MOURNING YOUR OWN

Because of similarities in the circumstances, the recent death of Jade Goody brought back in raw detail my sister Nessa’s death, seven years ago. Both were young mothers, both died relatively quickly after a late diagnosis of aggressive cancer, and both sported their bald heads with amazing – to me – good humour. Watching and hearing about Jade’s demise reminded me of Nessa’s last few months: every new test brought more bad news; she seemed weaker each time I saw her; but, paradoxically, her interest in life increased. Like Jade, she relished a good party and the company of friends, and she continued to make plans, buy new clothes, and eat the kinds of food she loved, when she wasn’t too sick to manage any of it. When it came to shaving her head, in preparation for hair loss, Nessa chose a black bobbed wig and immediately regretted not opting for a platinum one, just to try out being blonde for a while. She rarely wore the wig, opting for a bare head indoors and, outdoors, a red bandanna. I’ve heard people say, ‘So-and-so was given five months to live’, or a year, or whatever exact length of time the doctors supposedly ‘gave’ them. During her seven month illness, Nessa was not told that she was dying, or that the prognosis was fatal. Maybe the doctors presumed that she knew. And I know she must have realised somewhere inside her – as we, her family, must have – but none of us had experience of cancer and we all hoped she would get better. However, as the cancer continued to spread and spread, we knew the outlook was poor. But through all the invasive tests, treatments and procedures, Nessa talked about bringing her infant daughter to Africa to learn drumming; she talked about having her own house and decorating it; she talked about choosing schools. I sometimes found it hard to listen to these whispered plans, as she lay in her bed, pain pulling at her face, and with that homogenous cancer-victim look: the blue-pale skin, the hair all gone, the bloated body. I wondered where she found the strength for positivity of any kind living with the extreme pain of her ravaged self. My heart broke, over and over, looking at her. Visits, whether in the hospital or back in my parent’s home, were hard; I often had to leave the room to cry. It was not about me – I knew that – but it is hard to watch a much loved sister and friend suffer. It struck me then that hope must be one of the most basic human instincts because even in the face of it all, she hoped for more travel, more life, more fun with her tiny daughter. I was jealous when Nessa gave birth to her daughter. I already had a son, but I had had two miscarriages the same year she was expecting, and I found it hard to be around her and her little girl, when I was still grieving deeply for my two lost babies. My best defence was distancing myself, which was easy enough as I lived on the other side of Ireland. She had long wanted to be a mother and I was delighted for her that her wish had come true. But I was so entrenched in the pain of my own losses that for the fifteen months or so until her cancer diagnosis, I kept my distance. Miscarriage is an invisible loss – there is, generally, no body to bury, and no gravestone to visit. And while I would not compare my losses to the death of a full-term baby, I was still devastated by them. Many of my family members and friends chose to play down my miscarriages, expecting me to be back to ‘normal’ within days of losing each baby. This ‘get up and get on with it’ attitude is thrown at many women who have miscarried. I regularly log-on to a parenting website, which has a pregnancy loss forum, and it contains hurt and bewildered messages from a lot of women who are treated by others as if they are over-reacting to their losses. Perhaps, to those people, our babies are merely a clump of cells, but parents bond early with a wanted baby and the loss of that child is very deeply felt. The May morning that Nessa rang to tell me she had cancer, I ignored her phone-call and I didn’t ring her back. I was in a bad way emotionally that year: still angry and hurt by my body letting me down, and I was also doing fertility treatments that seemed endless and fruitless. I had tucked myself away from everyone. My eldest sister rang me later that May day with Nessa’s bad news and my emotional rollercoaster became even more rocky. Nessa died on a Sunday, two days before Christmas; I was four months pregnant with my second son. From the previous Wednesday she was too out-of-it to talk to me on the phone from her hospice bed. On the Saturday evening my mother rang to tell me to come home. We got up early on the Sunday to drive to Dublin; my eight-year-old son happily sang ‘Jingle Bells’ in the back seat and we stopped the car so that I could take a photograph