you so amazing. That you can be so spunky even when you’re so stupidly fragile.”

And the more vulnerable they are, such as the small woman in his arms, the more courage they seem to hold to compensate. 

“I know how often you’ve wanted to break down when things got tough but you always had to put up a front to save face. You don’t have to do that with me, remember?” He whispers, softly, his thumb brushing a tear from her face; “You were there for me when I collapsed like a Tahani being told she has to fly economy. You trust me to be still be there for you if you do the same right?”

She sniffs again, nodding.

“It’s not just you, bud. God can’t be seen weeping, can she?” She japes.

With a wave of his hand, the blinds close and the door shuts.

“God can have some privacy. You’ve earned it.” Michael smiles at her and brings her back in again, letting her curl into him, one of her hands grabbing at his jacket; “Take as long as you need. I’m sure Janet can have fun with Chris while he waits for us. Make him sweat. We’ll go when you’re ready.”

Perhaps he’ll ask Janet to have some ‘time alone’ in a quiet room with Chris, even after they’ve called Shawn and the Judge. He might not be Chris’ boss anymore but he still feels the need to offer some ‘managerial feedback’. Which is a euphemism, by the way, he plans on eviscerating the forknut.

He hears the smallest hum.

“Thanks, bud. I dunno what I’d do without you.” Eleanor whispers, still shaky, clinging onto him; “We should’ve known they’d be too dumb to use something like a Michael-suit and instead they pull a stunt like this that gives them away. Forking idiots.”

He chuckles with her, resting his cheek on her head as he keeps her close.

“They’re no match for us. Say it with me...We’ve got this.”

“That’s my line.”

“Our line.” He jostles her a little, delighted by the sound of her laughter, more so when she smiles up at him, that fire slowly starting to ignite in her eyes again. 

Michael moves a strand of her hair away before planting a kiss on her forehead. Only fair, as she kissed his cheek last time, and it had felt...oddly pleasant. 

She sighs, “Fine. We’ve got this.”

He looks down at her, feeling ready to burst with admiration. There she is. Eleanor Shellstrop. Holding it together after taking a pummelling from an immortal being. 

Unstoppable, as always. 

Better luck next time, Shawn, old pal. But try to lay a finger his humans again and there will be Here to pay.

[queenmylovely]

Okay but concept: being surprised when ben says he has a crush on you because hes Like That with all his friends (especially after a couple drinks) like youve lost count of the times hes kissed your cheek or hugged you for no reason and yeah it makes you go all gooey whenever he does it but that's just ben! he's an affectionate dude! Except then he admits its different with you and idk man im just real deep in my ben feels rn and oh that boy will be the death of me

Okay, Brigid how dare you send this to me right when I was going to get ready for bed, bitch? Jk, i love it and ily and mayhaps was inspired to write a quick blurb about it. 

Yeah, I wrote that before actually writing this and it’s 1.7k so it’s going below the cut. No warnings but fluff and awkwardness and cussing lol 

Masterlist

☆☆☆

You could still smell the intoxicating mix of cologne, scotch, and cigarettes and feel the ghost of warm arms wrapped around your body when someone’s voice pulled you from your haze.

“Earth to Y/N,” Lucy said, waving a hand in front of your face.

“Huh? What?” you asked confusedly after batting her hand away.

“Well I was trying to have a conversation with my friend, until Ben came up to hug you and so rudely interrupted me. Then you turned all mushy ‘cause you’re in love with him,” she said dryly.

“Wh- I- I am not in love with him,” you sputtered out, having made the mistake of taking a sip of your drink as she spoke.

“You’re in love with him, you think he’s cute, same difference,” she replied and you were about to protest when she kept talking. “I don’t know why the two of you don’t get together, or at least fuck.”

“Oh my- because we don’t have feelings for each other that’s why,” you reasoned and she gave you a withering look. “…Well he doesn’t have feelings for me, is that a good enough reason for you?”

Lucy laughed, actually laughed at your question and you frowned in confusion. “Are you kidding me? You don’t think that that man- Ben- has feelings for you? How do you explain his touchiness and lingering hugs and kisses on the cheek?”

You shook your head at her and explained, “Ben’s just a flirty person. He’s like that with everyone, especially when he’s tipsy.”

“Bullshit. He doesn’t hug me like that, with his hands wrapped tight around you, squeezing your waist, and practically running a hand through your hair. And he only kisses my cheek and just barely when we say hello and goodbye. He kisses you for no reason all the time,” she countered, her gaze set evenly with yours.

You opened and closed your mouth a couple times, trying to find a response even as Lucy’s description of what your and Ben’s hugs looked like made you feel warmer than usual. Then you said lamely, “That’s just because you have Rami. He’s not going to be the same with someone who’s in a relationship.”

“Okay, if you’re gonna keep talking this shit, at least go get me a refill,” Lucy said, holding her empty glass up to you.

You rolled your eyes but smiled and grumbled out, “Fine,” before grabbing her glass and heading to the bar.

The bar was a much louder scene than the one the two of you were in at your little high-chaired table for two. There were people shouting at one another in conversation, clearly too drunk to realize they weren’t using the correct volume. Many were clamoring for the bartender’s attention to order more drinks and you cringed at the thought of heading into the fray. Lucky for you, you spotted four of your friends in a little group and walked up to them, catching them at the end of a conversation.

“Just do it, you coward,” Joe laughed before taking a shot and you saw all the other three down theirs as well. His comment had been directed towards Ben, and you assumed it had been about taking the shot. Since you had walked up behind him, you couldn’t tell what he had thought of the shot he didn’t want to slam.

“Hiya guys,” you said cheerfully, and three sets of eyes moved to you in synch. Joe, Rami, and Gwil’s faces cracked into smiles as they started laughing for some reason, just as Ben whipped around to face you.

Ben’s face immediately flushed, a side effect of the alcohol you mused, and he cracked an uneasy smile of his own.

“Hey, Y/N,” he said, his voice unusually high, but he still pulled you closer for a quick peck on the cheek as if he couldn’t help himself, and you felt heat spread from the point of contact across your entire face. Hopefully it wasn’t too noticeable.

“Whatcha up to?” Joe asked you goofily, nodding to the one practically full and one completely empty glass in your hands.

“Oh, I was sent to get a refill for Lucy. Apparently our topic of conversation requires some libation,” you joked, careful not to reveal anything specific.

“I can handle that, why don’t you stay and chat for a second?” Rami told you, grabbing the glass from your hand and walking up to the bar, somehow finding the one empty spot and getting the bartender’s attention right away.

“You know, I was just thinking I wanted to put a song on the jukebox. Help me find a good one, Joe?” Gwil asked, Joe nodded, and as they walked away together you saw them giggling and stealing glances back.

“Okay…” you said, taking one of their empty chairs to face Ben. You were about to make a comment about everyone’s strange behavior when you looked at Ben. His face was still flushed, and he kept glancing between you and his hands.

You reached out and placed a hand on his knee gently, “Ben, you alright?”

His knee tensed at your contact, and he looked at your hand apprehensively, so you started to move it away, self-conscious at having initiated the contact, but before you could completely, Ben grabbed your hand.

Looking up at him as you felt the warmth from his hand spreading up your arm and through your entire body, you waited for him to speak.

“Actually, can I talk to you?” he asked nervously.

“Of course, you can talk to me about anything,” you nodded, a little worried from his tone that something was wrong.

“…Do you wanna go outside for a bit? I can hardly hear my own voice in here,” Ben suggested and you agreed, following his lead out the door.

As soon as you stepped outside, you were hit with the temperature change. The bar had been hot and almost sweaty with all the people, but outside the air was freezing. You shivered, and rubbed your hands on your upper arms, hoping the friction would keep you warm.

“Oh fuck, I forgot how cold it is out here,” Ben said, after he turned back to you and saw your shivering form. He took off his overcoat and had you turn around, helping you to pull it on over your cute, but definitely too thin for the weather, sweater.

You turned back around, smiling at him for the friendly gesture. He smiled back at you, a dreamy look in his eyes at seeing you wrapped up in his too-big-for-you coat. The warm feeling it gave him distracted him from why the two of you had come outside.

“So…” you prompted, wondering yourself what you were doing out in the cold.

“Right, I’m supposed to be talking to you,” Ben said, shaking his head clear from those thoughts. “Basically, um, I just wanted to tell you– well, the boys told me to tell you– not that it’s not true or anything, I’m just kinda a coward and not good at this stuff– and I do want to tell you– I guess I think I’m trying to give hints or something, but, um, they told me that’s not enough and that I should just get over it and– I mean I’m just kind of nervous and I don’t, um, want to, uh, make anything weird– well, I’m–”

“Ben,” you said, interrupting his rambling lest he go on and on until the two of you froze. “Take a breath. I promise, whatever you’re trying to tell me will be alright,” you told him, trying to be a supportive friend through whatever seemingly troublesome thing he was trying to tell you.

He took your advice and breathed in and out in time with the guidance of your hands a couple times before he seemed ready. “Okay. What I’m trying to tell you is that I really really like you and have feelings for you, romantically. And I guess I’m hoping you feel the same way.”

You stared at Ben in shock, not moving except to blink a couple times in confusion. As you remained silent, Ben started getting a slightly panicked look on his face and lifted a hand to cover it slightly.

“Aw, fuck, I shouldn’t have said anything, now the whole group’s dynamic is going to be off–”

“Wait, Ben are you serious? Like, you’re for real?” you ask, interrupting him again and making him drop his hand to look at you.

“Serious about liking you? Yeah I’m serious about that,” he said a little sheepishly, dropping his gaze from yours.

“Like 100%, heart attack serious?” you repeated, the meaning of his words finally breaking through your shock.

“Yes, 100% heart attack serious, do we really need to drive this point furth– are you laughing?” now it was his turn to be confused and he looked back up to see you smiling and giggling. Even in his confused state he couldn’t help but return your beautifully contagious smile, “Why are you laughing?”

“Because, Ben, I’ve liked you for months, and Lucy just told me, like ten minutes ago, that you like me and I didn’t believe her,” you explained, taking a step closer to him, still smiling.

“She did? How’d she know? Did the boys tell her?” he asked you, skipping over the part where you said you liked him too.

“No, she said it was obvious with all the hugs and cheek kisses and stuff, but I didn’t believe her,” you admitted, taking another step closer.

“You didn’t?”

“No, I mean, you’re a pretty flirty drunk, Ben. Always giving and receiving those cheek kisses like no one’s business,” you said cheekily, taking one more step. “Then again, maybe I just notice it happening with everyone else because I’m jealous.”

“Jealous?” he asked, his voice higher again as you were now just one step away from being pressed up against him.

“Mhm,” you nodded, and you moved your forearms to rest on his chest, keeping one hand there but running a finger from the other hand along his cheek and jaw to his chin. Then you brushed the pad of your thumb ever so lightly along his parted lower lip. “Yeah I think I was just jealous because I wanted all of that attention, your lips on me, and my lips on you, and no one else’s anywhere.”

Ben’s hands found their way to your waist and he said, practically breathlessly, as he stared into your eyes, “That’s- that’s what I want too.”

“Yeah?” you asked, glancing between his eyes and lips and he moved closer and closer.

“Yeah,” he breathed over your lips, just before connecting his mouth to yours.

★★★ 

I’m also tagging because it’s practically oneshot length: @riseetothesun @caborhapch @drowseoftaylor @queenlover05

[starshinegoblin]

The Lyrics Trapped in My Mind

Writer’s Note: This is my second attempt at writing MingXicheng and I wrote it for #XichenWeek2020, This is a soulmate au where if one gets a song stuck in their head it’s because their soulmate is singing it. ♥

—-

Jiang Cheng rolled his eyes as he set down his brush. The sound of his older brother’s loud annoying flirty voice coming through the closed door of his bedroom to his boyfriend over the phone made him cringe. There was no way he was going to be able to work and listen to that nonsense. He walked across the room to his desk grabbing his airpods connecting them to his cellphone.

As he walked back to his easel he went through his playlists wondering what he wanted to play. It didn’t take him along after he glanced at the painting to give him inspiration. He went to the one song that’d been stuck in his head since Wen Ning had sent him the link to Advance Bravely. The mind plaguing song was Everything Will Say GoodBye by Jason Zhang Jie. He tapped on it and put it on repeat before stuffing the phone in his back pocket. Jiang Cheng felt a renewed sense of inspiration as he started singing the lyrics while he continued to paint. 

“Everything will say goodbye, sometimes calm like the water…” Jiang Cheng sang not caring about being heard, that is until he heard a sharp loud knock on his door. He took one of the pods out, “Yes?”

The door opened to reveal his brother. “So, Lan Zhan, A-Sang and I were wondering if you wanted to join us for dinner and  some drinks?” Wei Wuxian asked, eyes fluttering in a plea for him to say yes . However, Jiang Cheng really wasn’t in the mood to deal with an intoxicated Wei Wuxian or Nie Huaisang (who’s a clinger and a crier at the drop of a hat) in public. Nope, Lan Wangji could deal with that gremlin on his own and though he felt awful for Mo Xuanyu, the man was dating the little beastie, Nie Huaisang.

“Nope.” Jiang Cheng reaffirmed.

“Please? It’s at House Koi. I know you like it there.”

“You’re allowed to go back? I vaguely remember that you got drunk and punched the owner. Who specifically told you that you weren’t welcome on the premises. And that was putting it lightly.”

“It was the one time and I stand by what I did.” Wei Wuxian replied, firmly. The memory of seeing Jin Guangshan leering at his little brother had made his skin crawl. He never told why he’d been banned but didn’t regret it. Jiang Cheng smiled hearing the protectiveness in Wei Wuxian’s tone. “Besides, it’s under the new management of the peacock and Yao-ge.”

“I still say no.” Jiang Cheng replied, turning back to paint. His mind trying to focus on the music still playing in his one ear. 

“Oh come on, didi!” Wei Wuxian begged, leaning against the doorway of Jiang Cheng’s bedroom of their shared apartment. “It will be good for you!”

“What part of no are you not understanding?” Jiang Cheng sighed, serving his older brother a glare that was dull as a baby spoon. Despite his expression the both of them knew that he was right. Jiang Cheng needed to get out and see everyone. It’d been so long since they’d seen him. The whole breakup with Wen Zhuliu had gone to utter shit leaving Jiang Cheng in shambles. But that was nine months ago and while he was making great strides with painting again, going on his morning runs, and picking up Jin Ling from day care for their sister and the peacock, Jiang Cheng mostly stayed in their apartment. 

Wei Wuxian wasn’t going to let him isolate himself anymore. If his little brother was going to be free of that loser then he needed to get out. He didn’t want to truly make him angry because it would ruin his, Lan Wangji��s, and Nie Huaisang’s plan. He schooled his face into his best pout and pleaded again leaning on something that only he knew as his brother. 

“Besides I heard from A- Sang that Xichen-ge and Mingjue-ge will be there too. Xichen-ge got back last night from Tokyo.” Wei Wuxian stated, grinning from ear to ear when Jiang Cheng actually paused mid stroke the paint dripping a bit onto the canvas. Jiang Cheng’s normally pale neck tingeing red. 

Jiang Cheng’s heart started to race at the mention of their names. He had the biggest crush on both of them since he was in high school and that spark of attraction to both of them never faded. Damn his brother for knowing his weak spot and using it was a weapon to manipulate him. 

“Fine.” Jiang Cheng grumbled, even though he was actually starting to feel excited. His mind accepted the idea that it would be nice to get out with the added bonus of seeing Nie Mingjue and Lan Xichen.

“YES!” Wei Wuxian yelped, suddenly across the room,  wrapping him up in a tight hug, “You won’t regret it, didi! ” 

“Hopefully.” Jiang Cheng sighed, as Wei Wuxian bounced towards the door probably to go call his boyfriend and brag about his victory. Jiang Cheng shook his head, putting his pod back in before trying to save his painting. He’d have just enough time to finish and get ready for dinner.

“I knew that we shouldn’t have watched that series.” Nie Mingjue complained as he stepped into the living room of his shared apartment with his boyfriend. The theme song of the show continued  playing in his mind as he spoke. Lan Xichen chuckled from where he sat on the couch relaxing with a cup of fresh tea in his hands. His hair down and wearing his glasses for once. He looked warm and cozy in Nie Mingjue’s forest green henley over his t-shirt and jeans. 

“I’m sorry, I can’t get it out of my head too. Can you imagine listening to Director Wu going on and on with that song on repeat.” Lan Xichen chuckled, as Nie Minjgue lifted his legs up by Lan Xichen’s calves so that he could sit down on the couch with him.

“It’s alright.” Nie Mingjue smiled warmly at his adorable boyfriend and soulmate as he put the man’s feet in his lap. His hands moved to gently massage his feet. 

“Since we agreed to meet A-Sang and the other’s for dinner later. Perhaps it will finally go away.” Lan Xichen laughed, making Nie Mingjue laugh. 

“Or at least distract us for a little bit.” Nie Minjgue replied hoping that it did work. The song was good but he needed a different song to think about when working on his logistics reports. 

“A-Xian said that they would be here in a moment. They just pulled in.” Nie Huaisang informed them, looking up from his phone. A smile on his face as he looked at his older brother and Lan Xichen. Since finding out that Nie Minjgue was his soulmate in high school, Lan Xichen knows that something is up. That type of smile always meant that Nie Huaisang has a plan cooked up. Lan Xichen only hoped that it wasn’t tonight. Nie Mingjue was in a good mood. 

“It’s alright, A-Yao, hasn’t come back yet.” Lan Xichen replied. Meng Yao had left the table to take care of something in the kitchen. That’d been about fifteen minutes ago.

“If he’s any longer Xichen-ge, I’ll go back and save him.” Mo Xuanyu stated as he took a sip of the sparkling pink chardonnay that Meng Yao had brought him. Nie Mingjue gave a nod. Meng Yao had been working tirelessly with his older brother to get the exclusive restaurant back to its former glory. Their careless father had left it bankrupt when he forcibly retired. 

The restaurant is a two story tea house that had been remodeled after years of neglect. The first floor contained the bar, kitchen, restrooms, and a dance floor with a koi pond beneath it. Where they are on the second floor, is where the private booths and rooms are. Tonight they were occupying the second largest room, The Room of Fragrance. Meng Yao and Jin Zixuan had gone with the minimalist but elegant accents to decorate the room. Lan Xichen’s favorite thing about the room is the chandelier hanging above their low table. It’s design being branches from a plum blossom tree dangling down from the ceiling and the blooms giving light to the room. 

“There they are.” Nie Huaisang said happily waving his hand at them like he’s not seen them in years, stirring Lan Xichen’s attention, as the shoji door slid open to reveal: Lan Wangji, Wei Wuxian, Meng Yao, and Jiang Cheng.  He felt Nie Mingjue suddenly reach over resting his hand on his upper thigh, and he knew that he wasn’t the only who’s breath had gotten stuck in their throat. Jiang Cheng looked good no, damn good. 

