#grief

#grief

Birthdays are usually depicted as happy celebrations with loved ones gathered, a cake, gifts, laughter, and, if it's a child's birthday, games and balloons. Even when resources are low, as they are for many people these days, something-no matter how minimal-is often done. If you look on social media, you see all the photos of these eventsl, with everyone smiling and close.

It started young for me. I didn't really have anyone to talk with. My father was a sulky, silent brute and I couldn't risk getting yelled at or hit by speaking up. My mother preferred not to hear about turmoil and always told me to think happy thoughts, even as my older sister urged me to image the worst so that whatever did happen to me wouldn't be as bad as I imagined.

Can you believe it took this show seven whole episodes to finally dabble in necrophilia? As we saw last week, Dina Standish's husband, Doug, has died, and rather than calling the morgue and making arrangements, she simply gets ready for bed and goes to sleep next to the body. What could initially be seen as a relatable, albeit extreme, bit of procrastinating is soon revealed to be a reluctance to part with the body that lasts for days on end.

I've been getting close to a man for the past year and a half, and the other day we had a big blow-up. I didn't like the lax way that he was responding to me, and I wrote him a note saying as much. He got angry and accused me of speaking to him like he was my child. When I attempted to address the issue at hand namely, his unresponsiveness he got madder.

Since my wife died, I've reconnected with my sexuality. I've realised that my fantasies are actually available to me, not just something I live out through porn. And when I met Sophie, I discovered there's been a sexual revolution going on and I'd been missing out. In the early days, Sophie would wake me up in the middle of the night to have sex and we'd whisper fantasies to each other.

Over 600 pages this memoir of sorts ranges from her childhood growing up in the Canadian backwoods to her grief at the death of her partner of 48 years, the writer Graeme Gibson, in 2019, with many friendships, the occasional spat and more than 50 books (including Cat's Eye, Alias Grace and the Booker prizewinning The Blind Assassin and The Testaments) in between.

You shouldn't have to convince your husband to follow through on your dream vacation. He should have consulted you before inviting your son and telling him he will be included in everything. You wrote that you scrimped and saved for years to afford this vacation. How does he intend to pay for all those extra expenses for a third person?

There's always something of a melancholy tinge to Thanksgiving, an unspoken, primal awareness not only that this is one final bacchanal before the privations of winter set in, but that gratitude can't really exist without the experience of grief. The things and the people we feel most thankful for are too often the ones that are no longer with us. Perhaps that helps explain why several new films this Thanksgiving season center on loss and how to move on from it.

I am an only child. My father was killed in a car accident when I was 14 and my mother was 47. We were really tightly bonded after that. She worked at a university and was an artist: she painted and carved birds. She was a wonderful person, who lit up a room and was someone everyone wanted to be around. She was very giving. Later in life, she developed dementia. I left my teaching position to stay home and look after her.

We wanted to have four, Kirk said. And I was praying to God that I was pregnant when he got murdered. Oh, wow. I thought of that once, Kelly said. Whether it was meant to be or whether we'd get news like that. I know, Kirk said while dabbing her eyes. I was like, oh, goodness, that was going to be the ultimate blessing out of this catastrophe.

With the season of Thanksgiving upon us, many of us instinctively reach for gratitude. We make lists, we gather with family, and we remind ourselves to appreciate what is good. But in recent years, gratitude feels harder to cultivate. And we are not imagining it. Psychologically, emotionally, and culturally, we are living through an unusually heavy time. We carry political conflicts that divide communities and family tables.

Have you ever tried to make sense of something t hat doesn't make sense and yet you keep trying because you think it will provide some tiny amount of relief, connecting all the dots, explaining the unexplainable, like that somehow will make the excruciating pain go away, knowing that nothing can ever take the pain away? It's sort of a crazy feedback loop,

Simon and I couldn't be more different. When we met, I was 38, he was 54, and his unabashed zest for life broke through my complicated caution. I knew I was in love when, after a lazy summer evening together, I lay on the stone beside a Trafalgar Square fountain and felt joy seep through my skin. I moved in with him, his rural 15th-century cottage becoming our home, workplace (me in medicine, he in shipping), and where I discovered previously unknown contentment.

I was sitting on my sofa on a Saturday evening when I heard of Catriona's passing, having been in an unexpectedly foul mood earlier that day.

The loved ones we call the deaddepart from us and for a whileare absent. And then as ifcalled back by our love, they comenear us again. They enter our dreams.We feel they have been near uswhen we have not thought of them.They are simply here, simply waitingwhile we are distracted amongour obligations. At lastit comes to us: They live nowin the permanent world.We are the absent ones.

Pregnancy after loss is full of contradictions. It is hope that feels cautious, like it might dissolve if you breathe too hard. It is learning to live again inside a body that remembers grief. I am now officially in my third trimester, and each day brings small signs of life: a flutter, a roll, a hiccup, the steady rhythm of his heart.

When I packed up my New York apartment for the last time, it wasn't just a physical move. I was going through a profound emotional shift, a decision to rethink what success meant to me. A year prior, I had moved from Dallas to chase a dream editorial role, believing that life in the city would be the ultimate marker of success. But after a sudden layoff, the skyline that once inspired me started to feel like a cage.

Despite the joy Zimri brings Savoy, the fact that Zimri will never meet his grandfather compounds his grief, as does Zimri arriving into this world with serious health complications. So Savoy decided to capture this moment in time in a short documentary, also titled Big Bryce Son. Savoy hosts the documentary's Oakland premiere on Friday, Nov. 14, at Rhythm Section Art Lounge for two screenings at 7:30 p.m. and 9 p.m.

Infertility magnifies every communication challenge a couple already carries, as stress can distort our perception. Even simple differences of opinion can suddenly feel like rejection or blame. Spare me the Pain Our minds are wired to spare us from pain and uncertainty. Thought fallacies are the brain's way of managing that fear. When we face something unpredictable or beyond our control, the mind scrambles to restore order where none exists.

When I was pregnant, we moved to a new town, to a wreck of a house we planned to do up. My mum, who was ill, moved in with us, and then I was the carer of a newborn and a dying parent at the two extremes of life, but sharing many of the same needs, and often at the same time.

Knowing she would be undergoing treatments and needed the help, I quit my job to become a manager at one of her four centers. We had previously discussed my future involvement in the company and eventual takeover as director, so while her diagnosis hastened this plan, I felt like I was making the right decision at the time. With this plan, I could help her out while also transitioning into a leadership role.

How could I return to ordinary life after my son died? My grief was overwhelming, spilling into every task and coloring every interaction. Condolences triggered fresh crying jags. I wondered how my eyes could produce so many tears. Over time, however, my work began to draw me in again, demanding that I return to the scientific questions that had defined my career.