of the red sun rising over Galway Bay. We arrived at the hospice minutes after Nessa had died. If only I hadn’t stopped to take that photo. My eldest brother said I was as well off not to have witnessed her death; it hadn’t been easy. I held one of Nessa’s beautiful hands, with their lilac nails – it was still warm – and we all stood around her bed, shocked into disbelief. You don’t ever truly get over the death of someone you love. Nessa and I were on the same wavelength, we liked similar things: art, books, films; she had guided my tastes since I was a kid. We shared a sense of humour; we had holidayed together; gone to school together; cooked for each other. I still miss her terribly: there’s a Nessa-shaped hole in my life that simply cannot be filled by anyone or anything. I regret sincerely the distance that I put between us after my miscarriages; that time with her was lost, never to be reclaimed. I grieve for her still – a less raw grief than in the first few years – but her absence is a dull, sometimes impossible ache, especially in the lead up to Christmas. Being pregnant with my hard-won son helped me through the funeral days and the time after that; I had something hugely positive to cling to in that time of loss. I was sorry she never got to meet him, but he and his cousin – Nessa’s daughter – are firm friends. I had yet another miscarriage after that and the grief of losing a baby is a different one to losing someone you know well – it’s a grief of self-blame because you always wonder if the miscarriage was somehow your fault. Rationally, you know that it most likely wasn’t, but rationality and grief rarely go hand-in-hand. Because miscarriage is in, and of, your own body, it can take longer for the angry hurt of the loss to heal; there are so many questions that can’t be answered. There’s an Irish language poem, by Máirtín Ó Direáin, which, translated, is called ‘The Dignity of Grief’. The poet watches two dignified women, dressed in mourning clothes, leaving ‘a large and clamorous throng’. That’s what it feels like to be in mourning – you are on the outside of everything, outside the clamorous throng of ordinary life. Others – I call them ‘grief-stealers’ – may dramatise your grief, or their own, with funeral histrionics and dramatic outpourings. People also have a habit of saying the wrong thing to you after you experience loss through death; things like, ‘It was for the best’, or, ‘She’s with God now’, etc. In my experience, grief and mourning are deep, heavy emotions that do get lighter to carry over time and, with luck, you can retain some of the dignity of Ó Direáin’s women while you go through them. And eventually, you get to that other side where, although your equilibrium is never fully restored, hope is possible again. My heart goes out to Jade Goody’s husband, sons, friends and family who are now only at the beginning of that long, hard road. Dínit an Bhróin Nochtaíodh domsa tráth Dínit mhór an bhróin, Ar fheiceáil dom beirt bhan Ag siúl amach ó shlua I bhfeisteas caointe dubh Gan focal astu beirt: D’imigh an dínit leo Ón slua callánach mór. Bhí freastalán istigh Ó línéar ar an ród, Fuadar faoi gach n-aon, Gleo ann is caint ard; Ach an beirt a bhí ina dtost, A shiúil amach leo féin I bhfeisteas caointe dubh, D’imigh an dínit leo. The Dignity of Grief Grief ’s great dignity Was revealed to me once On seeing two women Emerging from a crowd In black mourning Each without a word: Dignity left with them From the large and clamorous throng. A tender was in From a liner in the roads And everyone was rushing, There was tumult and loud talk; But the pair who were silent, Who walked out on their own In black mourning Left with dignity. Máirtín Ó Direáin From Poems from the Irish (2004) Links to the other Death and Mourning posts: <a href="#" onclick="new Ajax.Request('/commentaries/mike-watson-intro-death-and-mourning-2', {asynchronous:true, evalScripts:true, method: 'get', parameters: {authenticity_token: encodeURIComponent(AUTH_TOKEN), display:'center'}}); return false;" title="Introduction">Mike: Introduction</a> <a href="#" onclick="new Ajax.Request('/commentaries/farryl-violet-the-undead', {asynchronous:true, evalScripts:true, method: 'get', parameters: {authenticity_token: encodeURIComponent(AUTH_TOKEN), display:'center'}}); return false;" title="Violet the Undead">Farryl: Violet the Undead</a> <a href="#" onclick="new Ajax.Request('/commentaries/ricrawlins-i-wanna-be-eaten-by-jaws', {asynchronous:true, evalScripts:true, method: 'get', parameters: {authenticity_token: encodeURIComponent(AUTH_TOKEN), display:'center'}}); return false;" title="I Wanna Be Eaten By Jaws">Ric: I Wanna Be Eaten By Jaws</a> <a href="#" onclick="new Ajax.Request('/commentaries/guest-writer-rattenkopf-entkomt', {asynchronous:true, evalScripts:true, method: 