His black hair that’d been kept short during his previous relationship was now long enough that he was able to braid it off to one side showing off his stunning sapphire eyes and that long neck. As he took off his pea coat, it revealed he’d chosen a black turtleneck with some very well fitted jeans. He looked healthier than he’d been in the past few months that Lan Xichen had seen through Wei Wuxian’s social media accounts and occasionally Wangji’s instagram when Jiang Cheng was with them. 

“We are sooo glad you decided to join us tonight, A-Cheng!” Nie Huaisang declared way too cheerfully, making Jiang Cheng flush as he turned around. Which of course made Lan Xichen’s heart skip a beat and by the squeezing of Nie Mingjue’s hand he knows the other is feeling the same as him. 

“I just bet you are.” Jiang Cheng bites out teasingly as he rounds the table to sit in between Nie Huaisang and Wei Wuxian.

“Oh we are.” Nie Huaisang teases, bumping Jiang Cheng’s shoulder as the latter sits down directly across from Lan Xichen and Nie Mingjue. Which of course makes it click in his mind why Nie Huaisang had been insistent that they sit where they are now earlier when they first arrived. His gaze flickering from Jiang Cheng to see the wide cheshire grin spreading across his boyfriend’s little brother’s face. 

“That little…” Lan Xichen hears Nie Mingjue grumble but fade out as Jiang Cheng gives them both a soft smile making Lan Xichen’s brain check out for a few seconds till Wei Wuxian loudly exclaims that he is starving. Then they are all passing around the tablet to order their food.

They are halfway into their dinner when Nie Huaisang says, “You know what I heard today from one of my patients? I heard that when a song gets stuck in your head. That it is because you can hear your soulmate singing it.” 

“Then didi's soulmate has blessed with him non stop singing Everyday Will Say Goodbye, because he’s been singing it for two weeks now.” Wei Wuxian teased Jiang Cheng, making the latter flush and nudge him sharply with his elbow, not seeing how both Lan Xichen and Nie Mingjue had stilled across from him. 

“Then Lan Wangji has been blessed with your horrible belting of No Feelings.” Jiang Cheng teased back. 

“Hey, Lan Zhan loves my singing.” Wei Wuxian sticks out his lower lip in a pout,  dramatically turning to look at his boyfriend and soulmate with puppy eyes. Lan Wangji’s small smile and soft nod only makes Wei Wuxian preen turning back around with a smirk and sticking his tongue childishly out at his brother.

“Spoiled.” Jiang Cheng says rolling his eyes despite the smile on his own face. He reaches out for his glass when he notices that Nie Mingjue and Lan Xichen are staring at him with a look that makes him still, hand hovering in the air. He blinks looking down at his glass. His cheeks flushing a deeper shade of red that had nothing to do with the wine he was drinking. 

“You’ve been singing Everyday Will Say Goodbye?” Lan Xichen asked, a smile spreading across his face as Jiang Cheng nodded. 

“It’s this opening song to a show that A-Ning sent me.” Jiang Cheng explained.

“Good song.” Nie Mingjue replied, sharing a knowing look with Lan Xichen. It made more sense now. While the two of them love each other deeply. It had always felt like there was a missing piece. Their other half hadn’t been with them but now he’d been found. 

“Yes it is.” Lan Xichen agreed, gaze shifting back to Jiang Cheng. 

----

Refs: 

Idea for prompt from this post by  3rdgymbros

No Feelings by Wang Yibo - https://youtu.be/7dG4yShmxIM

Everyday Will Say Goodbye by Jason Zhang Jie -  https://youtu.be/QI6WHyiFLdc

House Koi is based loosely off the japanese restaurant Gonpachi that was used in Kill Bill: Vol. 1 (2003) 

[tessatechaitea]

Cerebus #18 (1980)

This is the kind of cover that probably kept me thinking this book was too adult for me and that I should just stick to Groo and Elfquest.

In Dave's Swords of Cerebus essay, he explains how he didn't know what the fuck he was doing when he was writing this story and I'll tell you a secret: it fucking shows. He explains how he wrote one idea but realized that idea wasn't going to work and then wrote some other ideas but they weren't going anywhere and then he went back to the first idea and wrote a small novella which still wasn't going to work so then he tried some other idea but couldn't really get anywhere and pretty soon his week that he plans for writing was over and he just had to start drawing one of the scenes. So he picked one and strung it out and then he needed a new scene and took the Lord Julius epilogue and stick that on page 5 and 6. By that time, he sort of had a new idea with the help of his brother-in-law and even though that new idea was pretty lame, what more could he do?! He doesn't admit that his new story is lame; I think he thinks he really pulled one out at the last minute. But it's really kind of lame. I get it though! He's written seventeen previous stories (plus some Cerebus stories that appeared in other magazines) and they were all pretty good and working toward building a portrait of Estarcion and Cerebus and some kind of weird aardvark mystery. He was due to slip up some time! I'm just glad he was honest about how the writing part when all wrong and since he couldn't fall behind on the art, he had to just kind of start drawing and hope for the best. I suppose in that regard, the comic wasn't so bad. It told a coherent story that moves Cerebus' plans for the invasion of Palnu ahead and Dave even gets some funny jokes in. But as far as the extended story goes, not much happens? Cerebus and the T'gitans took over Fluroc by murdering everybody in it and then needed more money for troops and they got more money for troops by conning a merchant that came to town. That's it! That's the whole story! Did we need this story? Probably not! But did we really need any Cerebus story so far? Almost certainly not (with the exception of all the stories that showcased new characters!). But what I really liked about this comic book was the Aardvark Comments section! Things are really getting good finally! It's not just a few nerdy nerds nerding it up for Dave Sim.

I mean, it is some nerdy nerds nerding it up nerdily!

The first letter is what I'm assuming was the introductory or cover letter from Marvel's Jim Shooter when he sent out contracts to prospective employees.

Is this the worst thing Jim Shooter ever wrote? Sadly, it is not.

If you're one of those people who like to describe 95% of everything as "cringe," you'll love Dave Sim's response:

Remember, this was 1980 and "written blackface as hyperbolic response" was probably just something taught in creative writing classes.

Casually whistling past the terrible method of his response the way you simply steer the conversation away from racist tirades every time your grandfather speaks up at Thanksgiving dinner, this feels like the first time Sim really calls out the two big publishers and how they conduct business. It'll become a hallmark of Dave Sim in his crusade for independent publishers. And this sarcastic and also racist response (I can only whistle nonchalantly for so long!) isn't his only response in this Aardvark Comments. But as his first response, I'll assume it's the most closest to how he truly feels about Marvel and DC. In 1980, he's already calling them out on their practice of stealing their employees' intellectual properties. Okay, "stealing." The contract is to make the "stealing" legal so they don't wind up in constant lawsuits and can continue to offer the artists whose creations make them scads of money little to no future compensation on their efforts. Dave Sim could think of no other attack on Marvel than to pretend he's a caricature of a slave. I'm not in disagreement with Dave here and, believe me, in 1980, I almost certainly wouldn't have thought the mintrelesque response was anything but a clever way of making his point. Although I was also 9 in 1980 so I probably would have had to ask an adult why the fuck Dave was writing like that. But as I said, there's more! The next letter is a bit of a response to Dave's crusade against the Big Two Corporations. And from his peers!

I guessed I missed the comments in Issue #15. I'd better go back and see what the Pinis were talking about.

Here's what Dave said in Issue #15's "Aardvark Comment": "Maybe Marvel can turn its corporate back on you. As they never grow tired of explaining, fan sales make up a very small fraction of their profits. They don't think much of your taste in comics, artists, writers or anything else." It's a little hard to parse this comment being that I don't know what was happening in comic books in 1980 concerning the fans and Marvel but doesn't this sound a lot like the Comicsgate argument of today? That Marvel doesn't give a shit about what its "real fans" want? Anyway, back to the Pini's letter. The Pinis' letter reads like Elfquest trying to talk Cerebus out of gutting a merchant. I suppose when you point out that artists and writers working for Marvel and DC are idiots for not publishing their work as an independent, I can see how they might get upset with you. I'm sure Richard and Wendy had a number of discussions with Marv Wolfman where Marv would say things like "I'm not dumb! You're dumb!" or "I'm not a piece of property! You are!" or "I'll show you who's a slave to the man! I'll kill Cyborg!" After that, the Pinis were probably all, "You know what? Criticizing work-for-hire in the comic book arts just isn't worth all these Marv Wolfman tantrums. Let's just bite our tongues." After a couple of letters from some nerd groupies in which Dave laments the target audience of comic books, he responds more in length to the . . . well, wait. Let's first look at his response about his core audience!

I'm offended! I always fix it immediately when a headlight goes out.

I mean, after seventeen issues, "Aardvark Comment" is finally getting interesting! Okay, so now to Sim's actual response to Wendy and Richard Pini.

Dave Sim being serious. Probably.

I'd like to point out the end of this letter in which Dave states fairly plainly the main theme of criticism behind Eee! Tess Ate Chai Tea for nearly a decade: "I just don't happen to think that the system in operation now is the best thing for this medium and that it is not the most conducive way to get the best from the creative talents that exist. Quite the opposite, it seems to encourage half-assed efforts in order to guarantee that you are not surrendering your rights to something of value. And how many of us, Steve Gerber included, could know in advance that our ducks were of any value?" This was as true in 1980 as it is now. It's just that in 1980, it was much harder and a lot more work to retain the rights to your creations through self-publishing. So most comic book writers and artists were doing their best work at DC and Marvel. What other reasonable choice was there? Dave and Deni have discussed multiple times across the last dozen and a half issues how hard self-publishing has been for them. Now imagine a company like Image exists or a place like Kickstarter. Creators now know to save their best ideas for places that will give them full control and full potential earnings on their creations. DC and Marvel can't help but be full of writers doing half-assed jobs with their half-assed ideas and saving their truly monumental and mind-blowing work for Image or another, now more easily accessible independent publishing venture. This was in 1980 and Dave Sim was seeing creators screwed out of future royalties on ideas that wound up making fortunes for the parent companies. Some people accept this as business as usual and would be able to garner no sympathy for a creator stiffed out of royalties. But those people are unimaginative, pitiable, and sad. Something being legal has never in the history of everything been a convincing argument that that something is ethical, moral, or just fucking compassionate. Hopefully this "Aardvark Comment" begins to stir some serious discussion with Cerebus readers because I'm eager to read a lot more of Dave's thoughts about comic book publishing and fandom. Eventually there won't be a whole lot of separation between the comic book and the letters page. I mean, when the author inserts himself into the story as both some sort of omniscient being and also another fictionalized author, it gets hard to separate what you believe from the ideas expressed within the story. Cerebus #18 Rating: B-. That rating was for the lackluster story! The "Aardvark Comment" page gets an A! Oh, and I forgot to mention "The Single Page!" Imagine my surprise when I turned the page and saw this:

Tim Kreider in 1989! (Remember, this is from the 1989 Bi-weekly reprints of the 1980 Cerebus #18.)

You can just see Tim's eventual style in these early characters. The main male character is basically a baby-faced version and immature style of his eventual renditions of himself.

This is from Tim Kreider's book of essays and cartoons, We Learn Nothing.

I can't recommend Tim Kreider's essays and cartoons highly enough. Read his books, We Learn Nothing and I Wrote This Book Because I Love You and maybe search the Internet for a cache of his old cartooning website. You probably won't be disappointed. I say probably because I've learned that a lot of people on the Internet aren't exactly like me like I expect you all to be. Idiots.

[killthecount]

A Walk to the Docks

I wrote another fanfic. It’s angsty and it’s about Muriel finding MC while she’s dying. You can read it here or check it on my recently started AO3 page.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/19290895

I’m too tired to proofread it AGAIN, so I hope it’s okay.

He rapped at the door softly, frowning. He did not want to be here. This might have even been the last place he wanted to be, right now. But he knew Asra would be upset with him if he didn’t watch out for her from time to time. He could usually keep an eye on her from afar; mostly spotting her as she scoped out the market or while she was headed to her voluntary work with the doctor. She never saw him, it seemed, and he was perfectly fine with that. In fact, he wished nobody could ever spot him and he could live his life in peace. 

Anyway, Muriel never stuck around long enough to actually watch her for any length of time. What did he care? He just wanted to make sure she seemed well. That was good enough for him. He wasn’t a stalker, after all — just trying to be a good friend. Asra had left angrily, off to who-knows-where, but he knew his friend would still want to know that his love was safe. His love…Muriel didn’t like to dwell on it. Asra had never admitted his love for MC to him, but he had a feeling it was there. Ugh. He didn’t care for most people that Asra hung out with. Why did he want to be with those people at all? Where was this town when they were young and out on the streets? Now Asra wanted to live with the same people who shunned and neglected them, living with them as if everything was normal? Whatever. He knocked again, a little louder this time. Paused. Still no answer. Allowing a loud sigh to escape his lips he began feeling around inside the chest pocket on his cloak. Asra had given him a key to the magic shop “for emergencies”, whatever that meant. He had never used it, obviously. Why would he come here if there was an emergency? Finding the key, he fumbled with it a bit before sliding it into its respective keyhole and pushing down on the latch of the door handle. Pushing the door open, with a bit of a creak, Muriel peered inside. He had no intentions of stepping inside. “…hello?” he asked. No response. “……is anyone here?” He spoke barely above a mumble; it just wasn’t in his nature. But he was certain someone on the main level would be able to hear him if there was anyone around. He had become very familiar with MC’s routine over the last few weeks and even when she did change it up from time to time, he would usually find her wandering about the town within the next day or so. But, now, the first week of summer was coming to a close and he hadn’t seen her the entire time. Strange? Sure, but he wasn’t too concerned. Maybe the doctor had her working long shifts and staying in his clinic? He couldn’t stop himself from rolling his eyes when thinking about Julian. Muriel lowered his head, carefully, as he stepped inside the magic shop. He hadn’t been inside it before despite Asra’s occasional pleas of, “You should get out more, Muriel! Meet new people. They’re not all as bad as you think,” and, “Come hang out with us at the shop. MC is nice. She likes you!” His eyes darted around the room, adjusting to the mere amount of stuff. Colorful books, cards, herbs, and various knick-knacks of all sorts, in seemingly no particular order, decorated the many shelves around him. He carefully moved further into the shop, pulling his large arms tightly against his body to make sure not to knock into anything. Hunched forward, Muriel checked out the kitchen area before peaking his head past a curtain and into a back room. The room, full of pillows and one low table in the center where readings were done for customers, seemed lifeless. He ducked back out, turning around and shrugged. “Fine. She isn’t home,” he mumbled to himself. “I’ve done the most I can do.” But before he had his chance to move towards the front door, he caught sight of a staircase he had missed upon the first inspection of the shop. He paused and briefly considered leaving anyway, before sighing once more. Shoulders slumped, he moved heavy footsteps towards the stairs and began climbing up the many steps. Once at the top, he noticed he was in a hallway with several rooms leading off of it. He decided on the closest one first but realized, as he reached it, there would be no need to check the others. Peering into the doorway of the bedroom, he noticed it was a much simpler in decoration than the downstairs entryway. Sure, there was still plenty of stuff, but it wasn’t nearly as difficult on his eyes. He focused, first, on a small, cluttered table momentarily. If he had been thinking properly, this should have been the first clue that something was wrong. Curtains pulled back on the window nearby allowed the warm sunshine to almost highlight the bed. He then saw her there. Muriel’s eyes widened, feeling a sudden rush of embarrassment for being inside of her house. She was just sleeping. Sure, it was the late afternoon and the sun was starting to move lower in the sky, but maybe the doctor had her working late hours? Muriel must have just missed her coming home, right? Yes, that was it. It was easily explained and now he needed to go. All of this uncomfortable hassle for Asra. Why wasn’t he the one here right now if he cared so much? What would she think when she saw him there? Would she be freaked out? Think he’s some sort of pervert? His flight senses were kicking into overdrive; his mind racing. He was just about sold on the idea of sneaking out before she woke up and spotted him when…another thought popped up. Was…she breathing? He couldn’t tell from the doorway. She looked…still. “I’m just overreacting,” he thought but made no movements to leave. He stood for a moment, weighing the options in his head before deciding. A lump formed in his throat as he edged deliberately towards the bed, cringing a bit as the wood floor creaked below his weight. He hadn’t completely thrown out the idea that she was still just asleep; the awkwardness of trying to explain his actions was still not a situation he wanted to experience. Just a quick check to make sure she was breathing and then he’d get the hell out of there. Unintentionally holding his breath, Muriel made his way past the round center room table when his eye caught suddenly noticed what he should have noticed sooner — blood. Several cloths, some seemingly damp, were scattered around the table. Many of them seemed to only be dampened with water, but the unmistakable deep crimson color painted several of the others. Not sure what to make of it, he turned back towards the bed. He was within just a couple of feet from her now. After a few agonizingly long moments, he found his courage once more and, allowing himself to breathe again, inched closer towards the body. Meanwhile, his brain worked on catching up to what he had been staring at. Laying straight ahead from him was MC like he had never seen her before; a shell of the person she once was. Bundled tightly in several blankets, she trembled and shivered, contrasted by her hair which was sweaty, some of it sticking messily to her forehead. Her face was pale and flush but she still managed to reflect a bit of her normal beauty.  She was breathing, barely, he realized at this point, but his feet felt frozen in place. Muriel cleared his throat, unsure of what to do next. While he was trying to figure it all out, life intervened for him. His knees felt weak as he watched, seemingly with great struggle, as MC unexpectedly turned her head in his direction. Her eyes just barely parted but revealed, clearly, the crimson sclera that was ubiquitous with everyone who had caught the plague. “…Asra? I hoped you’d come back,” she spoke, barely above a whisper. Her chapped lips formed a slight, smile across her face, as she closed her eyes once again. “I’ve missed you.” Muriel took a half step forward. His mind was racing again, frantic with completely different worries from before. Could he get sick? No, they didn’t know what was causing the plague, but they were pretty sure it wasn’t contagious. She was clearly hallucinating; should he tell her he wasn’t who she thought? What could he do for her? How could he contact Asra? “I wish you didn’t have to see me like this. …and I’m sorry. You were right,” she spoke again, faintly. “I tried not to believe I was sick. I tried to fight it…” her words trailed off. “I shouldn’t be here,” Muriel thought, feeling intense amounts of sadness, empathy, and guilt for hearing her words — words that weren’t meant for his ears. “Hopefully, I helped some people…” she began again, and when she paused, Muriel secretly hoped that maybe she had fallen back asleep, “…I wouldn’t change staying to help those people, Asra. But I’m sorry it came between us.” A large shiver and she was pulling the blankets tighter to her body. Before he knew what he was doing, Muriel moved to her side, placing a large hand on her shoulder. He couldn’t think of anything better to do. The plague had been going on for so long now, almost everyone knew the symptoms. They came on strong and fast and most people, once showing the signs familiar signs of the red eyes, were gone within the week. Frequent fluctuations of the body’s temperature were just another one of the usual symptom. He knew what he needed to do now. Everyone who was sick was required to get on the boat. Of course, they lead you to believe it was an act of sympathy; that once taken to The Lazaret, the deaths of people’s loved ones would be swift and painless. Plus, it kept the bodies from piling up around the city. Muriel wasn’t sure he believed anything “they” had to say but…It didn’t seem right to just leave her here. Closing his eyes, Muriel took a moment to center himself before reacting again. He opened his mouth to say something, but couldn’t manage to figure out anything important enough to say. Instead, he slid his large hand behind the curve of MC’s upper back and sat her up, gradually. Her eyes fluttered lightly, still clutching the blankets and looking barely strong enough to sit up on her own or hold up her own head. “Let me help you…” he finally said, barely above a whisper, his eyes beginning to well up. He wasn’t sure why this was affecting him so much. After all, he had never bothered to get close to MC. Was it because he knew how much she had meant to Asra, despite their argument? No, it was more. Despite not caring much for humanity, Muriel knew that he would have never wished this fate on, well, many people. Just one person came to mind, really. MC nodded, weakly. He had worried about the possibility of having to somehow, gently, break it to her that he was going to be escorting her to the docks. So, an action as simple as a nod, he felt a slight sense of relief that she seemed to know and was, at this point, accepting of her future. Muriel steadied her as she stood. Too tired to remove the dressing gown she wore, she dressed to go out, simply sliding the clothes over what she was already wearing. Patiently, Muriel helped her with that too. He considered how normal her actions seemed. She was just getting dressed…except she wouldn’t be returning here again. Once she had wrapped herself in her warmest cloak, he held onto her once again. It was difficult, in the small shop, but he managed to never let go of her as they exited her bedroom and made their way down the tight stairwell. He worked his damnedest to make sure she didn’t fall, especially when she took a few wobbly steps that put him on high alert. They shuffled slowly through the front room of the magic shop. It was painful, but Muriel knew he would stay by her side for as long as he could. As Muriel opened the door for them, MC paused in the doorway, as if saying goodbye for just a few seconds, before stepping out into the almost darkened streets. They made their way mostly in silence, walking at an almost snail's pace, as far as Muriel was concerned. His large frame didn’t allow him many of the luxuries he would have liked, but his long legs did allow him to move quickly when he wanted to get away. Not that he was in a particular hurry. The boats came and went from the island 24 hours a day. There were always bodies needing to be removed.  But, besides that, he hated his entire role in this play but he certainly wasn’t looking forward to…arriving at their destination. At the docks, he knew he would say goodbye to someone he barely knew, and yet the guilt and sadness was boring a way into his heart. He shook his head, looking down at MC from time to time, frail as an old woman, but still in a young woman’s frame. She was clearly foggy, her eyes barely ever finding the strength to completely open, nor her head ever lifting for any length of time. Plus, several times, despite her feet continuing to shuffle forward, he wasn’t 100% sure if she had dozed off. He just continued to walk with her, holding on to her upper arm, and supporting her weight with his when necessary. The docks were in sight now, just a few minutes way and Muriel’s heart was aching. It was a careless moment from Muriel as, for the first time, he looked up towards the docks with anxiety. Because of this, he hadn’t seen the small rock in front of MC before her foot landed it, causing her ankle to twist. He jumped in alarm, kneeling down before her and thankfully, able to catch her before it was too late. She gripped his black cloak tightly, leaning into his large arms. At that moment, as MC calmed her own nerves, the zombie-like fog around her lifted, albeit briefly, and she lifted her face calmly towards him. “…You’re not Asra…” she whispered, blinking aggressively as if to try to clear her eyes. Muriel didn’t know what to say to that. Frowning and looking ahead so to not have to make eye contact, he simply nodded. He glanced tears in her eyes before she allowed her head to fall back towards the ground, “Thank you for helping me.” “I just really had hoped…he’d come back…” And that was the last thing she said to him.

