Editor
The writer hails from County Antrim and has lived in the desert southwest of the United States for over 20 years. Her blog is her virtual home away from home.
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Act Two, Amputation, Breast Cancer Advocacy, Breast Cancer Treatment, Breast Reconstruction, Cancer Language, david bowie, Diagnosis, Glenn Frey, Language matters, Mastectomy, Memoir, Milestones
The work of a November. . .
On the anniversary of his death, she told me it was beyond her grasp that one day it would be ten years, twenty years, forty years, since her dad last held her hand in the frozen food section of the grocery store. To keep her warm.
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For My Grandfather – Dulce et Decorum Est.
My grandfather died on June 22, 1977, a decade before the Enniskillen bombing. Had he been alive on that day, he would have been wearing his pressed suit, with medals and a poppy attached to the lapels, not unlike those pensioners gathered respectfully at the Cenotaph where at 10:43am where, with chilling choreography, an IRA bomb exploded, killing eleven and…
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Art, Awesome Women, Breast Cancer Treatment, Breast Reconstruction, Culture of breast cancer, Feminism, Kellys Cellars, Mammograms, Mother Daughter Relationship, Nipple Tattoo, P.INK DAY 2013, Pink Ribbon Culture, Pink Ribbons, Pinkwashing, Sexism, Shopping, Themes of childhood, Tina Fey, Writers
A mastectomy by any other name . . .
NOTE: A version of this post appeared on October 20, 2013, as Breast Cancer Awareness Month was winding down. The pictures on this post offended someone so much that she or he reported them to Facebook and asked to have them removed. And I thought the cancer was the offensive thing. The story that follows is mine. I chose to share…
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After death of a spouse, Animals, Arizona Humane Society, Best friends, Dog Rescue, Dogs, Friendship, Love, Mary Oliver, Memoir, Mother Daughter Relationship, Rites of passage, Themes of Childhood, Van Morrison
dog days ~ an emotional rescue
Sometimes in the early hours of the morning, when I am contemplating all that has happened in the past couple of years, I find myself wanting to be reassured that as his fragile heart stopped working, Ken's last interaction on this earth was tender, with three pounds of unconditional love curled up like a comma on his chest.