'get', parameters: {authenticity_token: encodeURIComponent(AUTH_TOKEN), display:'center'}}); return false;" title="Rattenkopf Entkommt">Martin: Rattenkopf Entkommt</a> <a href="#" onclick="new Ajax.Request('/commentaries/seanbwparker-death-and-mourning', {asynchronous:true, evalScripts:true, method: 'get', parameters: {authenticity_token: encodeURIComponent(AUTH_TOKEN), display:'center'}}); return false;" title="Death and Mourning">Sean: Death and Mourning</a> <a href="#" onclick="new Ajax.Request('/commentaries/barbara-smith-three-poems', {asynchronous:true, evalScripts:true, method: 'get', parameters: {authenticity_token: encodeURIComponent(AUTH_TOKEN), display:'center'}}); return false;" title="Three Poems">Barbara: Three Poems</a> <a href="#" onclick="new Ajax.Request('/commentaries/karim-julien-because-michael-tole-me-so', {asynchronous:true, evalScripts:true, method: 'get', parameters: {authenticity_token: encodeURIComponent(AUTH_TOKEN), display:'center'}}); return false;" title="Because Michael Told Me So">Karim: Because Michael Told Me So</a> 2009-04-19T08:47:32-04:00 false false 685

nuala-n-chonch-ir-mourning-your-own

Because of similarities in the circumstances, the recent death of Jade Goody brought back in raw detail my sister Nessa’s death, seven years ago. Both were young mothers, both died relatively quickly after a late diagnosis of aggressive cancer, and both sported their bald heads with amazing – to me – good humour. Watching and hearing about Jade’s demise reminded me of Nessa’s last few months: every new test brought more bad news; she seemed weaker each time I saw her; but, paradoxically, her interest in life increased. Like Jade, she relished a good party and the company of friends, and she continued to make plans, buy new clothes, and eat the kinds of food she loved, when she wasn’t too sick to manage any of it. When it came to shaving her head, in preparation for hair loss, Nessa chose a black bobbed wig and immediately regretted not opting for a platinum one, just to try out being blonde for a while. She rarely wore the wig, opting for a bare head indoors and, outdoors, a red bandanna. I’ve heard people say, ‘So-and-so was given five months to live’, or a year, or whatever exact length of time the doctors supposedly ‘gave’ them. During her seven month illness, Nessa was not told that she was dying, or that the prognosis was fatal. Maybe the doctors presumed that she knew. And I know she must have realised somewhere inside her – as we, her family, must have – but none of us had experience of cancer and we all hoped she would get better. However, as the cancer continued to spread and spread, we knew the outlook was poor. But through all the invasive tests, treatments and procedures, Nessa talked about bringing her infant daughter to Africa to learn drumming; she talked about having her own house and decorating it; she talked about choosing schools. I sometimes found it hard to listen to these whispered plans, as she lay in her bed, pain pulling at her face, and with that homogenous cancer-victim look: the blue-pale skin, the hair all gone, the bloated body. I wondered where she found the strength for positivity of any kind living with the extreme pain of her ravaged self. My heart broke, over and over, looking at her. Visits, whether in the hospital or back in my parent’s home, were hard; I often had to leave the room to cry. It was not about me – I knew that – but it is hard to watch a much loved sister and friend suffer. It struck me then that hope must be one of the most basic human instincts because even in the face of it all, she hoped for more travel, more life, more fun with her tiny daughter. I was jealous when Nessa gave birth to her daughter. I already had a son, but I had had two miscarriages the same year she was expecting, and I found it hard to be around her and her little girl, when I was still grieving deeply for my two lost babies. My best defence was distancing myself, which was easy enough as I lived on the other side of Ireland. She had long wanted to be a mother and I was delighted for her that her wish had come true. But I was so entrenched in the pain of my own losses that for the fifteen months or so until her cancer diagnosis, I kept my distance. Miscarriage is an invisible loss – there is, generally, no body to bury, and no gravestone to visit. And while I would not compare my losses to the death of a full-term baby, I was still devastated by them. Many of my family members and friends chose to play down my miscarriages, expecting me to be back to ‘normal’ within days of losing each baby. This ‘get up and get on with it’ attitude is thrown at many women who have miscarried. I regularly log-on to a parenting website, which has a pregnancy loss forum, and it contains hurt and bewildered