[mizukixtsukiyomi]

i just saw your response, sorry about that! if i could then still high&low; scenario where kagome saves the leader of one of the gangs (anyone of your choosing) so then the gang tries to convince her to join? please and thank you!

The love High & Low is getting makes me so happy! Keep it coming!

As always, since people are still new to this series or may not know who they are, I will add pictures at the end of who is who so you get an idea on what they look like. There hasn’t been enough Hyuga yet, so I wrote him. Hopefully you like it, hon!

Spitting out the blood collected in his mouth, the back of his hand swiped over his bottom lip. Dark hues landed on the red spots now dying on his skin before a smirk appeared and teased. Looking up to his attacker, the Daruma Ikka leader could only muster a snicker before bringing his body to a sluggish stand.

“The Kuryuu Group never keeps its promises, huh?” His eyes narrowed on male with black hair slicked back wearing a dark maroon tux. The small circular pin on his tux worn with pride to be part of the infamou Kuryuu Group, or more specifically, Iemura Group. “Kaijo, was it?”

“Kirinji, you dimwit!” He growled back. Cracking his knuckles, Kirinji looked around Daruma Ikka’s hideout. He chuckled back as he watched his men kicked the last standing Daruma members down. A warning he loved to use and became useful. “Hyuga-san, I had overheard you were working with Sannoh Rengokai.” He scoffed, as he cracked his last finger. “You? Working with Cobra? Last I heard, S.W.O.R.D had no alliance with each other.”

Hyuga raised a brow once more before his smirk mocked back. “You are believing rumors? And here I thought the Kuryuu Group would be smarter than that-”.

Punching him down once more, Kirinji’s chest heaved as the fury bloated within. Growling under his breath, Kirinji’s eyes narrowed on the black haired male on the floor. “You know better, Hyuga-san; keep your mouth shut or you will be facing death.” He squatted down to his eye level and grabbed a handful of Hyuga’s hair. Pulling his head back, Kirinji gritted his teeth. “Kuryuu ordered you to finish off S.W.O.R.D and you failed. You know what comes next right-?”

Watching one of his men being thrown to his left, both Kirinji and Hyuga watched as one of Kuryuu’s henchmen struggled to get back on his feet.

“W-What…?” Kirinji immediately turned his head over his shoulder. Eyes widened at the sight of their new challenger holding a conbini plastic bag. He was speechless at the fact of the female standing a few feet away from him and glaring him down. “The girl…”.

Hyuga’s lips curved once more at the sight of the girl. A girl he had heard had softened the tides between S.W.O.R.D, or at least, with the other groups. His group was another matter. With his head still locked in Kirinji’s grip, Hyuga sent the girl a wave with two fingers tipping from his head. “Are you here for another debate, woman?”

“It’s Ka-go-me!” Her glare tightened, “I came to have another talk with you, but it looks like Kuryuu got to you first.” She scanned the area. Daruma Ikka was cornered and by the looks of it, Hyuga had decided to betray Kuryuu. So she only needed to cut her talk in half. That could save her a headache.

“You!”

Kagome’s attention landed on Kirinji.

Roughly letting go of Hyuga’s hair, Kirinji straightened up before adjusting the front of his suit. The corner of his lips twitched as he saw no fear trying to make her back down. “You’re the girl that has been meddling with S.W.O.R.D and Kuryuu, right?”

She blinked, observing him as he took one step at a time towards her.

“HUH!?” He shouted. “Don’t make me repeat myself, girl!”

Cringing at his tone, Kagome covered her ear with her free hand. “Excuse me, but is it necessary to be yelling?”

Kirinji stopped in his steps; brow twitched. This girl was mocking him, wasn’t she? He quickened his steps. “What did you say!?”

Eyes locked on his hand extending to grab her by her jacket. Swiftly dodging his hand, Kagome jabbed her elbow over his elbow joint to weaken his arm. Dropping her plastic bag on the floor, Kagome took the one second he was down to push the bottom of her palm up his chin.

Hyuga nodded slowly, admitting to himself the girl had moves to fight. He had always believed her to be a defenseless woman who was a damsel in distress, but she was a damsel who knew how to throw punch or two.

He watched Kirinji fall back on the ground.

And those hits were usually hard.

Kirinji snapped his head up only to see Kagome curling her fingers into her palm. “D-Did you just-!?”

“Yeah, and so what?” She jerked her punch forward in a false punch to intimidate. “You were going to grab me first, weren’t you?”

“Bravo.”

Kagome’s attention was fished forward to see Hyuga now walking towards her. Brows furrowed in return the moment she saw his grin.

“Now I can see why the other S.W.O.R.D members don’t mind you being around.” Hyuga swatted away the dirt from his red leather kimono jacket. “You’re feisty, aren’t you?”

“Do you want a punch, too?” She raised a brow. “I got more to share.” If he was trying to harass her, she wouldn’t hesitate to throw the punch first. It would put her in a lot of trouble with Cobra and the others in Sannoh Rengokai, but she didn’t care if it meant she could feel the satisfaction to punch his smug look away.

Hyuga laughed at her defensiveness. She was definitely bold. Taking a look at Kirinji on the ground, he tilted his head to the side. “How about we deal with this first before we have that talk.”

Kagome lowered her punch. “I’m here with a topic already in mind, Hyuga-san.”

“And I just thought of one, too.” He cracked his neck, “I think it would have the other S.W.O.R.D leaders raging, though.”

She blinked, “h-huh?”

Norihisa Hyuga ^

Kirinji ^

[biomedgrid]

Biomed Grid | PSA Testing? Over-Treatment? Active Surveillance? Biopsy value? No PSA for Elderly?

Opinion

Prostate Cancer Patient Since 1992, Advocate, Activist, Volunteer Mentor since 1996 to men diagnosed with Prostate Cancer and their Caregivers locally and on-line Worldwide. Please recognize that I am not a Medical Doctor. Rather, I do consider myself a medical detective. I have been an avid student researching and studying prostate cancer as a survivor and continuing patient since 1992. I have dedicated my retirement years to continued deep research and study in order to serve as an advocate for prostate cancer awareness, and, from an activist patient’s viewpoint, as a mentor to voluntarily help patients, caregivers, and others interested develop an understanding of this insidious men’s disease, its treatment options, and the treatment of the side effects that often accompany treatment. There is absolutely no charge for my mentoring – I provide this free service as one who has been there and hoping to make their journey one with better understanding and knowledge than was available to me when I was diagnosed so many years ago. Importantly, readers of medical information I may provide are provided this “disclaimer” to make certain they understand that the comments or recommendations I make are not intended to be the procedure to blindly follow; rather, they are to be reviewed as MY OPINION, then used for further personal research, study, and subsequent discussion with the medical professional/ physician providing their prostate cancer care.

I wrote this paper a few years back, and as anticipated then has now come to pass. The USPSTF made a grevious error when recommending against PSA testing in 2012. Please read the following papers bringing to light my anticipation [1,2]. And though USPSTFS amended its recommendation in May 2018, they still left open much to be desired (required!). “Prostate Cancer Foundation Statement on U.S. Preventive Services Task Force Updated Prostate Screening Guidelines.” The USPFTS has upgraded their recommendation to a “C:” “Yesterday, the USPSTF updated its 2012 position on prostate cancer screening recommending that clinicians should selectively offer or provide periodic prostate-specific antigen (PSA)–based screening for prostate cancer for men between the ages of 55 to 69 (C recommendation). The USPSTF maintained its recommendation against PSA-based screening for prostate cancer in men 70 years and older (D recommendation) [3,4]. Regarding PSA testing: With continuing prostate cancer (PCa) since 1992 and deep research and study of our insidious men’s disease since 1996 that has led to my being a prostate cancer advocate, activist, and mentor, I have seen way too many men in their 40s presenting with metastasized PCa at diagnosis. This is obviously the result of failure to have at least annual PSA testing to make note of unusual PSA elevation.

With more than 200,000 men diagnosed annually and more than 15% of that number dying “of” prostate cancer annually in the United States alone, it is obvious prostate cancer is a serious threat to male lives. It is certainly not a cancer to ignore by not providing at least a simple blood serum PSA test. Both the PSA blood test and a Digital Rectal Examination (DRE) should be provided at least annually and physicians should explain what this test and examination entails, what it can tell the physician and patient, and patient consent should then be obtained prior to administering. The DRE compliments what the PSA might miss, and vice versa. However, since many men are adverse to the DRE and would possibly opt out of any testing if both the PSA and DRE were required, then most certainly the simple PSA blood test should be recommended pending something more exact, and the PSA blood test cost should be covered by health insurers. (A pathologist friend, in supporting everything in this paper, made one exception. He remarked that the DRE should absolutely be a dual requirement with the PSA. I obviously concur but was considering those men who are turned off by the visual of anyone inserting anything up their anus and might refuse. However, as he remarked further, they should be explained and made to recognize the importance of the DRE. If they still refuse, the onus is on them.

Regarding “Over-treatment” and “Active Surveillance:” With a Gleason 3+4=7 or above, Active Surveillance (AS) is not a reasonable consideration. However, with Gleason 3+3=6 and only one or two tissue samples from biopsy evidencing prostate cancer and both less than 15%, AS could be considered. The concern that I am sure comes up in every man’s mind when diagnosed with prostate cancer despite it being low level is the recognition that cancer is present and wanting that cancer out rather than dwelling over time wondering if it is growing and becoming more aggressive. Thus, though some men would rather maintain close observation with at least quarterly PSA and DRE checks, and I would hope other diagnostics, others want to get rid of it “now.” I have a suspicion that the studies that have concluded that too many patients have been “over-treated” erroneously included those patients who made their own choice to be treated early on. These patients should not have been included in such studies since it was their personal choice, thus not an “over-treatment.”

The problem we have (and not as much as in the past) with the supposed “over-treatment” are urologists or radiation oncologists encouraging - sometimes near demanding- immediate treatment despite a man’s diagnostics only Gleason 6 with one or two tissue samples with near insignificant cancer development. That is where “over-treatment” can occur. And it is these urologists and radiation oncologists who must avoid encouraging immediate treatment under these conditions. They should explain all options “including” AS. What I found of particular error in an ABC report March 19th, 2009 was when the ABC physician consultant remarked that a biopsy does not identify aggressive prostate cancer. Say what? There is no doubt that a pathology report of biopsy indicating, for example, Gleason 8 or above as well as extensive HGPIN (High Grade Prostate Intra-epithelial Neoplasia) or PNI (Perineural Invasion) presence would indicate an aggressive cancer, or at the very least, a cancer that requires more immediate concern. Regarding “no-PSA testing for the elderly:” I know of many healthy men in their mid- 70s as well as in their 80s who could very well have another ten to twenty years of life who would be placed in this suggested category of “no-PSA testing.”

This galls me no end. I was born in December 1932, and if I were to just now be found to have an elevating PSA at 86 years of age in 2019, I would most certainly want to know what is going on. My Mother lived to 96 and my Father to 95; I have every possibility of living to those ages, so why in the world would I not want to know if I had developing cancer? Most certainly without such knowledge my cancer could be very aggressive and metastasize before I had any indication of its presence. Then, most assuredly, I would have to go through several very costly treatments that would likely include toxic chemotherapy agents. And I would then more likely have to go through the pain of dying “of” the prostate cancer rather than “with it.” Had I been aware of developing prostate cancer early on, I could have treated it, hopefully have “disposed” of it, or at least have been able to manage it, rather than dying “of it.” Absolutely, PSA testing should be available and covered by health insurance for ALL men at ALL ages!

I noticed a posting by a urologist who is also a lawyer who made note that at trial the defense would cringe when the plaintiff’s attorney announced to the jury that his client was not made aware that a simple PSA blood test would have determined that his client had developing prostate cancer and could have saved his life. And by his client’s physician failing to discuss this test and making it available to his client, his client now has prostate cancer that has metastasized into his system, has caused extreme pain and loss of quality of life, and his client can now anticipate an early and painful death due to his physician failing to offer what could have been a life-saving simple blood test. Can you imagine the sizeable amount of “damages” that would most likely be awarded the plaintiff?

Read More About this Article: https://biomedgrid.com/fulltext/volume4/pSA-testing-over-Treatment-active-surveillance-biopsy-value-no-pSA-for-elderly.000836.php

For more about: Journals on Biomedical Science :Biomed Grid | Current Issue

[angeltriestoblog]

I Miss 5 Seconds of Summer???

A few days after 5 Seconds of Summer held their concert in the Philippines last 2016, I wrote a blog post with this exact same title then went on to elaborate that I missed the version of them that I fell in love with. I’ve unarchived it so anyone who bothers to read this has a salient starting point, but be warned: I seriously can’t make it through the entire thing without suffering from a chronic cringe attack—who ever told 16-year-old me that she could write?!

—

I have listened to 5SOS’ entire discography almost exclusively today. But my Spotify followers wouldn’t know. In an expert attempt to evade their judgment, I go on Private Mode so I can cry to their music in peace. I’ve also been watching a couple of their videos too. My favorite is this live performance of Ghost of You where Calum Hood does some immaculate vocal blending at the 1:26 mark. I have my watch history paused though so I don’t get bombarded with more recommendations and end up spiraling further down the hole.

It’s funny how I think that removing every trace of related activity on my corner of the Internet could also erase it from my own memory, render it as a mere figment of my imagination instead of a clear manifestation that I’m starting to like them again. And it might seem even funnier that I am convinced that people care! But then again, I did unstan them pretty publicly a few years back following a misogynistic interview they did for an issue of Rolling Stone, which also featured all four of them almost fully nude on the cover.

To this day, I continue to dissect the piece with one part of me thinking that I might have overreacted, having seen and read it for the first time when I was 14 and much more of a prude, and the other knowing that I did not. In one paragraph, Luke Hemmings admits that during the early years of the band, they took advantage of the amount of female attention they were at the center of. “They were wildest on their early tours, when they’d go to bars to mingle with fans after shows,” it read.

In another, Hood talks quite nonchalantly about his infamous dick pic that made its rounds on the Internet the year before, and how it surprisingly gave the band a lot of publicity. “Now I’m just working on the sex tape,” he jokes. “I’ll call Pamela up, like, ‘Hey, it’s been a while. We really need to hype this band up!’”

Having risen to fame as the opening act of the clean-cut British-Irish group One Direction, 5SOS was immediately touted as a boyband—next in line to 1D’s throne, or competing with them for the crown, depends on which magazine you read. Though this exposure granted them a huge teenage fanbase (myself included), they hated the label that came with it. They constantly asserted that they played their own instruments and wrote their own songs, and behaved in a way that well-curated, expertly marketed groups would not: carefree, loud, playfully and forgivably naughty. No one would believe them though. People would say it’s the curse of being conventionally attractive in the music industry. You were almost always expected to be a popstar, a commodity that catered to the masses. But they tried anyway: maybe a lip ring and a couple of tattoos would do the trick, sprinkle some curse words here and there in interviews, get caught smoking or drinking.

That interview was their final act: their big-time effort to break away and hopefully land a spot amongst the rock bands they looked up to and wanted so desperately to impress. Even if it meant objectifying, mocking, and taking advantage of the girls who propelled them to stardom in the first place. Simply put, that interview was them desperately trying to get rid of fans like me. And so, I obliged.

—

Now that I’ve been staying at home for almost three months straight, I have revisited a lot of old favorites: poorly written fan fiction I used to eat up in my early teenage years, full seasons of Nickelodeon TV shows (only the good ones) downloaded off sketchy places on the Internet, my childhood journals filled with my loopy handwriting and family of stick figures. I know I’m not alone in this pursuit: it seems like we’re all holding on to remnants of our past to remind us that we have experienced better days, and they will surely come again soon.

