This job teaches you a lot. You learn whatever material stuff you have you should use it and share it. Share yourself. People die with nobody to talk to. They die and relatives come out of the woodwork. ‘He was my uncle. He was my cousin. Give me what he had.’ Gimme, gimme. Yet when he was alive they never visited, never knew the person. From working in this office, my life changed.
An excellent essay in Salon describes what Christmas means for a women with terminal cancer.
When your partner is dying, the idea of a shiny new Lexus as a symbol of commitment — to anything other than monthly payments — becomes particularly odious; "diamonds are forever" takes on depressing new meaning (because life isn’t forever). No, love isn’t "a car in the driveway with a big bow on top." It’s pushing a wheelchair. It’s cutting off all of your lover’s hair as it begins to fall out in large clumps during chemo, and massaging that patchy head to give her one of the few physical pleasures left to her. It’s laughing while browsing a wig shop where the only other customer is a transvestite prostitute. It’s relearning how to cook after three decades of marriage. It’s giving shots through a layer of belly fat. It’s sitting side-by-side in a hospital bed watching TV.
This comes via Rambling Dave who was talking about this morning on C95 who was describing a new kind of haunted experience called, â€œDeathâ€
At this point fear began to grip me, and, though I fought against the notion, I began to worry that this was no longer a game nor a fantasy ride for haunted entertainment. I worried that I had walked into the trap of some profoundly disturbed individual. I was sweating and my heart was racing.
The casket was lowered into a hole in the ground, and I heard dirt landing on top of the lid as sounds from above grew muffled.
I began to cry.
Read the entire store. It takes the idea of a haunted house to a whole new level.
Letters home from a 19 years old soldier from Afghanistan, including the one he wrote after he was killed in action on June 2, 2009. The family gave the letters to the Independent to publish.
In the spring of this year, the 2nd Battalion, The Rifles deployed to Afghanistan. Halfway through the battalion’s tour, it has lost nine soldiers, with dozens injured.
Of those to have given their lives, four were teenagers. Here Rifleman Cyrus Thatcher, who was 19 when he was killed by an explosion near Gereshk seven weeks ago, tells his own story, through letters home and the last letter he left behind to bid farewell to his family â€“ his mother Helena, father Robin and brothers Zac, 21, and Steely, 17.
Following are the words of a proud soldier described by his officers as possessing "a rucksack full of potential", and by his friends as a rascal always cracking jokes and helping to keep morale high. Most of all, they are the words of a young son to his mum, dad and brothers.
You can read all of his letters here.