messages from a lot of women who are treated by others as if they are over-reacting to their losses. Perhaps, to those people, our babies are merely a clump of cells, but parents bond early with a wanted baby and the loss of that child is very deeply felt. The May morning that Nessa rang to tell me she had cancer, I ignored her phone-call and I didn’t ring her back. I was in a bad way emotionally that year: still angry and hurt by my body letting me down, and I was also doing fertility treatments that seemed endless and fruitless. I had tucked myself away from everyone. My eldest sister rang me later that May day with Nessa’s bad news and my emotional rollercoaster became even more rocky. Nessa died on a Sunday, two days before Christmas; I was four months pregnant with my second son. From the previous Wednesday she was too out-of-it to talk to me on the phone from her hospice bed. On the Saturday evening my mother rang to tell me to come home. We got up early on the Sunday to drive to Dublin; my eight-year-old son happily sang ‘Jingle Bells’ in the back seat and we stopped the car so that I could take a photograph of the red sun rising over Galway Bay. We arrived at the hospice minutes after Nessa had died. If only I hadn’t stopped to take that photo. My eldest brother said I was as well off not to have witnessed her death; it hadn’t been easy. I held one of Nessa’s beautiful hands, with their lilac nails – it was still warm – and we all stood around her bed, shocked into disbelief. You don’t ever truly get over the death of someone you love. Nessa and I were on the same wavelength, we liked similar things: art, books, films; she had guided my tastes since I was a kid. We shared a sense of humour; we had holidayed together; gone to school together; cooked for each other. I still miss her terribly: there’s a Nessa-shaped hole in my life that simply cannot be filled by anyone or anything. I regret sincerely the distance that I put between us after my miscarriages; that time with her was lost, never to be reclaimed. I grieve for her still – a less raw grief than in the first few years – but her absence is a dull, sometimes impossible ache, especially in the lead up to Christmas. Being pregnant with my hard-won son helped me through the funeral days and the time after that; I had something hugely positive to cling to in that time of loss. I was sorry she never got to meet him, but he and his cousin – Nessa’s daughter – are firm friends. I had yet another miscarriage after that and the grief of losing a baby is a different one to losing someone you know well – it’s a grief of self-blame because you always wonder if the miscarriage was somehow your fault. Rationally, you know that it most likely wasn’t, but rationality and grief rarely go hand-in-hand. Because miscarriage is in, and of, your own body, it can take longer for the angry hurt of the loss to heal; there are so many questions that can’t be answered. There’s an Irish language poem, by Máirtín Ó Direáin, which, translated, is called ‘The Dignity of Grief’. The poet watches two dignified women, dressed in mourning clothes, leaving ‘a large and clamorous throng’. That’s what it feels like to be in mourning – you are on the outside of everything, outside the clamorous throng of ordinary life. Others – I call them ‘grief-stealers’ – may dramatise your grief, or their own, with funeral histrionics and dramatic outpourings. People also have a habit of saying the wrong thing to you after you experience loss through death; things like, ‘It was for the best’, or, ‘She’s with God now’, etc. In my experience, grief and mourning are deep, heavy emotions that do get lighter to carry over time and, with luck, you can retain some of the dignity of Ó Direáin’s women while you go through them. And eventually, you get to that other side where, although your equilibrium is never fully restored, hope is possible again. My heart goes out to Jade Goody’s husband, sons, friends and family who are now only at the beginning of that long, hard road. Dínit an Bhróin Nochtaíodh domsa tráth Dínit mhór an bhróin, Ar fheiceáil dom beirt bhan Ag siúl amach ó shlua I bhfeisteas caointe dubh Gan focal astu beirt: D’imigh an dínit leo Ón slua callánach mór. Bhí freastalán istigh Ó línéar ar an ród, Fuadar faoi gach n-aon, Gleo ann is caint ard; Ach an beirt a bhí ina dtost, A shiúil amach leo féin I bhfeisteas caointe dubh, D’imigh an dínit leo. The Dignity of Grief Grief ’s great dignity Was revealed to me once On seeing two women Emerging from a crowd In black mourning Each without a word: Dignity left with them From the large and clamorous throng. A tender was in From a liner in the roads And everyone was rushing, There was tumult and loud talk; But the pair who were silent, Who walked out on their own In black mourning Left with dignity. Máirtín Ó Direáin From Poems from the Irish (2004) Links to the other Death and Mourning posts: Mike: Introduction Farryl: Violet the Undead Ric: I Wanna Be Eaten By Jaws Martin: Rattenkopf Entkommt Sean: Death and Mourning Barbara: Three Poems Karim: Because Michael Told Me So