I felt like it was inevitable I’d return to 5SOS because they had released their fourth full-length album during the first few weeks of the quarantine. Everywhere on social media, I was reminded that one single was out, and then another, and then another and I figured that it wouldn’t hurt to give it a try. After all, I did give Youngblood, their third record, a spin when it first came out as well. I thought their attempts at experimentation bordered on pretentiousness, and figured that if this was the musical direction they wanted to take, I’d surely hate every succeeding record as well.

But the problem was I really liked it. Although it wasn’t a no-skip album, each track was different from the rest, all showing a level of inventiveness and mastery of musical technique not present in previous releases. After playing the entire thing again and again, even the songs I didn’t vibe with at first started to grow on me. Turns out the beauty of Easier and Teeth is in the details: the thrumming bass at the beginning, the unconventional vocal inflections, best appreciated in an enclosed area with the volume on high. My amazement at how their musical style had progressed over the years led to me listening to all of their albums in chronological order, then rewatching some of their funniest interviews which were alarmingly easy to retrieve from memory.

During these times, I’ve wondered why I still remain curious about what they’re doing, why I still give their music a shot when I see it on my Release Radar. They never apologized for the article and I assume that they talk about things of that sort even more now that they’re older.

And I guess the answer is simple. Besides the fact that the music is honest to God amazing, they kind of made me who I am. Having found them during the height of my teen angst phase, I reveled in having idols who were open about rebelling against the system and forging our own paths despite being looked down on by those older than us. It was through them that I was introduced to bands that further diversified my taste in music, that I started experimenting with a more introspective type of writing that led to the style I employ to this day. I made so many good friends because of them, some of which are still in my life today. Looking back, I wouldn’t consider it the best version of myself but she was different. More importantly, she was really happy.

—

I am well-versed in the discourse surrounding problematic faves, and I know that if I ever find myself in such a situation, I have two options: either go down the productive, politically correct road and steer clear from them, or continue to consume their work but with the knowledge that what they did was inexcusable. I teeter between boycotting their music altogether—because even Spotify streams can be translated into revenue and there’s nothing that powers oppressors like financial stability and fame—and choosing to separate the art from the artist so I can appreciate good work without the reputation of its creator clouding my judgment.

I guess at this point, I probably am looking at them with rose-tinted glasses. I heard that some victims of even the most abusive and toxic relationships look back at their time with their former significant others with fondness. Though what I had with Calum, Ashton, Luke, and Michael was nowhere near romantic, and their transgressions far from a personal attack, maybe it applies to my situation too. I look at 5SOS now through the lens of the 14-year-old who embedded watching Keeks into her daily routine, or fell asleep listening to Heartbreak Girl on repeat and rejoiced when it hit 1,000 plays on her iTunes. They are no longer that band, and I am no longer that girl. And while it doesn’t hurt to remember the times when we were those people, I must remind myself that things can never go back to the way they were.

Maybe this doesn’t have to be as dramatic as I’m making it. But that’s the good thing about keeping this blog despite getting published on other corners of the Internet—I can make it as dramatic as I want to be.

[drcolumbosnotepad]

Being Mortal | When Breath Becomes Air | How We Die

The Fighting Temeraire  -  J.M.W. Turner 

Introduction  

Prelude III: Mortality – Santiago Wu

 At the break of dawn begins a new day,

Now I am one with the world,

To be part of something greater, I pray.

All of us part of the same mystery unfurled.

 Time past and time future,

Everything that came before,

To everything that follows.

All my love to long ago,

And my hopes for days to come.

Heart selfless, soul mindful.

Live, laugh, love —this  the meaning of life?

My candle burns at both ends.

All the places I’ll never see,

All the people I’ll never know.

This might be how it ends.

 Memento Mori - Remember that you have to die. 

Vanitas – Philippe de Champaigne

Death is inextricably entwined with life, hidden in the shadows patiently waiting to take us on the day we take our last breath.  Reading the accounts of dying men and women is truly humbling, whether it be in their twilight years or prematurely - death comes for all of us. All their stories and memories of human life and emotion: all the joy, love, laughter, tragedy, sorrow and regret willing us all to live more fulfilling, meaningful lives. 

If I were a writer of books, I would compile a register, with a comment, of the various deaths of men: he who should teach men to die would at the same time teach them to live.

That to Study Philosophy is to Learn to Die – Michel de Montaigne

 I think you always know the moment when you finish a book whilst digesting the last words and the text as a whole, its impact and importance in your personal life. The books I am writing about all discuss mortality – a taboo topic normally hushed about and swept underneath carpets. To read and understand the writings of these books in such a raw and honest fashion was a welcome albeit overwhelming change in gear. These books have had a massive impact personally and have formed an epoch in my life and attitudes to life and death. Being Mortal by Atul Gawande When Breath Becomes Air by Paul Kalanithi and How We Die by Sherwin Nuland are books which have the rare privilege of being read more than once, truly understood, annotated to grasp every fragment of detail of wisdom shared in their pages. The authors are doctors (American surgeons, all sons of immigrants). These men had the privilege and the burden of looking after and treating people with fatal illness in their daily practice. Their accounts are beautifully written, one from the perspective of a doctor looking after patients in their end of life and the other written as a patient facing his own death and one written in his twilight years recounting his medical practice and patients and sickness and death. I have heavily quoted all three books because I believe they offer profound wisdom which is literally life-affirming, in fact I have written this for myself as much as my reader in order to truly understand the essence of the lessons of what these three books and their themes can teach us.

I was first introduced to Atul Gawande from the 2014 Reith Lectures on BBC Radio 4 which were a series of four excellently given speeches on life, death and medicine. His deep research on medicine for the dying draws upon many different threads with a surgical precision. His striving to be better and to constantly improve is remarkable and sets a paragon of medical practice. I was humbled by his admissions and failures and his striving to be a better surgeon. The lectures provided a grounding to my burgeoning clinical experience and taught me to never take anything for granted – never to be complacent of my abilities because to have another human being’s life in your hands is a huge privilege which some say is playing god with a small ‘g’. He understands the fine line between offering false hope and deciding when to cut your losses which is never a clear choice. I immediately related to Paul Kalanithi’s love of literature. It is rare in medicine to meet someone who loves literature so much – stories of humanity, emotions ranging from highest peak to lowest ebb… I can tell this deep affection directly influenced his writing and indeed his medicine and approach to life. What made him unique was his relentless quest to search for life’s meaning. With his juggling of both art and science, I immediately remembered my own decision for choosing to enter medicine. Art reflects the universe whilst science explains it. Medicine married the two together. Though in modern medicine, science is king – like Paul Kalanithi, I have a strong affection for my first love of literature which I’ve come to realise expresses and sometimes even explains the universe in better ways than science can. Sherwin Nuland’s ground-breaking book How We Die has been mentioned in circles of medical humanities and referenced by Atul Gawande as the quintessential book on the medical viewpoint of death and mortality. It is easy to see why this book, though nearly thirty years old is still as relevant as ever today. The art of medicine has been revolutionised and become more efficient by multiple progressions and innovations in science and technology but at its heart remains the doctor-patient relationship which Sherwin Nuland writes about in a philosophical and humane way. He marries both medical science and the stories of his patients which from a medical point of view was an utter joy to read. Funny how things have changed since 1994 when Sherwin Nuland wrote his book and also how much they remain the same – sobering to know how despite our scientific and technological advances in medicine, our attitude towards death and dying patients is still primitive and myopic. In How We Die, Sherwin Nuland details the most common causes of death in the developed countries: cardiovascular disease, old age, stroke, infection, murder, HIV/AIDS, cancer in individual chapters with case studies based on his own patients or his family members.

The theme of death and mortality explored in these books led me to think a lot about them especially in my early medical career. When I first started this blog, I wrote of great figures in human history that have sadly left us and their medical conditions. From a great fighter to an entrepreneur to a musician, all were unique human beings with different qualities but what united all of them – and also us, is death. Death is something that is often misconstrued in our modern lives, whether we euphemise, sugar-coat or indeed fear it. The old saying of De mortuis nil nisi bonum or ‘Do not speak ill of the dead’ and Requiescat in pace or ‘Rest in Peace’ pervades our lives even today. We feel sadness when great figures die because of the finality of death – there is no return, we will never know what would have come next. We are reminded of our own lives and within our limited time we too are able to achieve something great. Of course, it is foolish to be able to condense every reference and understand them completely, that will take more than a lifetime to study, a Sisyphean task – death and ars moriendi (the art of dying) being perhaps the biggest and most universal theme of human life across all cultures. There are still works by Heidegger, Nietzsche, the Bible, the Tibetan Book of the Dead, I Ching, the Mahabharata, the Vedas, the Quran, countless poets, novelists, philosophers, scientists etc. that I haven't been able to read in this time, this of course is a study over generations upon generations who still are uncertain about the question of death. I cannot answer these questions death poses, there are mountains upon mountains I will need to ascend in order to catch the slightest glimpse of an understanding. I myself cannot even expect to offer the slightest bit of eloquence of my own voice – I elect instead to let great men and women do that for me for may I learn from them and one day pass on this knowledge. After spending the past year contemplating on death and mortality and reading around the topics from great accounts by humanity, I am certain that what this teaches us is the appreciation of life now in the present. None of us knows when we will die, only we know for certain that we will die. In our cycles of time, this is our time on Earth, our time to live. How we come to peace with death and our mortality is focus of these books I have mentioned and the lessons we can all learn from them.

As I child, I had devoured the Roald Dahl books like any other kid in school I loved his dark wit and unpatronizing creativity in his novels where they provided the first forays into my love for books and imagination. One thing always struck me in his books that I never truly understood until my youth, was his motto that preceded each and every one of his novels. I had a much loved, battered double copy of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory & Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator which I had read several times over. The motto that perplexed me well throughout my childhood was:

My candle burns at both ends it will not last the night. But oh my foes and ah my friends, it gives a lovely light!

How apt of Roald Dahl! Even in children's novels he never hid death from them – didn't the twits shrink away into nothingness and didn't James' parents get squashed by a rhinoceros? It's a beautiful motto, the transience and beauty of life condensed into four lines. When I look back over my life, over petty arguments, being let down and hurt by others, showing loved ones my worst side – I am deeply humbled. Life is short, I don't want it to be marred by acrimony and bitterness and regret. Those are the things that don't matter, the bitter pill you stow away at the back of the mind to learn a cruel lesson from and yet cringe at who you could be and hopefully were. There isn't room for such sourness, when you read the accounts of the dying – there is often the bittersweet feeling of regret and missed opportunity as seen in Top Five Regrets of the Dying by Bronnie Ware, a palliative care nurse.

https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2012/feb/01/top-five-regrets-of-the-dying

Here we must focus on the important things – the old sayings of ‘letting the little things go’, and ‘don’t sweat the small stuff’ are true. Do we hold a grudge to everybody who has wronged us? If that’s the case then we’d only hold a grudge to everybody because as Bob Marley said “The truth is everyone is going to hurt you. You just got to find the ones suffering for.” Life is too short for all of the pettiness and trivialities. Forgive and love, it’s the best antidote to bitterness and the best steps to self-love for through only loving ourselves can we love others.

Wherever your life ends, it is all there. The utility of living consists not in the length of days, but in the use of time; a man may have lived long, and yet lived but a little. Make use of time while it is present with you. It depends upon your will, and not upon the number of days, to have a sufficient length of life. Is it possible you can imagine never to arrive at the place towards which you are continually going? and yet there is no journey but hath its end. And, if company will make it more pleasant or more easy to you, does not all the world go the self-same way?

That to Study Philosophy is to Learn to Die - Michel de Montaigne

The Starry Night - Vincent Van Gogh 

Medicine and death

The Doctor – Sir Luke Fildes

“To me, the subject will be more pathetic than any, terrible perhaps, but yet more beautiful.”

Being mortal is about the struggle to cope with the constraints of our biology, with the limits set by genes and cells and flesh and bone. Medical science has given us remarkable power to push against these limits, and the potential value of this power was a central reason I became a doctor. But again and again, I have seen the damage we in medicine do when we fail to acknowledge that such power is finite and always will be.

             We’ve been wrong about what our job is in medicine. We think our job is to ensure health and survival. But really it is larger than that. It is to enable well-being. And well-being is about the reasons one wishes to be alive. Those reasons matter not just at the end of life, or when debility comes, but all along the way. Whenever serious sickness or injury strikes and your body or mind breaks down, the vital questions are the same: What is your understanding of the situation and its potential outcomes? What are your fears and what are your hopes? What are the trade-offs you are willing to make and not willing to make? And what is the course of action that best serves this understanding?

             The field of palliative care emerged over recent decades to bring this kind of thinking to the care of dying patients. And the specialty is advancing, bringing the same approach to other seriously ill patients, whether dying or not. This is cause for encouragement. But it is not cause for celebration. That will be warranted only when all clinicians apply such thinking to every person they touch. No separate specialty required.

             If to be human is to be limited, then the role of caring professions and institutions – from surgeons to nursing homes – ought to be aiding people in their struggle with those limits. Sometimes we can offer a cure, sometimes only a salve, sometimes not even that. But whatever we can offer, our interventions, and the risks and sacrifices they entail, are justified only if they serve the larger aims of a person’s life. When we forget that, the suffering we inflict can be barbaric. When we remember it the good we do can be breathtaking.

             I never expected that among the most meaningful experiences I’d have as a doctor – and, really, as a human being – would come from helping others deal with what medicine cannot do as well as what it can. But it’s proved true, whether with a patient like Jewel Douglass, a friend like Peg Bachelder, or someone I loved as much as my father.

Being Mortal – Atul Gawande p259-260

 Having the medical perspective of death is something strangely inhuman. The first death with everyone is upsetting and everyone reacts in their own way. Yet witnessing death on a daily occurrence begins to offset this shock to the system, becoming a routine to which medical professional need to learn how to cope with death. Doctors and nurses in A&E departments don’t stop with each death, rather they move onto the next pressing case to attempt to succeed where they failed before. Paramedics share dark humour about death and gore in order to deal with what they see every day. Porters transporting the recently deceased to the morgue don’t cry over the tragedy. Pathologists inspecting the corpses of patients to determine a cause of death don’t become overwhelmed with grief. This desensitisation to death is a double-edged sword, it allows us to function when it should overwhelm us with grief yet does it detach us from our common human empathy, forgetting or indeed denying to ourselves what it feels like? Indeed, I remember my first deaths I saw as medical student, I have always been too guarded and perhaps too detached to cry but the spectre of death haunted me where I felt its presence after seeing a failed cardiac arrest or whilst on an ambulance shift seeing an old man surrounded by his family slowly stop breathing until there were no more breaths. Often, I have reminisced and dreamt about these experiences, I still remember them freshly and yet I still do not know my own thoughts and feelings on them.

As Atul Gawande shows in the second chapter aptly named Things Fall Apart – named after the Chinua Achebe novel which consequently was named after a line in the W.B. Yeats poem The Second Coming ‘Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;’ When we look at death as a cross sectional timeline we tend to map it in certain ways.

The first is the classic model of how we perceive our lives and death. The classic timeline of good health until old age – when health begins to deteriorate until death.

Advances in medical practice have allowed for previous fatal chronic diseases to be treated and hence the ebbing and flowing of improvements and exacerbations in health until senescence takes place. As each second becomes a minute, as each minute becomes an hour, as each hour becomes a day, as each day becomes a month, as each month becomes a year, as each year becomes a decade, we are all ageing with time. Senescence is defined as biological ageing – the gradual deterioration of function. If disease does not take us, then old age surely will.

 The third graph Atul Gawande shares with us is the graph of old age, so often medicalised given the plethora of diseases that occur in one’s twilight years. Old age and dying is the primary subject matter of his book where our medical fiddling of patching over the punctures of disease becoming a long, slow fade towards death. How then can we prepare for the inevitable? With every new wrinkle and grey hair, we know we are inching towards old age. With the 150,000 people who die on earth each day, two-thirds are due to old age. In essence, it is a miracle that medical progress has taken us this far, as proposed by Abdul Omran an epidemiologist, quoted by Dr Jonathan Reiner in Dick Cheney’s book Heart, there are three progressive stages of population longevity in the USA: age of pestilence and famine, age of receding pandemics, the age of degenerative and man-made diseases. In our modern age, instead of infectious diseases being the predominant source of mortality in developed countries with the dawn of scientific breakthroughs such as vaccinations and nutritional improvements, this modern post-industrial age presents itself with ischaemic heart disease as the number one most common fatal disease – our new sedentary, calorific lives alongside the meddling of tobacco companies have surely contributed to this. Indeed, as Montaigne wrote in the late sixteenth century. “To die of age is a rare, singular, and extraordinary death, and so much less natural than others: it is the last and extremest kind of dying”. During Montaigne’s time the average life expectancy was nothing to the years we clock up in our modern times with the average age of death now in the UK as 81.60 years.

DNAR stands for Do Not Attempt Resuscitation, it is a form filled out that I have seen in hospitals for patients who are approaching the end of their life or if they are about to have a high risk procedure. The number of times I have seen the form filled out is countless and seeing it from the doctor's perspective as a medical necessity but seeing it from the, often, elderly patient's perspective you note a sign of resignation, fear and sadness. For these patients, they are forced to confront with what might be the end. Patients who are dying will often grieve over their borrowed time left.

 The desensitisation of the significance of death from being in the medical field is an odd feeling. When something becomes routine, we become normalised to it. Countless times I have seen doctors and nurses, sign away the paperwork and send the patient to the morgue. My first time seeing someone die was indeed difficult – a cardiac arrest but there’s now a commonplace lack of novelty around death I have often wondered if I was losing my humanity.

                 I had started in this career, in part, to pursue death: to grasp it, unclear it, and see it eye-to-eye, unblinking. Neurosurgery attracted me as much for its intertwining of brain and consciousness as for its intertwining of life and death. I had thought that a life spent in the space between the two would grant me not merely a stage for compassionate action but an elevation of my own being: getting as far away from petty materialism, from self-important trivia, getting right there, to truly life-and-death decisions and struggles… surely a kind of transcendence would be found there?

               But in residency, something else was gradually unfolding. In the midst of this barrage of head injuries, I began to suspect that being so close to the fiery light of such moments only blinded me to their nature, like trying to learn astronomy by staring directly at the sun. I was not yet with patients in their pivotal moments, I was merely at those pivotal moments. I observed a lot of suffering; worse, I became inured to it. Drowning, even in blood, one adapts, learns to afloat, to swim, even to enjoy life, bonding with the nurses, doctors, and others who are clinging to the same raft, caught in the same tide.

When Breath Becomes Air P80-2

 This level of detachment I see from colleagues is understandable when we realise the alternative is to open ourselves up to our patients’ pain where we share their grief and predicament. The sheer heat of emotions we experience will also cloud our judgement that we may not be able to serve others who need our care in the best possible way. I remember a session on being taught ‘breaking bad news’ to patients where one horror story came from the doctor breaking down in front his patient and was in turn comforted by the very person he was meant to comfort. The abode to be cruel to be kind is commonplace in medicine, administering a vaccination to a young child, inserting needles to take blood from patients, using scalpels to open the flesh in surgery. There’s a lot of pain in medicine and being swamped and desensitised to it, to an outsider looking in, may see us as cold or inhuman. Indeed, I believed that too as a young medical student but now I realise, it’s just the only human response we can have.

