you still got me

REBLOG FOR A LES MISERABLES PICK UP LINE IN YOUR ASK

surmonproprepreteant:

surmonproprepreteant:

I got unlimited data and a grand amount of time to waste.

If your ASK isn’t open, I can’t send you one. Please have it opened.

After my mom was diagnosed with cancer, time became a threat. In the how-long-does-she-have sense, and every other sense. Before she was hospitalized, it was remembering what medications and how much and when, and did I remember to set the alarm clock? When was her biopsy scheduled for? How long would it take to get there? Is someone going to be home to answer the door at 3:00 when they come to install the oxygen tanks?
After she was hospitalized, it was when is the neurologist due in? Can we get her morphine before the night shift nurse goes home? If I miss this bus to the hospital, will I get a chance to speak to the radiology department before they close for the day? And so on.
Every day, we all lived by the clock. Everything I did revolved around time, and the hideously specific back-of-the-neck feeling of knowing that neither you nor the people you care about have enough of it by half. It is exhausting and deeply miserable and even when it’s over, you never quite stop hearing the tick-tock, tick-tock that has become a constant background accompaniment to everything you do, waking or sleeping, the one that prompts you to sprint everywhere even when you can walk and makes you utterly incapable forcing down the tickle of panic that lives in the base of your throat. This is just a way of trying to let my mind fully understand that the clock stopped a couple of months ago.
Each clock, in no particular order, is set to a time that represents a significant moment. The times are as close as I could get them going off of my memory, or failing that, off of call logs and texts.
Left to right:Row one:
Receiving the verdict of incurable after a CT scan.
Checking on my mom in the morning, finding her collapsed on the floor.
Receiving the phone call that my mother’s father had died.
Row two:
My father playing their wedding song to my mother while she is in a coma.
Time of death.
Learning that the prognosis had gone from weeks to days.
Row three:
The phone call from my dad with the initial diagnosis of brain, bone, liver, lymph node, and lung cancer.
First meeting with the palliative care team.
Completion of first radiation.

After my mom was diagnosed with cancer, time became a threat. In the how-long-does-she-have sense, and every other sense. Before she was hospitalized, it was remembering what medications and how much and when, and did I remember to set the alarm clock? When was her biopsy scheduled for? How long would it take to get there? Is someone going to be home to answer the door at 3:00 when they come to install the oxygen tanks?

After she was hospitalized, it was when is the neurologist due in? Can we get her morphine before the night shift nurse goes home? If I miss this bus to the hospital, will I get a chance to speak to the radiology department before they close for the day? And so on.

Every day, we all lived by the clock. Everything I did revolved around time, and the hideously specific back-of-the-neck feeling of knowing that neither you nor the people you care about have enough of it by half. It is exhausting and deeply miserable and even when it’s over, you never quite stop hearing the tick-tock, tick-tock that has become a constant background accompaniment to everything you do, waking or sleeping, the one that prompts you to sprint everywhere even when you can walk and makes you utterly incapable forcing down the tickle of panic that lives in the base of your throat. This is just a way of trying to let my mind fully understand that the clock stopped a couple of months ago.

Each clock, in no particular order, is set to a time that represents a significant moment. The times are as close as I could get them going off of my memory, or failing that, off of call logs and texts.

Left to right:

Row one:

  • Receiving the verdict of incurable after a CT scan.
  • Checking on my mom in the morning, finding her collapsed on the floor.
  • Receiving the phone call that my mother’s father had died.

Row two:

  • My father playing their wedding song to my mother while she is in a coma.
  • Time of death.
  • Learning that the prognosis had gone from weeks to days.

Row three:

  • The phone call from my dad with the initial diagnosis of brain, bone, liver, lymph node, and lung cancer.
  • First meeting with the palliative care team.
  • Completion of first radiation.

I picked up my keys and started walking to the front door to go grocery shopping and then this happened

Daenerys Targaryen meme: three colors [1/3] → blue

rustypolished:

rustypolished:

I missed two solid weeks of these so now I feel bad. I’m sorry this is kind of a rush job but I literally just got home from SDCC and I’m trying super hard to catch up! 

This giveaway is going to be a little different since I want to give people more than just a few hours to enter - so rather than ending tonight I’ll end it on Wednesday.

  • Someone is going to win a lacrosse hoodie
  • Any size, any character (new characters are coming soon-ish)
  • Shipped anywhere
  • Like and/or reblog to enter! Don’t spam or be a jerk because it’ll break the notes and ruin my day. 
  • This giveaway ends on WEDNESDAY, JULY 30th at 10 PM, PST.

!BONUS! This week’s winner will also get one of the SDCC EXCLUSIVE BEASTIARIES. I managed to grab a couple extra at the con. The beastiary and the hoodie will ship separately but to the same address, free of charge. 

As always, hoodies are available here.

This is over today! I almost forgot :I

Anonymous
Will "devil's advocate" ever not mean "racist contrarian?"

yoisthisracist:

Sometimes it means “sexist fuckface”, I guess.

I got questioned by security at the store this afternoon because I had a cart full of clocks and every time they I asked what I was doing all I could do was gesticulate helplessly and say “I’m a photographer”



© T H E M E