Because of similarities in the circumstances, the recent death of Jade Goody brought back in raw detail my sister Nessa’s death, seven years ago. Both were young mothers, both died relatively quickly after a late diagnosis of aggressive cancer, and both sported their bald heads with amazing – to me – good humour. Watching and hearing about Jade’s demise reminded me of Nessa’s last few months: every new test brought more bad news; she seemed weaker each time I saw her; but, paradoxically, her interest in life increased. Like Jade, she relished a good party and the company of friends, and she continued to make plans, buy new clothes, and eat the kinds of food she loved, when she wasn’t too sick to manage any of it. When it came to shaving her head, in preparation for hair loss, Nessa chose a black bobbed wig and immediately regretted not opting for a platinum one, just to try out being blonde for a while. She rarely wore the wig, opting for a bare head indoors and, outdoors, a red bandanna. I’ve heard people say, ‘So-and-so was given five months to live’, or a year, or whatever exact length of time the doctors supposedly ‘gave’ them. During her seven month illness, Nessa was not told that she was dying, or that the prognosis was fatal. Maybe the doctors presumed that she knew. And I know she must have realised somewhere inside her – as we, her family, must have – but none of us had experience of cancer and we all hoped she would get better. However, as the cancer continued to spread and spread, we knew the outlook was poor. But through all the invasive tests, treatments and procedures, Nessa talked about bringing her infant daughter to Africa to learn drumming; she talked about having her own house and decorating it; she talked about choosing schools. I sometimes found it hard to listen to these whispered plans, as she lay in her bed, pain pulling at her face, and with that homogenous cancer-victim look: the blue-pale skin, the hair all gone, the bloated body. I wondered where she found the strength for positivity of any kind living with the extreme pain of her ravaged self. My heart broke, over and over, looking at her. Visits, whether in the hospital or back in my parent’s home, were hard; I often had to leave the room to cry. It was not about me – I knew that – but it is hard to watch a much loved sister and friend suffer. It struck me then that hope must be one of the most basic human instincts because even in the face of it all, she hoped for more travel, more life, more fun with her tiny daughter. I was jealous when Nessa gave birth to her daughter. I already had a son, but I had had two miscarriages the same year she was expecting, and I found it hard to be around her and her little girl, when I was still grieving deeply for my two lost babies. My best defence was distancing myself, which was easy enough as I lived on the other side of Ireland. She had long wanted to be a mother and I was delighted for her that her wish had come true. But I was so entrenched in the pain of my own losses that for the fifteen months or so until her cancer diagnosis, I kept my distance. Miscarriage is an invisible loss – there is, generally, no body to bury, and no gravestone to visit. And while I would not compare my losses to the death of a full-term baby, I was still devastated by them. Many of my family members and friends chose to play down my miscarriages, expecting me to be back to ‘normal’ within days of losing each baby. This ‘get up and get on with it’ attitude is thrown at many women who have miscarried. I regularly log-on to a parenting website, which has a pregnancy loss forum, and it contains hurt and bewildered messages from a lot of women who are treated by others as if they are over-reacting to their losses. Perhaps, to those people, our babies are merely a clump of cells, but parents bond early with a wanted baby and the loss of that child is very deeply felt. The May morning that Nessa rang to tell me she had cancer, I ignored her phone-call and I didn’t ring her back. I was in a bad way emotionally that year: still angry and hurt by my body letting me down, and I was also doing fertility treatments that seemed endless and fruitless. I had tucked myself away from everyone. My eldest sister rang me later that May day with Nessa’s bad news and my emotional rollercoaster became even more rocky. Nessa died on a Sunday, two days before Christmas; I was four months pregnant with my second son. From the previous Wednesday she was too out-of-it to