 But it is so very difficult to tell your patient that there is nothing more that can be done, that there is no hope left, that it is time to die. And then there is always the fear that you might be wrong, that maybe the patient is right to hope against hope, to hope for a miracle, and maybe you should operate one more time. It can become a sort of folie à deux, where both doctor and patient cannot bear reality.

…

I have learned over the years that when ‘breaking bad news’ as it is called, it is probably best to speak as little as possible. These conversations, by their very nature, are slow and painful and I must overcome my urge to talk and talk to fill the sad silence.

…

I drove away in a turmoil of confused emotions. I quickly became stuck in the rush-hour traffic, and furiously cursed the cars and their drivers as though it was their fault that this good and noble man should die and leave his wife a widow and his young children fatherless. I shouted and cried and stupidly hit the steering wheel with my fists. And I felt shame, not at my failure to save his life – his treatment had been as good as it could be – but at my loss of professional detachment and what felt like the vulgarity of my distress compared to his composure and his family’s suffering, to which I could only bear impotent witness.

Do No Harm – Henry Marsh P151-3

It is a horrible feeling, that somebody’s life is ruined and is at its near end, but we still have patients to treat, our own lives to lead and life goes on…That is the burden of our professional detachment. It’s a delicate fine line to balance upon, I do not suspect that doctors signing DNAR forms find it easy – whether they empathise with the patient’s resignation or whether they are starkly reminded of their own mortality. It is never easy, but the only way is to keep moving forward.

In the medical field, we have the enormous privilege of being with our patients in their lives from cradle to grave – at their strongest but also at their weakest, where the fear of their lives are in our hands. We are bound by a sacred confidentiality to protect our patients and our duty upheld by the four pillars of ethics: respect for autonomy, benevolence, non-maleficence and justice.

Sometimes it is forgotten the fear of what patients go through whether it be a simple medication, routine operation, or terminal diagnosis. The Kübler-Ross model is an oversimplified form of the stages of grief that patients will go through when faced with a terminal diagnosis though not necessarily in this order:

Denial

Anger

Bargaining

Depression

Acceptance

Although oversimplified, the stages give an indication and ballpark figure to gauge what emotions patients are feeling during this difficult time. This is a difficult time for all involved, one of the most if not the most testing time in our lives. This is because we are confronted the cruel finality of death. There won’t be another story following this, this is it – the final chapter. Atul Gawande interviews various medical professionals working in the field of palliative care – the specialty of terminal end of life care. Both Atul Gawande and Paul Kalanithi mention how doctors can bombard patients with information in order to provide informed consent – as both authors say “Doctor informative”, yet both realise the limitations of this approach where the anxiety of patients can be exacerbated by flooding of information when they still do not know how to compute the diagnosis just given.

             The options overwhelmed her. They all sounded terrifying. She didn’t know what to do. I realized with shame, that I’d reverted back to being Dr Informative – here are the facts and figures; what do you want to do? So I stepped back and asked the questions I’d asked my father: What were her biggest fears and concerns? What goals were most important to her? What trade-offs was she willing to make, and what ones was she not?

             Not everyone is able to answer such questions, but she did. She said she wanted to be without pain, nausea, or vomiting. She wanted to eat. Most of all, she wanted to get back on her feet. Her biggest fear was that she wouldn’t be able to live life again and enjoy it – that she wouldn’t be able to return home and be with the people she loved.

             As for what trade-offs she was willing to make, what sacrifices she was willing to endure now for the possibility of more time later, “Not a lot,” she said. Her perspective on time was shifting, focusing her on the present and those closest to her. She told me uppermost in her mind was a wedding that weekend that she was desperate not to miss. “Arthur’s brother is marrying my best friend,” she said. She’d set them up on their first date. Now the wedding was just two days away, on Saturday at 1:00 p.m. “It’s the best thing,” she said. Her husband was going to be the ring bearer. She was supposed to be a bridesmaid. She was willing to do anything to be there, she said.

             The direction suddenly became clear. Chemotherapy had only a slim chance of improving her current situation and it came at substantial cost to the time she had now. An operation would never let her get to the wedding, either. So we made a plan to see if we could get her there. We’d have her come back afterward to decide on the next steps.

Being Mortal P234-5

 In medicine, the aim is to minimise mortality. We aim to stay up to date with research and novel techniques in order to gain a more positive outcome for all of our patients through the use of scientific data. The Kaplan-Meier curve is an estimator of survival from lifetime data. It is used in medical research, it is used to measure the fraction of patients living for a certain amount of time after treatment. In both Being Mortal and When Breath Becomes Air, the Kaplan-Meier curve was referenced citing both its usefulness but also, its limitations. The Kaplan-Meier curve is purely an estimator and the trends it gives are too general for individual cases. For instance, who's to say that our patients will not fall in the unlucky few that the trend ignores? As seen in Paul Kalanithi's account:

 The word hope first appeared in English about a thousand years ago, denoting some combination of confidence and desire. But what I desired – life – was not wat I was confident about – death. When I talked about hope, then, did I really mean, “Leave some room for unfounded desire?” No. Medical statistics not only describe numbers such as mean survival, they measure our confidence in our numbers, with tools like confidence levels, confidence intervals, and confidence bounds. So did I mean “Leave some room for a statistically improbably but still plausible outcome – a survival just above the measured 95 percent confidence interval?” Is that what hope was? Could we divide the curve into existential sections, from “defeated” to “pessimistic” to “realistic” to “hopeful” to “delusional”? Weren’t the numbers just the numbers? Had we all just given in to the “hope” that every patient was above average?

When Breath Becomes Air P133-4

Kaplan-Meier Curve example

Patients when faced with their terminal diagnosis usually do not want to discuss statistics and outcome data. The flawed approach of medical practice is often being in a medical echo chamber where we are within a bubble without yet realising there are patients who do not understand with what exactly they are going through. Most patients haven’t gone through medical training and are not well versed in medical jargon, the bombardment of information can flood the senses and alienate them.

Both Being Mortal and When Breath Becomes Air allude to a future of medicine that is more patient value driven. Of time becoming short and death imminent, what are your values? If you had a bucket-list - what would you place in your top 10, and which ones would you resign away and yet be okay if you didn’t get to complete them? Atul Gawande alludes to Daniel Kahneman’s fantastic book Thinking Fast and Slow which I cannot recommend highly enough. Here he refers to what is termed the Peak-End Rule where upon asking patients to recount an event whose memory has become blurred with time, what is remembered follows this rule. The ‘peak’ or the most memorable part of the event – i.e. a incredibly touching moment, a beautiful goal scored, a worst painful moment of a procedure, and the ‘End’ where we remember the concluding moments of the event. For example, during the 2002 World Cup qualifiers – I remember vividly David Beckham scoring the equalising goal against Greece to send England into the finals. The game had its moments but was a poor performance from the England team. Greece were leading England 2-1 into the 93rd minute and it looked like England were out of the World Cup. Then England were awarded a free kick, and what happened next was history. Even as a seven-year-old, my memories of watching that rather drab football match were elevated considerably in literally the dying seconds of David Beckham scoring that free kick. Atul Gawande notes the story we write ourselves – the narrative of our life. For human beings, life is meaningful because it is a story. A story has a sense of a whole, and its arc is determined by the significant moments, the ones where something happens. We distinguish our experiencing self – which is absorbed in the moment with the remembering self – recognising the peaks of joy and valleys of misery but also how the story works out as a whole. As we know from all stories, endings matter. And no more so than the ending of our lives.

In Abraham Maslow’s A Theory of Human Motivation, it is proposed there is a hierarchy of needs with basic needs for physiological survival, and safety at the bottom, above this is the need for love and belonging, and above this is the desire for growth – attaining personal goals, mastering knowledge and skills, recognition and reward for our achievements. At the crest of the pyramid of this hierarchy of needs is what Maslow terms ‘self-actualization’ – self-fulfilment through pursuit of moral ideals and creativity for their own sake. This is all good and well when we believe we are invincible – everybody wants to live forever but once faced with death – what then becomes important to you?

 How we seek to spend our time may depend on how much time we perceive ourselves to have. When you are young and healthy, you believe you will live forever. You do not worry about losing any of your capabilities. People tell you “the world is your oyster,” “the sky is the limit,” and so on. And you are willing to delay gratification – to invest years, for example, in gaining skills and resources for a brighter future. You seek to plug into bigger streams of knowledge and information. You widen your networks of friends and connections, instead of hanging out with your mother. When horizons are measured in decades, which might as well be infinity to human beings, you most desire all that stuff at the top of Maslow’s pyramid – achievement, creativity, and other attributes of “self-actualization.” But as your horizons contract – when you see the future ahead of you as finite and uncertain – your focus shifts to the here and now, to everyday pleasures and the people closest to you.

Being Mortal p97

 We need to discuss what is important to a patient who is dying with the utmost importance, we know what one wants at twenty will be drastically different to what one wants at sixty. Similarly, what one wants now may be completely different to six months down the line, all of this even more important now that time is running out and its finite sands trickling away.

 Arriving at an acceptance of one’s mortality and a clear understanding of the limits and the possibilities of medicine is a process, not an epiphany.

 ...

“I wish things were different.”

“If time becomes short, what is most important to you?”

Being Mortal P182

 We so often deprive the elderly of choice with regimented medication schedules and restriction of even going outside the house for fear of them falling of injuring themselves. Even in this age of patient-centred care, what hasn’t been realised is what the patient wants. It is this failure in health to recognise that the sick and aged have priorities beyond merely being safe and living longer; that the chance to shape one’s story is essential to sustaining meaning in life.

 Wants are fickle. And everyone has what philosophers call “second-order desires” – desires about our desires. We may wish, for instance to be less impulsive, more healthy, less controlled by primitive desires like fear or hunger, more faithful to larger goals. Doctors who listen to only the momentary, first-order desires may not be serving their patients’ real wishes, after all. We often appreciate clinicians who push us when we make shortsighted choices, such as skipping our medications or not getting enough exercise. And often adjust to changes we initially fear. At some point, therefore it becomes not only right but also necessary for a doctor to deliberate with people on their larger goals, to even challenge them to rethink ill-considered priorities and beliefs.

Being Mortal p202

It is this independence and autonomy that gives a patient their dignity – their freedom and their choice to do how they wish. I think everyone wishes to be treated with respect and have their own freedom in their end of years, it is only human to do so. All it takes is basic human empathy to realise how we treat our elderly patients and elderly family members and friends and understand the golden rule in religion: Treat others how you want to be treated.

 Medicine, now no less than then, is the art of nurturing the sick to a state of health and recognizing when it is impossible to do so. Should that be the case, ways must be found to de-medicalize the final weeks or days, to nurture the dying and those who love them, and by this means to nurture ourselves. The real truth of healing lies in the nurture.

How We Die P288

 All we ask is to be allowed to remain the writers of our own story. That story is ever changing. Over the course of our lives, we may encounter unimaginable difficulties. Our concerns and desires may shift. But whatever happens, we want to retain the freedom to shape our lives in ways consistent with our character and loyalties.

             This is why the betrayals of body and mind that threaten to erase our character and memory remain among our most awful tortures. The battle of being mortal is the battle to maintain the integrity of one’s life – to avoid becoming so diminished or dissipated or subjugated that who you are becomes disconnected from who you were or who you want to be. Sickness and old age make the struggle hard enough. The professionals and institutions we turn to should not make it worse. But we have last entered an era in which an increasing number of them believe their job is not to confine people’s choices, in the name of safety, but to expand them, in the name of living a worthwhile life.

Being Mortal p140-141

The Dance of Death

Unity of death

Michel de Montaigne, a figure so renowned he earned his place in history as one of Ralph Waldo Emerson’s Reputable Men thought deeply about death and mortality amongst other topics and emphasises this point with profound eloquence. His Essay “That to Study Philosophy is to Learn to Die” is a serene meditation of death and life that expresses the contemplation of death far more eloquently than I could ever do it justice.

—let us learn bravely to stand our ground, and fight him. And to begin to deprive him of the greatest advantage he has over us, let us take a way quite contrary to the common course. Let us disarm him of his novelty and strangeness, let us converse and be familiar with him, and have nothing so frequent in our thoughts as death.

That to Study Philosophy is to Learn to Die – Michel de Montaigne

Each of us is facing the same fate; all of us united in the face of death. To death, none of us knows how to react really. Yet we know it's there hanging before us, like Cicero's account of the Sword of Damocles. Nothing in life is ever guaranteed. Our memories of the past and our hope for the future. To our love to long ago and our love for days to come.

I began to realise that coming in such close contact with my own mortality had changed both nothing and everything. Before my cancer was diagnosed, I knew that someday I would die, but I didn’t know when. After the diagnosis, I knew that someday I would die, but I didn’t know when. But now I knew it acutely. The problem wasn’t really a scientific one. The fact of death is unsettling. Yet there is no other way to live.

When Breath Becomes Air P132

Across all cultures from the Mexican tradition of Dia de Muertos (All Souls Day) and Hallowe’en – a contraction of All Hallows’ Evening, Chinese tradition of the Ghost Festival (盂蘭節), Pitri Paksha (पितृ पक्ष) or fortnight of the ancestors, the Japanese term mono no aware (物の哀れ) or the pathos of things. The veneration of the dead where descendants pay their respects to their ancestors is shared across all cultures, no matter the difference in our tongues.

We all strive to understand the mystery of death, where do we go after we die? Will this love survive of us? Was my life a life well spent? These questions are universal and unanswerable. The only thing we know for certain is the only time we have is in the present.

The fear in life is to live a life unspent. Regret is the cruellest wound, like in T.S. Eliot’s narrator in The Love Song of J.Alfred Prufrock, the stings of missed opportunities and paralysing neuroticism tinges the poem with the bitterness of living a life like his.

“We bones, lying here bare, await yours.” in Capela dos Ossos

 Vita brevis breviter in brevi finietur,

mors venit velociter quae neminem veretur,

omnia mors perimit et nulli miseretur.

Ad mortem festinamus peccare desistamus.

 Life is short, it will end; Death comes quickly and respects no one, It destroys everything and has no mercy. To death we are hastening let us refrain from sinning.

 Ad Mortem Festinamus from the Llibre Vermell de Montserrat

 There is our fear and loathing against death – like Beethoven shaking his fist at the thunderstorm on his deathbed, or Dylan Thomas’ plea to his dying father. How many of us have been deprived of our future and dreams by lives cut short. Life is never fair when the good may suffer and the evil may revel. We’re all victim to death’s blind snatching of us.

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Do not go gentle into that good night 

- Dylan Thomas

The final monologue of Pozzo in Waiting for Godot notes the cruelty of ephemeral life and a resounding cry against death and old age in his final lines in the play:

POZZO:

(suddenly furious.) Have you not done tormenting me with your accursed time! It's abominable! When! When! One day, is that not enough for you, one day he went dumb, one day I went blind, one day we'll go deaf, one day we were born, one day we shall die, the same day, the same second, is that not enough for you? (Calmer.) They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it's night once more. (He jerks the rope.) On! Exeunt Pozzo and Lucky. Vladimir follows them to the edge of the stage, looks after them. The noise of falling, reinforced by mimic of Vladimir, announces that they are down again. Silence. Vladimir goes towards Estragon, contemplates him a moment, then shakes him awake.

Waiting For Godot – Act 2 – Samuel Beckett

Such in life, what we make of it is how we live. We cannot be overwhelmed by life's brevity, from the Buddhist concept of anicca (impermanence) there is still meaning to be found in life with our families and friends and our fellow human beings. Do resign ourselves to the disillusionment with the disregard of the cosmos like Meursault in Albert Camus’ L’Etranger? We can be all too paralysed with a myopic view upon death where we creep ever deeper into the rabbit-hole of existential crisis, unable to see the wood for the trees. Being inevitable, countless philosophers and wise thinkers have argued our fear of death is pointless. There is a fine line one treads between accepting death resignedly and passively overwhelmed by the indifference of the universe or fearing death.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KXxw-zXRqOs

And which of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life’s span?

Luke 12:25

Yet death is scary, it’s terrifying in fact. It’s the finality of death that makes it so powerful and why it has been feared by our ancestors generations and generations before us. Being aware of our death makes us fearful of how we wish to live, what we wish to achieve, the opportunities we see hanging before us – the most powerful impulse in our life. We cannot escape it through fear because death is the one thing we cannot run away from. Though fear remains, it isn’t the fear of the mystery of death rather the fear of what we may not be able to do, achieve, live in our limited time on Earth.

Such is the importance of the philosophy of how we decide to live our lives, whether it is through religion, philosophy, family, community etc. we need to find meaning in our lives because our days are numbered and we need to make them count.

As Matt Haig argues in his beautiful book Reasons Not To Die “We can just use it in life. For instance, I find that being grimly aware of mortality can make me steadfastly determined to enjoy life where life can be enjoyed. It makes me value precious moments with my children, and with the woman I love. It adds intensity in bad ways, but also good ways.”

Reasons Not To Die – Matt Haig

 No matter how brief our lives are, we can still find beauty in its brevity like mayflies rising and falling where we can choose to make it a life well spent. I think all of us face this existential question at some point in our lives where we feel the sands of time trickling away or facing abject boredom as Heidegger describes facing anxiety over your life’s meaning: “Profound boredom, drifting here and there in the abysses of our existence like a muffling fog, removes all things and men and oneself along with it into a remarkable indifference.” It is this boredom when we feel the fear of a conditional life never spent. Boredom I feel is the directionless passivity of allowing yourself to be swept up by the tides and waves of time. That’s why it’s so important to have a purpose, values in life that can steer yourself to a destination where you want to reach. Carpe Diem as the old saying goes, “I am not throwing away my shot!,”

 So teach us to number our days, that we may present to You a heart of wisdom.

Psalm 90:12

 “The universe is not pregnant with life nor the biosphere with man…Man at last knows that he is alone in the unfeeling immensity of the universe, out of which he emerged only by chance. His destiny is nowhere spelled out, nor is his duty. The kingdom above or the darkness below; it is for him to choose” 

Jacques Monod

  Ageing and growing old

People want to share memories, pass on wisdoms and keepsakes, settle relationships, establish their legacies, make peace with God, and ensure that those who are left behind will be okay. They want to end their stories on their own terms.

Being Mortal p249

I’ve spoken to elderly patients in the hospital who are simply waiting, waiting to be seen, waiting for treatment, hopefully waiting for the family and friends that never visit. I’ve found myself guiltily detaching myself from the history taking after an hour and a half which I’ve allowed to go on for so long (the history is expected to be taken in less than 10 minutes) because I simply know that they have no one else to speak to, and I may be the only comfort they have in a place that’s too busy for them. It’s a pitiable state and I tried not to realise myself in their situation too much because I very much fear that – the loneliness of existence, your children not even bothering to pay a visit and the doctors and nurses too busy for you, may be me one day. I remember when I was volunteering at an elderly care home on every Sunday afternoon during my teenage years, this being the same care home my Grandmother went to during her twilight years, I always remembered the staff being especially friendly whenever we visited Granny and in volunteering there I hoped I could give something back to their support they gave her. Stepping into the care home, after a few months of volunteering a strange realisation dawned on me. I had never seen any of the residents’ relatives. Of course, this might be down to chance on a Sunday afternoon window where I may have missed them but the look on the residents’ faces betrayed that. They were always ecstatic (which admittedly unnerved me a little initially) whenever I came always eager to share their stories with me. Some weeks they would forget who I was briefly then the slow recognition of who I was as I handed over their tea. I saw the cruelty of dementia threatening to deprive them of their memories and realised then why they wanted to pass on their stories so eagerly so that they may never be forgotten. I met wonderful people there including one Joan Regan who struck me as a woman who was very beautiful in her prime. Joan recounted stories of her youth and her singing career with joy as I listened eagerly. Then one day after locking my bike and getting ready to serve the tea and biscuits, I realised that there was one person missing from the round. Joan wasn’t there. I heard from one of the nurses that she had passed away earlier in the week. The surprising snatching of life at death’s hands came once again, the void Joan left in that room was never filled again.

The specialty of geriatrics is the care for elderly patients i.e. all patients over the age of 65 and gerontology which is the study of the ageing process itself. The care for the elderly is in itself its own specialty given the increased complexity of the decreased physiological reserve the elderly have which in turn presents with increased complications with problems and disease. Many of these elderly patients are on polypharmacy – on a number of different drugs, many of which are to treat the side effects of a certain toxic effect of another, as Paracelsus said: Alle Dinge sind Gift, und nichts ist ohne Gift, allein die Dosis macht dass ein Ding kein Gift ist. All things are poison, and nothing is without poison, the dosage alone makes it so a thing is not a poison. The drugs which treat are also poisonous and hence strict monitoring of the medication is needed for fear of pushing a patient’s condition into a worse state by iatrogenic problems – problems caused by medical interference.

How we monitor the care for the elderly is measuring their activities of daily living (ADLs), a group of eight markers of basic physical independence: toileting, eating, bathing, grooming, get out of bed, get out of a chair, walking. After often a prolonged stay in hospital, the worst thing to do would be to discharge a patient unable to perform these ADLs independently and hence cause themselves further harm. A study by the University of Minnesota found elderly patients under the care of a geriatrics team were a quarter less likely to become disabled and half as likely to develop depression. This is remarkable, and it is clear why, geriatric teams have set out especially to treat the needs of the elderly and the problems of ageing which other specialties overrun with political and economic burdens on their health systems may overlook.

…In almost none does anyone sit down with you and try to figure out what living a life really means to you under the circumstances, let alone help you make a home where that life becomes possible.

This is the consequence of society that faces the final phase of the human life cycle by trying not to think about it. We end up with institutions that address any number of societal goals – from freeing up hospital beds to taking burdens off families’ hands to coping with poverty among the elderly – but never the goal that matters to the people who reside in them: how to make life worth living when we’re weak and frail and can’t fend for ourselves anymore.

Being Mortal p76-77

The values we see in young children and values which have been handed down over the years: filial piety, mutual respect, treating your neighbour as if you wish to be treated yourself, kindness, gratitude etc. These values are old and they count for something important for they teach us how to live meaningfully. The Japanese have the terms Hanami (flower viewing) where the cherry blossoms start to bloom and Momijigari (leaf peeping) in which the flowers of summer turn into a deep autumnal maple red. There’s a dignity and great beauty in entering the autumn of our years. Such are the seasons of time, we rise, and we fall for the new generation to take its place.

In our ageing population, where in the UK over 10 million are aged 65 or over, these values have never been more important. The elderly population face the trials and tribulations of old age which is a slow frustrating taunt where you slowly become more and more aware of your limitations of your failing body. The circle of life where you are dependent as a child, growing into an independent adult at our zenith, only to become reluctantly dependent in old age. As our grandparents and parents enter their autumnal years, it is key that we are always there for them. Though they may walk a little slower, stoop in their posture, their hearing and eyesight slowly diminish, they are still our heads of our family – the wise voices from the past who have learnt from experience and mistakes as they learnt from their forefathers passing on valuable advice for us in our generation now so that we may pass it on to our future generations.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VkoDUFNRqpw&feature=youtu.be&app=desktop

The fear is being in the predicament of those poor, elderly patients I have seen in hospital all alone. I cannot help but feel an indignant anger towards their children, how they have failed in their duties as children. And how we have failed as a society that we allow the old to die scared and lonely? Have we become a less compassionate world? I see the arrogance of the young, a contempt for the old and sick by princelings and little princesses spoiled into becoming narcissists who only care for their own needs? When we evaluate how we treat our elders in society and family, our lack of empathy and the lack of dignity we give them is appalling in many cases. The medicalisation of ageing where we sedate them with drugs and try to quiet down their ‘delirium’ whilst worst of abandoning them to isolation whereby we blame their limitations on them.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ww8CH62FZB0

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RFc19I3flJM

The elderly still have a lot to offer us, they are not castaways who no longer have any use in society – that is false. We are entering tumultuous, fearful times ahead in our world, we need their patient guiding hands to show us the way who have gone through difficult times themselves. In our age of nuclear families, we have slowly cut off from our parents and grandparents in the extended family model. This deprives us of an extended kinship that grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins, family friends that can provide vital support to the family. No man is an island after all. Young men and women will speak with their grandparents and know that one day the same fate of ageing awaits them, a humbleness to forces greater than all of us and that we all want the same thing – a meaningful life well spent.

When we take photos, record in a diary, compile an album, we are trying to save the moment, whether it be a child’s first steps, a wedding, a graduation, these are the accumulation of memories that may fondly remembered for future days. Nostalgia and poignancy colour our past days so that we can affirm to ourselves that our days were not in vain.

No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine own were: any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bells tolls; it tolls for thee.

Meditation XVII – Now, this bell tolling softly for another, says to me: Thou must die - John Donne

Time and Life

What a ridiculous thing it is to trouble ourselves about taking the only step that is to deliver us from all trouble! As our birth brought us the birth of all things, so in our death is the death of all things included. And therefore to lament that we shall not be alive a hundred years hence, is the same folly as to be sorry we were not alive a hundred years ago. Death is the beginning of another life. So did we weep, and so much it cost us to enter into this, and so did we put off our former veil in entering into it. Nothing can be a grievance that is but once. Is it reasonable so long to fear a thing that will so soon be despatched? Long life, and short, are by death made all one; for there is no long, nor short, to things that are no more.

That to Study Philosophy is to Learn to Die – Michel de Montaigne

 Did we lament the fact we weren’t alive during the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, the Enlightenment, or Woodstock? Do we lament that will not be alive when the futuristic flying automobiles and hoverboards of Back to the Future II will finally be available? It is a fool’s errand to do so. How lucky we are to be living in our times, over the course of history this is our time to live and breathe – how wonderful it is to feel this gratitude of being alive now? As in Lin Manuel Miranda’s smash hit Hamilton, in the song The Schuyler Sisters – there are words that leave their mark on this gratitude of the present tense. “Look around. Look around. At how lucky we are to be alive right now!”

You were dead for billions of years before you were born, and it didn't bother you one bit. You will be dead for billions more. Your life is an aberration. Enjoy it.

- Mark Twain

 “The race of men is like the race of leaves. As one generation flourishes, another decays.”

- Homer

 “There is a ripeness of time for death, regarding others as well as ourselves, when it is reasonable we should drop off, and make room for another growth. When we have lived our generation out, we should not wish to encroach on another.”

-Thomas Jefferson

 Old men must die; or the world would grow moldy, would only breed the past again.

- Tennyson

 It is through the eyes of youth that everything is constantly being seen anew and rediscovered with the advantage of knowing what has gone before; it is youth that is not mired in the old ways of approaching the challenges of this imperfect world. Each new generation yearns to prove itself – and, in proving itself, to accomplish great things for humanity. Among living creatures, to die and leave the stage is the way of nature – old age is the preparation for departure, the gradual easing out of life that makes its ending more palatable not only for the elderly but for those also they leave the world in trust.

How We Die P87

  “Give place to others, as others have given place to you.”

- Michel de Montaigne 

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?time_continue=4&v=yRJBuNwQwzc

How lucky we are to be alive, and what a privilege it is to pass it on. No one can live forever, we should not lament that fact but rather seize life and live it – carpe diem before our time ends.

Everyone hopes to die peacefully and painlessly – I remember even as children we asked each other the question what would be the best type of death? And as morbid eight-year olds that we were, we all agreed to die in one’s sleep would be the ideal departure from this earth. So then with the increasing life expectancy and improved medical care from the dawn of the miracle of modern day medicine, our lives have become more stable as a result and the chance infection or illness to snatch away our lives is now much less common. This presents with a new set of challenges that Atul Gawande talks about namely the notion of how we die. This view has been romanticised and dramatized that our own expectations of the nature of our deaths has become something of a myth.  Death presents itself as one of the factors beyond our otherwise controllable lives and this places a much larger emphasis on ars moriendi – the art of dying.

Sherwin Nuland suggests:

“Death with dignity” is our society’s expression of the universal yearning to achieve a graceful triumph over the stark and often finality of life’s last splutterings.

                  But the fact is, death is not a confrontation. It is simply an event in the sequence of nature’s ongoing rhythms. Not death but disease is the real enemy, disease the malign force that requires confrontation. Death is the surcease that comes when the exhausting battle has been lost. Even the confrontation with disease should be approached with the realization that many of the sicknesses of our species are simply conveyances for the inexorable journey by which each of us is returned to the same state of physical, and perhaps, spiritual, nonexistence from which we emerged at conception. Every triumph over some major pathology, no matter how ringing the victory, is only a reprieve from the inevitable end.

How We Die P10

 The patient dies alone among strangers: well-meaning, empathetic, determinedly committed to sustaining his life – but strangers nonetheless. There is no dignity here. By the time these medical Samaritans have ceased their strenuous struggles, the room is strewn with the debris of the lost campaign, more so even than was McCarty’s on that long-ago evening of his death. In the center of the devastation lies a corpse, and it has lost all interest for those, who moments earlier, were straining to be the deliverers of the man whose spirit occupied it.

How We Die P41

 When we begin to focus on death, there is an ethical slippery slope of the myth of the good death. In certain societies such as in Holland and Switzerland who have legalised assisted dying there is the worry is that this normalise euthanasia and medicalises old age – where we’re left with a dystopian Logan’s Run scenario. There is no clear answer like any other ethical question, Sir Stephen Hawking himself who said “Where there is life, there is hope” has also said “To keep someone alive against their wishes is the ultimate indignity,” and has spoken out in support of assisted dying. There is no clear answer. In the UK, euthanasia is illegal – but there are so many levels of this question it is impossible to have a complete blanket law for everyone because all cases are not the same.

Our ultimate goal, after all, is not a good death but a good life to the very end.

Being Mortal p245

 Assisted living is far harder than assisted death, but its possibilities are far greater, as well

Being Mortal p245

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dV6fDJi_6ns 

When afflicted by disease and ageing, dying becomes less in line with dignity. We lose control and may forget who we are, we become incontinent, forgetful, weak, short of breath and in pain. Sherwin Nuland argues dignity in death is very rare, there’s the view we’ll be stoic and transcend our circumstances but within the destructive effects of disease this becomes near impossible.

Though the hour of death itself is commonly tranquil and often preceded by blissful unawareness, the serenity is usually bought at a fearful price – and the price is the process by which we reach that point. There are some who manage to achieve moment of nobility in which they somehow transcend the indignities being visited on them, and these moments are to be cherished. But such intervals do not lessen the distress over which they briefly triumph. Life is dappled with period of pain, and for some of us is suffused with it. In the course of ordinary living, the pain is mitigated by periods of peace and times of joy. In dying, however, there is only the affliction. Its brief respites and ebbs are known always to be fleeting and soon succeeded by a recurrence of the travail. The peace, and sometimes the joy, that may come occurs with the release. In this sense, there is often a serenity – sometimes even a dignity – in the act of death, but rarely in the process of dying.

                  And so, if the classic image of dying with dignity must be modified or even discarded, what is to be salvaged of our hope for the final memories we leave to those who love us? The dignity that we seek in dying must be found in the dignity with which we have lived our lives. Ars moriendi is ars vivendi: The art of dying is the art of living. The honesty and grace of the years of life that are ending is the real measure of how we die. It is not in the last weeks or days that we compose the message that will be remembered, but in all the decades that preceded them. Who has lived in dignity, dies in dignity.

How We Die P268

  Themes of death and mortality place life in perspective. Everything that is good is appreciated anew and all the bad and negativities don’t leave their impact that they used to. Not sweating the small stuff and letting the little things go comes from seeing the big picture. When we’re confronted with our mortality, we realise time is limited and that comes with getting the house in order, making sure what we leave behind will be better than before and our loved ones will be okay when we’re gone.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XTvTLGkWYMU  

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xuGwJs6NLw4

It’s the lesson of life to always be humble. The measure of a person is not how much they know but their confession of how much they do not know. Being humble is the key to constantly improving and striving to make things better for the future. Arrogance and pride can lead to a wave of egocentric complacency which blinds them to the crash that awaits them. By admitting our limitations to greater forces, admitting our own positions as mere mortals can we then realise the folly of playing god. Like the woman in Bob Dylan’s Like a Rolling Stone, karma is a cruel punishment for the proud.

`My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings: Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, The lone and level sands stretch far away".

Percy Bysshe Shelley

 No one knows when their time will be cut short. In When Breath Becomes Air and Mortality by Christopher Hitchens. Both men were afflicted with the emperor of all maladies: cancer. The age-old question of why death comes prematurely denying one of a peaceful death – Why me? The answer: Why not?

In Jean-Dominique Bauby’s poetic and moving account The Diving Bell & The Butterfly, where he is afflicted with locked-in-syndrome – due to a brainstem lesion leaving him unable to move or talk, imprisoning him in his own body. It is something that I can imagine that would be like a living hell. He communicated through blinks to write his memoir and not a word was wasted. It is a beautiful book filled with pastime memories, regret and the daily routine of his new life. Life isn’t fair especially for these men, but their message they leave, is never to take anything for granted for human life is fragile and nothing is guaranteed, and your fortunes may change in an instant.

This examination of mortality has been since the times of Thomas Browne’s Religio Medici (The Religion of a Doctor) a hugely influential book that showcased his own thoughts and philosophy of medicine that elevated the profession to an art.

…this is indeed not to feare death, but yet to bee afraid of life. It is a brave act ofvalour to contemne death, but where life is more terrible than death, it is then the truest valour to dare to live, and herein Religion hath taught us a noble example: For all the valiant acts of Curtius, Scevola or Codrus, do not parallel or match that one of Job; and sure there is no torture to the rack of a disease, nor any Poynyards in death it selfe like those in the way or prologue unto it. Emori nolo, sed me esse mortuum nihil curo, I would not die, but care not to be dead. Were I of Cæsars Religion I should be of his desires, and wish rather to goe off at one blow, then to be sawed in peeces by the grating torture of a disease. Men that looke no further than their outsides thinke health an appertinance unto life, and quarrell with their constitutions for being sick; but I that have examined the parts of man, and know upon what tender filaments that Fabrick hangs, doe wonder that we are not alwayes so; and considering the thousand dores that lead to death doe thanke my God that we can die but once…

Religio Medici Section 43– Thomas Browne

In modern medicine, we have lost the fundamentals of what it is to treat the sick. We have forgotten what it means to have the privilege to speak with and treat our patients. Sometimes have to look back to remember how to realise the future. The age-old duty-bound Hippocratic oath of medicine and its interpolation of Primum non nocere – first do no harm, embedded in a sacred duty for our patients which is at the very centre of medical practice.

http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/nova/body/hippocratic-oath-today.html

In modern malpractice, the fellow humanity of our patients is often forgotten and eroded away to meet the target of cold political drives. The NHS (National Health Service) remains a remnant of the post-WWII desire by Aneurin Bevan to establish a brave new world – a better future for all of humanity to never face the horrors inflicted again. Free healthcare to the point of care where healthcare is a right not just a privilege for the few. I am proud of being part of the NHS and yet fearful for its future. What foundation of this wonderful system laid out in The Citadel by AJ Cronin and the fight against corruption before the NHS. I was gifted this wonderful novel by my Argentine school tutor who always was there to support me through quite a tumultuous time during my schooldays. I am very grateful for all his support and how teachers like himself are so rare nowadays, it is fitting he left me such an inspirational book to carry me forward. Seeing the NHS in crisis by political machinations makes us all realise what a special thing we have and something we should all fight for.

This anxiety and disillusionment I can see with my own eyes the day to day dismantling of what was a sacred institution and to witness the very best of humanity. In medicine, the litigation and blame culture has demanded nothing less than perfect in a beautifully imperfect human service during this consumerist age where the customer is always right because they are ‘entitled’ to the service and profit is always prioritised over people. Atul Gawande and Sherwin Nuland note this in America where Medical professionals concentrate on repair of health, not sustenance of the soul and an experiment in social engineering, putting our fates in the hands of people valued more for their technical prowess than for their understanding of human needs. When I first enrolled in medical school, I was full of giddy excitement which was soon replaced with shock then anger then disillusionment. Many of the medical students I have encountered have been difficult to say the least, of course there are countless that are lovely, beautiful, amazing human beings, yet I cannot help but feel the new age of medicine is recruiting technocrats and vastly intelligent, bright individuals yet lack basic human empathy and humility. Some of the arrogance I have witnessed has been disgusting, the blatant disrespect to others, the objectification of a patient as a mere lump of flesh by others has left me seething and wondering how and indeed why these people choose to become doctors? Unfortunately, this is something I think will only continue, the admission process can only be measured in certain ways – examination scores, grades, yet what is not and cannot be measured is the human behind the paper. The very same predicament is happening with the health system, overrun with middle men and managers who clock and measure every shred of data in order to assess performance. As Sherwin Nuland wrote in his coda to How We Die in 2010 shortly before he died:

Much of the reconfiguration of health care has been hijacked by economic needs.

…

In this New medicine, everything must be measurable. It must come in the form of a datum, to be commingled with other data in order to make the entire group of facts susceptible to quantification and analysis. Empathy, autonomy, caring, and simple unhurried kindness are not measurable and so become swept away as encumbrances to quantifiable efficiency. The individual patient, along with the complexities of his medical and human problems, is rendered invisible and inaudible by being hidden under the collective weight of some researcher’s or bureaucrat ’s protocol. Nowhere is this suffocation more effective than in stifling the care, counsel, and decision-making of those who are dying.

How We Die P279

I see some of my peers and the immense pressure they’re under – whether it be familial or institutional and often give them the ‘benefit of the doubt’ but finding myself under the same pressures I, in a lapse of my own better judgement when I forget who I’m speaking to could be my family member or a close friend, a fellow human being, and instead as mere tools to fulfil checkbox ticks proving my ‘competencies’. Whenever patients wanted to talk more about something but finding myself more preoccupied with looming examinations and hence not giving them the time I should have, or being frustrated a patient executing their right to not be seen and examined after having countless other medical students and doctors looking at their pathology. I am deeply ashamed of myself that I myself have fallen into this trap of forgetting the humanity of medicine – becoming Tolstoy’s stereotype of a doctor.