talk to me on the phone from her hospice bed. On the Saturday evening my mother rang to tell me to come home. We got up early on the Sunday to drive to Dublin; my eight-year-old son happily sang ‘Jingle Bells’ in the back seat and we stopped the car so that I could take a photograph of the red sun rising over Galway Bay. We arrived at the hospice minutes after Nessa had died. If only I hadn’t stopped to take that photo. My eldest brother said I was as well off not to have witnessed her death; it hadn’t been easy. I held one of Nessa’s beautiful hands, with their lilac nails – it was still warm – and we all stood around her bed, shocked into disbelief. You don’t ever truly get over the death of someone you love. Nessa and I were on the same wavelength, we liked similar things: art, books, films; she had guided my tastes since I was a kid. We shared a sense of humour; we had holidayed together; gone to school together; cooked for each other. I still miss her terribly: there’s a Nessa-shaped hole in my life that simply cannot be filled by anyone or anything. I regret sincerely the distance that I put between us after my miscarriages; that time with her was lost, never to be reclaimed. I grieve for her still – a less raw grief than in the first few years – but her absence is a dull, sometimes impossible ache, especially in the lead up to Christmas. Being pregnant with my hard-won son helped me through the funeral days and the time after that; I had something hugely positive to cling to in that time of loss. I was sorry she never got to meet him, but he and his cousin – Nessa’s daughter – are firm friends. I had yet another miscarriage after that and the grief of losing a baby is a different one to losing someone you know well – it’s a grief of self-blame because you always wonder if the miscarriage was somehow your fault. Rationally, you know that it most likely wasn’t, but rationality and grief rarely go hand-in-hand. Because miscarriage is in, and of, your own body, it can take longer for the angry hurt of the loss to heal; there are so many questions that can’t be answered. There’s an Irish language poem, by Máirtín Ó Direáin, which, translated, is called ‘The Dignity of Grief’. The poet watches two dignified women, dressed in mourning clothes, leaving ‘a large and clamorous throng’. That’s what it feels like to be in mourning – you are on the outside of everything, outside the clamorous throng of ordinary life. Others – I call them ‘grief-stealers’ – may dramatise your grief, or their own, with funeral histrionics and dramatic outpourings. People also have a habit of saying the wrong thing to you after you experience loss through death; things like, ‘It was for the best’, or, ‘She’s with God now’, etc. In my experience, grief and mourning are deep, heavy emotions that do get lighter to carry over time and, with luck, you can retain some of the dignity of Ó Direáin’s women while you go through them. And eventually, you get to that other side where, although your equilibrium is never fully restored, hope is possible again. My heart goes out to Jade Goody’s husband, sons, friends and family who are now only at the beginning of that long, hard road. Dínit an Bhróin Nochtaíodh domsa tráth Dínit mhór an bhróin, Ar fheiceáil dom beirt bhan Ag siúl amach ó shlua I bhfeisteas caointe dubh Gan focal astu beirt: D'imigh an dínit leo Ón slua callánach mór. Bhí freastalán istigh Ó línéar ar an ród, Fuadar faoi gach n-aon, Gleo ann is caint ard; Ach an beirt a bhí ina dtost, A shiúil amach leo féin I bhfeisteas caointe dubh, D'imigh an dínit leo. The Dignity of Grief Grief ’s great dignity Was revealed to me once On seeing two women Emerging from a crowd In black mourning Each without a word: Dignity left with them From the large and clamorous throng. A tender was in From a liner in the roads And everyone was rushing, There was tumult and loud talk; But the pair who were silent, Who walked out on their own In black mourning Left with dignity. Máirtín Ó Direáin From _Poems from the Irish_ (2004) Links to the other Death and Mourning posts: "Mike: Introduction(Introduction)":/commentaries/mike-watson-intro-death-and-mourning-2 "Farryl: Violet the Undead(Violet the Undead)":/commentaries/farryl-violet-the-undead "Ric: I Wanna Be Eaten By Jaws(I Wanna Be Eaten By Jaws)":/commentaries/ricrawlins-i-wanna-be-eaten-by-jaws "Martin: Rattenkopf Entkommt(Rattenkopf Entkommt)":/commentaries/guest-writer-rattenkopf-entkomt "Sean: Death and Mourning(Death and Mourning)":/commentaries/seanbwparker-death-and-mourning "Barbara: Three Poems(Three Poems)":/commentaries/barbara-smith-three-poems "Karim: Because Michael Told Me So(Because Michael Told Me So)":/commentaries/karim-julien-because-michael-tole-me-so

active

MOURNING YOUR OWN false

2009-04-22T08:15:39-04:00

736