At the end, we and those who surround us cannot allow ourselves to fall victim to the imposed conditions of regimented men and women who would have us die under the unnatural conditions of a medical, economic, and bureaucratic order in which humanity and love have no place.

How We Die P282

 There was no likelihood of guidance, or even understanding, from Harvey’s doctors, who had by then shown themselves to be untouchably aloof and self-absorbed. They seemed too distanced from the truth of their own emotions to have any sense of ours. As I watched them strutting importantly from room to room on their cursory rounds, I would find myself feeling almost grateful for the tragedies in my life that had helped me be unlike them.

How We Die P226

 The doctor said that so-and-so indicated that there was so-and-so inside the patient, but if the investigation of so and-so did not confirm this, then he must assume that and that. If he assumed that and that, then…and so on. To Ivan Ilych only one question was important: was his case serious or not? But the doctor ignored that inappropriate question. From his point of view it was not the one under consideration, the real question was to decide between a floating kidney, chronic catarrh, or appendicitis… From the doctor’s summing up Ivan Ilych concluded that things were bad, but that for the doctor, and perhaps for everybody else, it was a matter of indifference, though for him it was bad. And this conclusion struck him painfully, arousing in him a great feeling of pity for himself and of bitterness towards the doctor’s indifference to a matter of such importance…He said nothing of this, but rose, placed the doctor’s fee on the table, and remarked with a sigh: “We sick people probably often put inappropriate questions. But tell me, in general, is this complaint dangerous, or not?…” The doctor looked at him sternly over his spectacles with one eye, as if to say: “Prisoner, if you will not keep to the questions put to you, I shall be obliged to have you removed from the court.” “I have already told you what I consider necessary and proper. The analysis may show something more.”

The Death of Ivan Ilyich - Chapter 4

 We offer patients hope in medicine, whenever they are anxious, scared or pessimistic. There is always the possibility things can improve and get better. “Hope is itself a species of happiness, and perhaps the chief happiness which this world affords,” - Samuel Johnson. We must never allow our patients and loved ones lose hope – that we learn early on especially when dealing with patients who are dying. However, when we talk about death with a loved one or a close friend or a patient, and when knowing the condition is terminal, by offering white lies and false hope – we are doing them a disservice. But when there is nothing else to be done, instead of another investigation or procedure that will certainly prove to have the same result – the preparation and openness to talk about death is needed. Death after all is an event, we all must experience it at some point sooner or later. By not being open with our patients and loved ones, we are doing them a disservice – depriving them of their last wishes, their legacies they want to leave behind and the comfort of their loved ones when they go. It is this abandonment that Ivan Ilyich so feels when he is lied to from his doctor and his family about his fatal condition, being kept in the dark and helpless with no one to understand or help. Sherwin Nuland talks about one of his patients who is dying and the preparation of one last Christmas that meant everything to him. The last time to see family and close friends and tie off loose ends, and share that last moment of joy. Medicine with its goals, is not just to prolong life but also about so much more. Doesn’t everyone deserve this frank and open discussion, our preparations for death allow us to live a more fulfilling life to get everything we wanted done, complete our bucket-lists and set our priorities straight.

What tormented Ivan Ilych most was the deception, the lie, which for some reason they all accepted, that he was not dying but was simply ill, and the only need keep quiet and undergo a treatment and then something very good would result. He however knew that do what they would nothing would come of it, only still more agonizing suffering and death. This deception tortured him — their not wishing to admit what they all knew and what he knew, but wanting to lie to him concerning his terrible condition, and wishing and forcing him to participate in that lie.

The Death of Ivan Ilyich – Chapter 7

 Death comes for all of us. For us, for our patients: it is our fate as living, breathing, metabolizing organisms. Most lives are lived with passivity toward death – it’s something that happens to you and those around you. But Jeff and I had trained for years to actively engage in death, to grapple with it, like Jacob with the angel, and, in so doing, to confront the meaning of a life. We had assumed an onerous yoke, that of mortal responsibility. Our patients’ lives and identities may be in our hands, yet death always wins. Even if you are perfect, the world isn’t. The secret is to know the deck is stacked, that you will lose, that your hands or judgment will slip, and yet still struggle to win for your patient. You can’t ever reach perfection, but you can believe an asymptote toward which you are ceaselessly striving.

When Breath Becomes Air P114-5

 Death is in an old man’s door, he appears and tells him so, and death is at a young man’s back, and says nothing; age is a sickness, and youth is an ambush;

Meditation VII - The physician desires to have others joined with him – John Donne

 You return man to dust and say, “Return, O children of man!”

Psalm 90:3

 Josiah Royce, a Harvard philosopher wrote a book The Philosophy of Loyalty which tries to answer what is it that we need in order to feel that life is worthwhile? Simply existing and eating, sleeping and in comfort seems to be empty and meaningless. Royce believed that we all seek a cause beyond ourselves – to him, an intrinsic human need.

The only way death is not meaningless is to see yourself as part of something greater: a family, a community, a society. If you don’t mortality is a horror. But if you do, it is not. Loyalty, said Royce, “solves the paradox of our ordinary existence by showing us outside of ourselves the cause which is to be served, and inside of ourselves the will which delights to do this service, and which is not thwarted but enriched and expressed in such service.” In more recent times, psychologists have used the term “transcendence” for a version of this idea. Above the level of self-actualization in Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, they suggest the existence in people of a transcendent desire to see and help other beings achieve their potential.

Being Mortal p127

To find meaning and a cause in your life is the question that countless philosophers and wise sages have asked since the dawn of time. What is the meaning of life?

To die takes courage. Ernest Hemingway described courage as grace under pressure and I think that’s not too far off. Atul Gawande mentions Plato’s Laches where Socrates asks ‘What is courage?’ Atul Gawande then writes how he derived the definition: courage is strength in the face of knowledge of what is to be feared or hoped. Wisdom is prudent strength. He goes further where he mentions two types of courage required in aging and sickness. 1) the courage to confront the reality of mortality – the courage to seek out the truth of what is to be feared and what is to be hoped. 2) the courage to act on the truth we find. He ends by posing One has to decide whether one’s fears or one’s hopes are what should matter most – A truth to live a good life itself. Such with my own experience, much of life is a choice. During the 2 weeks of the London 2012 Olympic Games, I remember my time during the Olympics could either be spent indoors or outside visiting the various events organised during that fortnight during a rather uncertain time for me personally. It was my choice to either experience the atmosphere of the games or rather mope inside. This is a truth that is shared with much of life, life is what you make of it – and no one can take that away from you.

Conclusion

Tempus fugit – time flies

Ultima forsan – perhaps the last [hour]

When I remember my first encounters with death, I was only a young child, but their impact left a clear mark on me. There are always things I wish I did more of and said, I am regretful that I was too immature to understand how precious time was then and took things for granted as a result especially if it was someone who loved me as much as my Granny. She was a truly remarkable woman who the more I learn about the more I am humbled of her ability to overcome hardships and struggle. Her story is for my Dad to tell, to whom she passed on her best qualities and is the best person to pass on her story. The family friends we lost too soon who were amongst the kindest and best people we ever knew. Their stories are also for my Dad to tell who knew them through loyal friendships and unselfish kindness.

The lessons learnt from all of this is to never be complacent with time and death, love each other and appreciate the goodness and kindness in life, all the other negativities are just minor trivialities that have no impact in the bigger picture. To always be humble, to always be kind to each other and to yourself and to be patient with others. To count your blessings and have the courage to deal with life’s trials and the striving to make your life and the lives around you better and to be the master of your own destiny to fulfil God’s work. To be thankful of our opportunities we have been given and to make the most of them. All of this sounds like a cliche but in the face of death, this means everything. And one thing we can be certain of, is that we will die. What we make of life is how we live it. These final extracts voice the beauty of life and the pathos of farewell in the most beautiful and touching ways. I hope these words will resonate with you as they have done with me and hope that they will inspire you all to live your lives to the fullest and most meaningful so that by the time we are at death’s door we will share the same serene gratitude for our lives and hope for the future.

 Yet I was still intensely moved and grateful to have gotten to do my part. For one, my father would had wanted, and my mother and my sister did, too. Moreover, although I didn’t feel my dad was anywhere in that cup and a half of gray, powdery ash, I felt that we’d connected him to something far bigger than ourselves, in this place where people had been performing these rituals for so long.

             When I was a child, the lessons my father taught me had been about perseverance: never to accept limitation that stood in my way. As an adult watching him in his final years, I also saw how to come to terms with limits that couldn’t simply be wished away. When to shift from pushing against limits to making the best of them is not often readily apparent. But it is clear that there are times when the cost of pushing exceeds its value. Helping my father through the struggle to define that moment was simultaneously among the most painful and privileged experiences of my life.

             Part of the way my father handled the limits he faced was by looking at them without illusion. Though his circumstances sometimes got him down, he never pretended they were better than they were. He always understood that life is short and one’s place in the world is small. But he also saw himself as a link in the chain of history. Floating on that swollen river, I could not help sensing the hands of the many generations connected across time. In bringing us there, my father had helped us see that he was part of a story going back thousands of years – and so were we.

             We were lucky to get to hear him tell us his wishes and say his good-byes. In having a chance to do so, he let us know he was at peace. That let us be at peace, too.

             After spreading my father’s ashes, we floated silently for a while, letting the current take us. As the sun burned away the mist, it began warming our bones. Then we gave a signal to the boatman, and he picked up his oars. We headed back to the shore.

Being Mortal P262-3

  Everybody succumbs to finitude. I suspect I am not the only one who reaches this pluperfect state. Most ambitions are either achieved or abandoned; either way, they belong to the past. The future, instead of the ladder toward the goals of life, flattens out into a perpetual present. Money, status, all the vanities the preacher of Ecclesiastes described hold so little interest: a chasing after wind, indeed.

               Yet one thing cannot be robbed of her futurity: our daughter, Cady. I hope I’ll live long enough that she has some memory of me. Words have a longevity I do not. I had thought I could leave her a series of letters – but what would they say? I don’t even know if she’ll take to the nickname we’ve given her. There is perhaps only one thing to say to this infant, who is all future, overlapping briefly with me, whose life, barring the improbable, is all past.

               That message is simple:

               When you come to one of the many moments in life where you must give an account of yourself, provide a ledger of what you have been, and done, and meant to the world, do not, I pray, discount that you filled a dying man’s day with sated joy, a joy unknown to me in all my prior days, a joy that does not hunger for more and more but rests, satisfied. In this time, right now, that is an enormous thing.

When Breath Becomes Air P198-199

 I feel grateful that I have been granted nine years of good health and productivity since the original diagnosis, but now I am face to face with dying. The cancer occupies a third of my liver, and though its advance may be slowed, this particular sort of cancer cannot be halted.

It is up to me now to choose how to live our the months that remain to me. I have to live in the richest, deepest, most productive way I can. In this I am encouraged by the words of one of my favourite philosophers, David Hume, who, upon learning he was mortally ill at age sixty-five, wrote a short autobiography in a single day in April of 1776. He titled it “My Own Life.”

…

Over the last few days, I have been able to see my life as from a great altitude, as a sort of landscape, and with a deepening sense of the connection of all its parts. This does not mean I am finished with life. On the contrary, I feel intensely alive, and I want and hope in the time that remains to deepen my friendships, to say farewell to those I love, to write more, to travel if I have the strength, to achieve new levels of understanding and insight.

This will involve audacity, clarity, and plain speaking; trying to straighten my accounts with the world. But there will be time, too for some fun (and even some silliness as well).

I feel a sudden clear focus and perspective. There is no time for anything inessential. I must focus on myself, my work, and my friends. I shall no longer look at NewsHour every night. I shall no longer pay any attention to politics or arguments about global warming.

This is not indifference but detachment – I still care deeply about the Middle East, about global warming, about growing inequality, but these are no longer my business; they belong to the future. I rejoice when I meet gifted young people – even the one who biopsied and diagnosed my metastases. I feel the future is in good hands.

I have been increasingly conscious, for the last ten years or so, of deaths among my contemporaries. My generation is on the way out, and each death I have felt as an abruption, a tearing away of part of myself. There will be no one like us when we are gone, but then there is no one like anyone else, ever. When people die, they cannot be replaced. They leave holes that cannot be filled, for it is the fate – the genetic and neural fate – of every human being to be a unique individual, to find his own path, to live his own life, to die his own death.

I cannot pretend I am without fear. But my predominant feeling is one of gratitude. I have love and been loved; I have been given much and I have given something in return; I have read and travelled and thought and written. I have had an intercourse with the world, the special intercourse of writers and readers.

Above all, I have been a sentient being, a thinking animal, on this beautiful planet, and that in itself has been an enormous privilege and adventure.

My Own Life – Oliver Sacks

Further Reading:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b04bsgqn - Reith Lectures 2014

http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/frontline/film/being-mortal/ 

https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2012/feb/01/top-five-regrets-of-the-dying 

https://www.nytimes.com/2014/01/25/opinion/sunday/how-long-have-i-got-left.html?mcubz=1

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Danse_Macabre

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Memento_mori

Gratitude - Oliver Sacks

Do No Harm - Henry Marsh

Reasons to Stay Alive - Matt Haig

Mortality - Christopher Hitchens

Nausea - Jean-Paul Sartre

Waiting for Godot - Samuel Beckett

Devotions Upon Emergent Occasions – John Donne

The Wasteland, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, The Hollow Men, Four Quartets – T.S. Eliot

In Memoriam: Poems of Bereavement introduced by Carol Ann Duffy 

Essays, That to Study Philosophy is to Learn to Die - Michel de Montaigne

Randy Pausch’s Last Lecture https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ji5_MqicxSo

Steve Jobs’ Stanford commencement speech https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UF8uR6Z6KLc&t=1s

Virgil – Georgics

How We Die – Sherwin Nuland

The Death of Ivan Ilyich – Leo Tolstoy

The Citadel – A.J. Cronin

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dV6fDJi_6ns House speech on dignity

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mjQwedC1WzI

https://www.philosophersmag.com/opinion/18-close-encounters-of-the-cancer-kind

https://www.philosophersmag.com/opinion/17-death-and-its-concept

https://philosophynow.org/issues/27/Death_Faith_and_Existentialism

https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/series/reports-of-my-death Clive James

https://www.theguardian.com/culture/2015/mar/15/clive-james-interview-done-lot-since-my-death

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Capela_dos_Ossos

http://www.online-literature.com/tennyson/718/

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Dream_(Rousseau_painting)

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0825232/

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_Livingstone#Stanley_meeting

http://www.parliament.uk/business/publications/research/key-issues-for-the-new-parliament/value-for-money-in-public-services/the-ageing-population/

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Veneration_of_the_dead

Josiah Royce – The Philosophy of Loyalty

https://people.umass.edu/biep540w/pdf/Stephen%20Jay%20Gould.pdf

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KXxw-zXRqOs

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7Dgn97v3q28

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MhxJ1EzKUoM

http://www.lifehacker.co.uk/2017/09/09/what-it-feels-like-to-die

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Death

http://psychclassics.yorku.ca/Maslow/motivation.htm

https://archive.org/stream/philosophyloyal00roycuoft/philosophyloyal00roycuoft_djvu.txt

https://www.jstor.org/stable/3349959?seq=1#page_scan_tab_contents

http://classics.mit.edu/Plato/laches.html

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rDjmDHiSTm8

https://archive.org/details/IkiruToLive

http://penelope.uchicago.edu/letter/letter.html

Calvary

Momijigari

Day of the Dead

Grapes of Wrath – John Steinbeck

Tibetan Book of the Dead

War and Peace, The Death of Ivan Ilyich – Leo Tolstoy

For Whom the Bell Tolls - Ernest Hemingway

In Search of Lost Time - Marcel Proust

To Calvary (Gagulta) – site of Jesus’ crucifixion, Place of the skull

[saiyanshewolf]

*slides into your ask box* Yes hello maybe #80 for Meihem!!?? :D

Eeeeeeeep Jamie and Mei being married gives me all kinds of warm fuzzies, so naturally I got really carried away and wrote this angsty dramatic ten-years-later thing and kind of ended up not doing the prompt exactly right, but hopefully you enjoy it anyway! (Also 35 year old Jamie has the half-shaved head from that one Junkrat art that I saw going around awhile back…just…bc reasons.)

Yin & Jin belong to @fire-shadow-dragon-god Quinn belongs to @aly-the-alligatorLin belongs to @rinshi-chan Written for @poisonous-angel

Full of my own headcanons (Blackwatch Junkrat) and me making shit up (bionics and biotics).

The Outback has gotten worse.

Jamie has been in and out countless times over the past ten years, acting on behalf of Blackwatch to maintain some semblance of stability, so he knows the reasons why, can rattle them off like a kid reciting his ABCs: The Second Omnic Crisis. Continuing repercussions of climate change, like the Warrender Tsunami. The emergence of rival factions besides the Junkers in the Outback. An Australian government as ruthless as it is useless. The rest of the world turning a blind eye - some in selfishness, others in guilt.

The Warrender Tsunami had altered the coastline, pushing it inward and effectively giving the Outback its first seaport. Not long after that, new factions began to spring up in the wastelands. Scattered remnants of terrorist organizations long thought to be defunct regrouped in the desert; new ones began to form as well. The Junkers were forced to band together in order to protect themselves. Some of the new factions began to push outward, capturing towns, villages, even small cities. The Australian government responded with bombs, chemical weapons, biological agents, and no regard for its own people.

The Australian government calls it the Outback Territory. News media refers to it as the Outback Wasteland. Australian citizens on the coasts try not to mention it; if they do, it’s referred to with disdain as wasteland territory.

As far as Jamie is concerned, however, the Outback is still the Outback.

Just worse.

His current situation is a testament to just how much worse.

Jamie snarls around the gag in his mouth; it tastes like sweat and smoke and blood and it turns his stomach, but he refuses to give these ex-military mercs the satisfaction of watching him choke to death on his own vomit.

Well, that, and if he dies he’ll never get the chance to see his wife again.

Or their kids.

His mind rejects that idea so violently and absolutely that for the first time in a long time he feels the mania creeping up on him, feels the mad laughter bubbling up in his throat like acid.

After everything he did to get out of this hellhole and everything he did to make it less hellish…trust him to go and find a way to fucking die there anyway.

The mercs have been debating what to do with him over a campfire for hours now. Half of them want to turn him in to some faction full of ex-Talon, certain they’ll be rewarded for delivering a Blackwatch agent.

The other half just want to torture him to death.

Jamie has no preference between the two. If he can’t get away, or if he isn’t rescued, it’s a matter of being tortured to death sooner rather than later. He is pretty sure his situation already qualifies as torture, anyway.

He has been bound to some Frankensteined vehicle with duct tape for the past…Christ, he doesn’t even know how many days, he keeps passing out in the hellish Outback sun, but the monstrous thing seems to be part ute, part tank, and part torture device, covered in spikes made of sharp hunks of scrap metal. The biggest spike of them all points out from the hood, and it is that one that Jamie is bound to, with his wrists behind his back and his ankles taped to the roo bar.

He is dehydrated and feverish, nearly to the point of delirium. His skin is blistered. The shaved half of his head is the worst - it is so raw that even the feeling of his hair growing back in is painful. Everywhere but beneath his ragged shorts the gritty spray of sand is like having his skin rubbed with ground glass. It’s in his eyes, eyes that are half-blinded already from the glare of the desert.

His metal arm is twisted, smashed, near unusable, and Jamie wishes he had never let Dr. Ziegler upgrade him to an integrated model; his stump keeps sending agonizing bolts of pain all the way up into his shoulder, far worse than anything he ever endured with the malfunctioning nerve cap system.

His left shoulder is dislocated. It also has goddamn bullet in it; there are angry red lines spidering out from the point of entry and and Jamie will not let himself wish it had struck lower, he will not, just like he will not let himself think about how he doesn’t even know what happened to Mei.

They had not even working for Blackwatch or Overwatch when they were ambushed; they were on leave, for fuck sake, none of this was supposed to happen.

Mei had never been to the Outback despite asking God knows how many times over the years, just like she had asked him to marry her God knows how many times before he finally stopped holding himself apart, because he has never in his heart of hearts felt that he deserves her, or Yin and Jin, or Quinn and Lin…but whether he deserves them or not is irrelevant because God he loves them so much and he is two inches away from losing his mind but he is dying and if he has to die, if he has to die in the middle of a hellscape like this without ever even seeing 40, he wants to die thinking of them instead of the sun and the pain and the blood that reminds him too much of all the reasons why he does not to deserve them in the first place.

She’d wanted soil samples, water samples, wanted to know exact temperatures, exact radiation levels, wanted to know so much about Jamie’s hell-on-Earth of a homeland that he both hates and loves and Jamie had never understood why -

“Because this is where you came from,” she had said, “What brought you to me, when you think about it. I want to help save it.”

She had been smiling up at him under the light of the moon, and even then, even there, here, her bangs stuck to her forehead with the heat, with her shorts and hiking boots and pale blue tank top, with pink sunburn spread like frosting over her nose and shoulders and chest despite Jamie’s insistence on scheduled applications of sunblock…she was still his Snowflake.

He doesn’t know what happened to her. He doesn’t remember. There was gas - some kind of struggle, a fight, but it all blurs into a terrible ethereal nightmare in his mind.

Engines roar in the distance.

Jamie cringes. He knows that the mercs are either going to move on and run away or stand and fight, so he braces himself; if they run, the pain of being strung up and jogged around will knock him out, and as dehydrated as he is he may never wake up. If they fight he’ll either die or end up worse off than he already is…and he can’t get much worse without being dead.

The Outback is unforgiving like that.

The rumble of the engines grows closer and the mercs are laughing and the pit of Jamie’s stomach is full of lead.

Fighting, then.

He is going to die.

The mercs will kill him before they let anyone else take their fun - or their reward - away.

Gunshots. Laughter. The mercs are shouting, cheering -

Something explodes.

It is close, close enough that Jamie feels the heat from the blast, and he cranes his neck to see but all he can make out are shapes, shadows, blurry images; he is painfully glare blind and his eyes are full of sand and grit.

But he can hear, and he hears screaming, he knows screaming, knows agony when he hears it and the mercs are all shouting at one another, scrambling, and then there is another explosion and sand blasts into Jamie’s side, scouring his blistered skin like steel wool, and the realization that he is never going to see his family again, that he is never going to know what happened to Mei, settles like a stone in his throat.

More screams. The mercs are losing it. Jamie hears Kill him, kill the Junker, kill the fuckin’ Junk -

The voice chokes off into a thick, wet gurgle, like too much water draining too fast down a pipe.

He is going to die.

He is going to die and he doesn’t know if Mei is even -

She is! He bashes his skull backward against the spike until his ears ring and the blood runs down his neck. She is, she is, she’s gotta be, ya hear me?

Jamie does not  much believe in a higher power, but all he can see in his mind are Yin and Jin’s devilish faces, little Quinn and Lin with books spread open on their laps and this is the last time he will ever see them again, the only way he can see them, and he holds on to that and he prays, it isn’t very nice or polite or reverent but he prays -

She’s gotta be all right, ya hear me? He tunes out the screaming, the gunfire, the heat and the pain and blood and the sweat and every other hellish thing going on around him. She’s gotta be all right, damn it, ya can take me from ‘em but for god sake don’t take her don’t ya take her away from ‘em too let her get back to ‘em let her be all right -

He hears the familiar fwoosh of flames, hears more agonized screams, and he wonders if he is already dead because this must be hell -

“Hái méi dǎ wán ne!”

- it must be, because he’s hearing things, hearing Chinese and Mei is -

“Qīfu rén!” FWOOSH. “Zhè kěyǐ zǔzhǐ nǐ!”

“Oi, what’s she sayin’, mate?”

“No idea, but she’s bloody terrifyin’ and I’m glad we’re on her side - oh no ya don’t!”

Gunshots. Smoke, so much smoke, and it reeks, the stench of burnt hair and charred human flesh is so thick that Jamie can scarcely breathe and the tumult is at fever pitch, voices screaming and snarling and shouting, gunfire and flames and heat and that smell and his mind cannot seem to take it -

He wakes to strange hands on his body, lowering him to the ground, lowering him onto a makeshift stretcher of some kind, and he is so out of it that when his eyelids are pried open he tries to fight the shadow-figure off, certain that it’s some demon from hell, and then something is dropped into each of his eyes and they go numb.

“You’re safe. It’s okay, you’re safe.” There is a sharp prick in the crook of his left elbow. “I promise you’re safe.”

Maybe he’s in heaven after all, if he’s hearing his wife’s voice…

“Oi, li’l Trash Panda, ya need ta be still - !”

“Stop calling me that. I’m fine, take care of him.”

Before Jamie hears anything else the world goes very soft and quiet…and then it goes black.

When he comes to again he wonders if he has been reincarnated as himself, or if his life has been nothing but a fever-dream, because he has been here before, can tell by the smell that he’s been here before, can never forget the rotgut moonshine and charred flesh reek of Junkertown’s excuse for a hospital, and it terrifies him, sickens him, he still can’t see and the stump of his right arm is still firing agony into his shoulder and he panics, flailing, screaming, suddenly fifteen years old strapped to an operating table with ragged leather belts and rope, confused and nauseated -

Another pinch in the crook of his left arm.

More softness. More silence. More black.

The next time he wakes, he can see.

He is in a hospital - a real hospital - and his bionic arm has been repaired. He glances down at it, flexing the fingers, the wrist, the elbow, and there is no more pain.

His skin smells like biotic burn gel, which explains why his shoulders are barely pink instead of scorched red. The buzz-cut half of his head still aches, but compared to how it had felt, the ache is more than bearable.

His left shoulder and the left half of his chest are the worst; he is so sore that he feels as if he has taken a sucker punch from Mako, or maybe Zarya. The bullet wound has been bandaged rather than healed via biotics, which strikes him as odd until he remembers those creeping red lines.

Infected, then. Jamie flexes his left arm, looking down at the IV. Lucky I ain’t dead.

“Jamie?”

Jamie sits bolt upright at the sound of Mei’s voice; she is in the room and nearly in his hospital bed almost before he can blink, and when she throws her arms around him Jamie finds himself clutching her as if he will never, ever, ever be able to let go of her again.

“Jamie, oh my god,” she murmurs, her voice breaking, “I’m sorry, I’m probably hurting you I’m sorry I was j-just so scared -”

“Snowflake.” Jamie only distantly registers the ache in his shoulder. Tears are streaming down his face, landing on Mei’s skin; she pulls back a little and swipes her thumbs beneath his eyes.

“No more dehydration,” she says softly, giving him a tiny smile. “That’s good.”

Jamie can’t breathe.

Across Mei’s throat is a stripe of raw, burned skin, clearly the result of hamfisted cauterization. It has not been treated with biotics, either, meaning that some sort of infection was present when she came in, may still be present.

He glances up at her face. Fading bruises are shadowed beneath both her eyes. There is a burn on one of her cheeks, a minor one that has been treated biotically, but it is a burn nonetheless and there are more down her arms.

Jamie grabs her hands; her blue nail polish is chipped and faded and a couple of her fingernails are missing entirely. When he turns her hands over in his he finds that her palms are burned as well.

He feels sick, sick and ashamed and guilty, so intensely guilty that he is shaking.

“Mei, love,” he mumbles, “I’m so sorry - I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”

“Jamie, it isn’t your fault,” she says softly.

“I shoulda protected ya,” he says, tears pricking his eyes again. “Why’d I marry ya, I’m so fuckin’ useless I can’t even fuckin’ take care of ya like I’m s’posed to…”

“It took a lot of convincing,” Mei answers, her lips quirking into a small smile. “And the day you said yes was the happiest day of my life and still is. So hush.”

He leans in and kisses her, not trusting himself to speak; she kisses him back with a heated intensity that soon has him forgetting everything except how lucky he is to have her in his arms again.

She is perched astride his lap when she finally pulls back, her cheeks flushed pink beneath the burns and the bruises.

“Down, boy,” she murmurs, breathless. “Angela hasn’t cleared you for any kind of strenuous activity just yet.”

Jamie snorts. He leans back against the propped-up mattress, both hands on Mei’s hips.

“Kiddos all right?” he asks.

Mei nods. “They’re still with Ana and Reinhardt. They know we got into trouble and got hurt, but they don’t know how close it was.”

“Good.” Jamie reaches up and tucks Mei’s hair behind her ears. “I know how close it was with me, but…Mei, love, what happened ta ya…?”

“The mercs gassed us. I got my shirt over my nose and it kept me at least semi-conscious, but.” Mei smiles. “Well. You don’t wear shirts. The mercs knocked me around a little, then tried to kill me by cutting my throat. It didn’t work well. I played dead. They destroyed everything in camp, left, and took you with them, yelling about Ex-Talon. I panicked, ran…I blanked out for a little while. Probably a fever from the infection. I got lost. A Junker found me, and I…um…”

She flushes scarlet. Jamie cocks an eyebrow, waiting.

“I, er…might have punched him in the nose,” she murmurs. “And, um…stolen his laser rifle…okay, I threatened his life. I made him take me to Junkertown. They tried to kill the infection that had set in by cauterizing the wound in my throat, but I wouldn’t listen to them when they told me I needed to rest. When I told them that Junkrat had been kidnapped that got them moving, but I…I don’t think I ever actually told them I was your wife. I couldn’t think straight. don’t think I ever even told them my name, I was so preoccupied with finding a weapon in Junkertown I could actually use and when I found the flamethrower I had to get it working again, that’s how I got my nails ripped off, where all these other burns came from -”

Jamie remembers the whooosh of flames, the smell of burned flesh, the screams of the mercs, the nervous voices that sounded much like his own.

His mouth drops open.

“Snowflake,” he says, “Did ya - was that - ya led a bunch’a armed Junkers inta the Outback? Ta hunt down mercs?”

“No,” she answers. “I led a bunch of armed Junkers into the Outback to save my husband.”

Jamie opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He hides his face against Mei’s chest and she holds him close, quietly stroking his hair.

And when Dr. Ziegler comes in a couple hours later to find them curled up together in Jamie’s hospital bed, she leaves them be.

Bonus:

“Okay, but what did they call ya?”

“Jamie, I don’t see why it matters.”

“‘Cause it’s me culture, Snowflake, c’mon -”

“Culture?!”

“Oi, I never said they was cultured.”

“…*mumblemumble*…”

“What was that?”

“It was because of the black eyes…ugh, they called me Trash Panda, okay?”

“T-trash…oh my fuck, that’s bloody perfect, I love it -”

“Don’t you dare start -”

*smeck* “My li’l Trash Panda!”

“…shut up, Junkrat.”

[fiendfluid]

i can’t believe im posting this but here we are. i haven’t wrote anything serious in 3 years so its probably not amazing but ya gotta start somewhere, and where better then the destruction of fang and kerry’s friendship?

“We're just friends.”

It shouldn't feel weird to hear that coming from Kerry. Because its true; they are friends. The best of friends hopefully, if you figured out how many years they had maintained this relationship despite their differences. Just.. friends.

It makes Fang's stomach feel queasy, his face heats up at the words even though there's no reason to have a reaction to them. Of course they're friends, what kind of question was that? Kerry stuck around through all of Fang's bullshit and whining, they had to be friends.

But here they are, sitting on the bus in excruciatingly awkward silence.

Its partly Fang's fault, they realize, after having a minor freak out for no reason and then not explaining the freak out, Kerry is giving them the cold shoulder. Which isn't too different from being around Kerry normally, but instead of comfortable silence in which Fang could rattle on about stupid things, they're both  tensed up and avoiding any form of contact as if they aren't just sitting right beside each other.

“We're just friends.”

Some part of Fang rises up, petty and vicious. 'That's not what you said last night, or when you were high in my lap, whispering in my ear.'

He can't say that to Kerry, though. There's a shred of self preservation still intact inside of Fang to keep him from saying something that mean to his best friend. The bucket load of abandonment issues helps keep the words down, too.

Kerry is watching them quietly fight with themself, concerned but prideful.

Fang drags his fingernails down his arm, catching on the plastic band aids by his wrist. They almost laugh out loud at the absurdity of it all; Kerry's the one who's in love with them, not the other way around.

Kerry's staring openly, still silent as fucking ever but the concerned look has morphed into something new and raw, and it hurts to see him looking at them like that and he won't stop-

“Stop looking at me.” Is what Fang snarls, glaring venomously at Kerry. He's screaming in his head to shut up and stop making things worse but auto pilot Fang the Idiot is running the show now and its a sold out crowd to watch him ruin his one and only relationship worth a damn.

To Kerry's credit, he doesn't even stop to look hurt. No, he rises to the jab and fires straight back at Fang, voice slightly hoarse from drowsiness, “Then stop getting angry over nothing!”

It hurts. It hurts a lot and it shouldn't.

And Kerry isn't done talking yet.

“You can't just get pissy at me because something random set you off again.” Kerry snaps, “That's not fair.”

He's right.

Fuck him for being right.

What's not fair is this bullshit Kerry's dragged them into, they didn't ask for whatever this is to go this far. It was clean cut and simple for so long, why did he have to complicate it by making Fang feel things?

Fang's aware that Kerry is getting angrier and angrier the more the silence drags on without a response. A part of Fang wonders if just kissing Kerry would fix things. It worked during a few fights before, yanking him down from his high perch and knocking the wind out of him had stopped arguments in their tracks.

And it felt nice, with an arm slung around Kerry's shoulders to keep him within reach--as if he'd try to move away—the other hand weaving into his hair. Last time Fang kissed him, he was didn't see it coming at all. He had gasped against Fang's lips softly, and a little bit delighted. He was bent basically in half to meet Fang, gangly limbs wrapping quickly around them.

This wasn't helping, some miserable part of Fang pointed out.

But Fang wants to hold Kerry right now, keep him close and never let anything take him away. They want to get high together again, have Kerry sit in their lap all relaxed and laughing softly over some dumb shit. Wants to relive all those times sitting outside the hospital room on the verge of tears, but feeling safe because Kerry was there, and nothing was going to happen if he was there.

The jolt of the bus startles Fang out of his thoughts. Kerry doesn't say a word as he grabs both their bags and stomps toward the bus's exit. He's waiting on the pavement silently when Fang finally stumbles out, and completely ignores Fang's half-assed offer to carry their own bag.

If Fang thought the bus ride had been awful, the walk back home was even worse, and Kerry didn't seem to be in the mood to change it any time soon. Not that Fang was even trying to make things better, currently desperately searching through memories for some warning that this moment was going to happen eventually.

This isn't their worst fight, not even close. They've had bigger arguments over dumber things and gotten over it in a matter of minutes. This doesn't feel like something that's going to fix itself over a half order of french fries from the food vendor they pass every day on the way to Fang's apartment. There's something that's fundamentally important to their relationship just hanging in the air between them right now, and it wants two, emotionally stunted people, to delicately talk this through.

Fang lags behind, listening to Kerry's repetitive, loud foot falls, trying not to stare at his ass too much, afraid that Kerry might have some freaky third eye on his ass waiting to call them a fucking loser. Fang's procrastinating.

The chance to say something-anything is rapidly slipping away. Kerry's buzzing up to Fang's apartment and soon he's gonna leave, and you're gonna be alone again and he's not coming back-

“Why'd you say that.” Fang blurts out, it doesn't even sound like a question.

Kerry swings around slowly, staring down at Fang with a look of annoyance, but he's gone a little red around his ears. “Say what, Fang?” he sounds strained.

“You know what,” Fang says, fiddling over and over with the hem of their shirt, “'We're just friends.'”

He barely reacts to his own words back in his face. Just a raised eyebrow and a sigh that's almost a growl of frustration. He looks really pretty.

“Because, that's what we are.” His voice is clipped, “What do you want from me?”

And that surprises Fang for some stupid reason; what the fuck did he want from Kerry right now? What even was the point of bringing this up and breaking apart something that was working soundly so far.

Kerry's biting his lip, not looking at them save a few nervous glances. He decides to busy himself by buzzing the apartment to let them in again and sighs with what sounds like relief when the door unlocks.

“I'll see you later.” Kerry says, bumping into Fang as he steps away from the door to let them pass.

Say sorry, say you're sorry, say you're sorry you asshole.

“H-hey wait!” Fang cringes, that was so desperate, but it works and Kerry actually stops.

He doesn't say anything, just waves his arms in a vague, tense motion to say whatever Fang wanted to convey. Kerry's eyes are flitting everywhere, clearly uncomfortable.

“I-” I'm sorry. “I-”

“What?”

“I-uhm-” I'm sorry, just say it-

“I'm in love with you?”

Good job.

Kerry goes ridged, a blush instantly breaks out across his face. Fang wants to die and then come back to life just to die again.

“Wha-Y-you? I-I'm??-” Kerry is stuttering, arms flailing alarmingly.

Fang opens their mouth, then closes it again after a second thought. There's a ringing in their ears that's hopefully the sound of their brain self destructing so they don't have to exist in this universe any longer.

“I'm sorry-” So now you can say it?!

That was the wrong thing to say, apparently. Kerry whirls on Fang, shaking furiously, pointing an accusing finger at their face. He looks like he's about to cry and oh god, Fang fucked up.

“Sorry? What even—how do you think any of that was okay?” Kerry shouts, its slightly terrifying. “You can't just say whatever the fuck comes to your head and hope it makes things better! What is wrong with you?”

Fang wants to yell, wants to scream that he's not just saying shit because holy fuck he's in love with Kerry and he doesn't want this to be it. But his voice abandons him when tears spill from Kerry's eyes and he's glaring at Fang like they've killed him.

“Just--don't talk to me.” Kerry chokes, stumbling back, wiping his palms against his face, valiantly trying to remain stoic.

Fang actually manages to step forward as Kerry starts moving away, arms outstretched to do something.

“Welp,” Fang says to no one, when Kerry is out of sight, and everything is awful again. “I fffffucked up.”