tininfl2012 asked:

I pray for ur peace in the absence of ur troll and funny spoon. Sincerely, tin in fl

Thank you so much to you and to all who have been so comforting after the loss of my beautiful husband, Michael.  Readers of my tumblr and also of my Klaine stories on S&C (where I channeled a lot of my feelings about Michael through Kurt) have been able to feel what a warm, amazing man he was.  He was, indeed, my “funny spoon.”  

The A-wake-ning

When you start the Wake with a case of wine, a cooler of beer, and a fully stocked liquor cabinet, and you clean up after the Wake to find two cases of wine, two full coolers of beer, and a fully stocked liquor cabinet—despite the fact that everyone was pretty drunk when they left—you cannot tell me that the spirit of Michael wasn’t all over that send off.  I miss you so much, my darling. 

All weekend I have pondered whether or not Facebook is an appropriate place to honor the life of a servant of God who has gone home to be with his Savior. I still don’t know but my heart is full and needs to praise God for this wonderful minister.. Michael Jarrett was the most intellectually gifted minister that I have ever had the privilege of hearing. That gift included knowledge of the Bible but also how to translate it and make it understandable and applicable to those of us who didn’t study the scriptures like we should have. He was a humble man who loved and cared for the less fortunate and demonstrated that in his own life. Michael never claimed to be perfect but often shared with our congregation what he felt were his shortcomings and transgressions. He may not have been perfect, but he was perfect for our church. Michael loved life and he loved his beautiful wife and he loved his congregants. From the time he came to be our pastor, he battled cancer and I am sure suffered more than we know. But he continued to be productive and God had a job for him at First Presbyterian. I can say without reservation that I am a better person for having known Michael Jarrett and wouldn’t we all want that to be our legacy….
Pam Myers via Facebook


Title: High Opera

Author: Twitchy Squirrel

Rating: M Pairings: Klaine

Author’s Summary: In this AU Kurt is a thirty-something struggling opera singer. Blaine is an international pop superstar. They meet on a flight to Italy, and the rest is amore.

Categories: AU, famous,…

I feel so honored that people are putting my little S&C story on their fic rec lists.  Thank you so much for reading; I’m glad you enjoyed it.  I also feel guilty that, because of the recs, people are now following my Tumblr which has no Klaine but is, instead, about death.  That must be a buzz kill.  

Why I Buy Feather Pillows

I have ten pillows on my bed.  Ten.  

And I don’t mean little, silly decorative pillows that you throw on the floor every night when you go to bed and then put back on the bed in the morning.  Who has time for that?  (Answer:  apparently everyone in the United States except me.)

Nope, I have ten, white, down pillows that cradle me to sleep at night and provide some protection from a husband who has more night sweats than a menopausal woman.  

And on apocalyptically bad days like today, when I have to take out my rage on something, I have ten, white, extra, extra, extra fluffy, down pillows…and a few feathers stuck to my wall.  

Lowered Expectations

Watching someone you love go through cancer is about the most frightening thing imaginable.  So much changes, and you’re not sure what’s normal, what’s permanent, and what’s life-threatening.  Cancer, part deux and part trois, are much easier; it’s astonishing what doesn’t bother you anymore. 

Yesterday some friends came to the house that hadn’t seen Michael in about a month.  Immediately one of them freaked out about Michael’s weight loss.  Twenty pounds in two months?  Eh, it comes back.  It always comes back.  Probably he’ll lose thirty more.  No problem.  Weird squeaky voice?  It comes back, too, but this time we know that the vocal change is from the drugs and not from weakness.  Oddly, that’s reassuring. 

Over the last four years, I’ve seen a lot of weird things.  The testicles are suddenly next to each other vertically, rather than horizontally.  Really creepy, but not permanent.  The loss of spine?  Well, that’s permanent, but so what?  I’m always really bothered by the concentration camp stick legs, because that’s the part of Michael’s body I love the most, but the sexy soccer player legs always return eventually.  Waking up each morning to blood on the sheets is no longer a big deal.  How can that be normal?  It’s normal.    

My friend Meg lost a sister to cancer.  I’m not sure how many time Sue had cancer before she finally died, but there were many bouts.  Meg says that Sue would say, “It’s time to lower my expectations downward.”  You do that, and it’s so reassuring.  It doesn’t sound like it; it sounds depressing.  It’s not.  Every time you shift to a lower gear your mind says, “Okay, here’s where we’re operating now.  We can do this.”  It’s that time before you lower your expectations that are the hard times—the times when you want it to be back to how it was, and you’re expecting that maybe tomorrow will be the good day that you haven’t had for so long.  This is the mental gear grinding period, and it’s awful.  The lowered expectations?  Those are a blessing.  


I woke up in Michael’s arms, his chest pressed against my back, “I love being the little spoon.” 

He pulled me closer.  

"Do you want to roll over, so I can be the big spoon now?"

"All the spoons are the same size." 

"No, they’re not.  I’m the little spoon."

"Yes, they are, go look in the drawer."  

We fake argued over this for days.  


"No, don’t get up yet," I whined, looking up from my laptop where I was perched in the den.  "I was just coming back to bed."   

"You were?" He sounded so happy.  

"Mmm hmmm."  

He hightailed it back to bed.  

A few minutes later, I crawled into the warm sheets beside him.  

"Do you want to spoon?" he asked.  

"First I want to do this," I said, wrapping my arms around him and burying my head in the soft t-shirt covering his chest.  He held me tight.  

"OK, now we can spoon," I said.  "Do you want to be the big spoon or the little spoon." 

From somewhere (nightstand? under the bed?) Michael produced two identical serving spoons.  ”See,” he demonstrated, “They’re both the same size, whether they’re in the front or the back.”  He reversed positions with the spoons to demonstrate.  

I giggled, “You never cease to charm me.”

He smiled, looking very pleased with himself.  

Even Trolls Need Love

"I can’t tell what you want," Michael says.  "Do you want me to fight, or are you waiting for me to die?"  

I burst into tears and bury my face in his neck.  

We are lying in the bed in a huge pile of down pillows with the comforter pulled up to our chins.  It’s much later in the morning than self-respecting people should be in bed, but we no longer care about such things.  

"Oh, darling," I sob, "I want you to fight.  I want you to fight so hard. But I know how hard it is.  I don’t want to see you tortured, and I know I can’t have both.  But I want you to live.  I need you so much."  

He holds me until my crying subsides, and I can tell that he’s happy with my response.  It cheers me immensely.  

"You can’t die; no one else will ever love me," I joke as I nuzzle my nose into Michael’s t-shirt.  

"Oh, honey," he says, squeezing me with the arm that’s wrapped around my shoulders.  "Somebody will love you.  He’ll probably be a troll; but he’ll love you."  We both chuckle.  
"Of course," he goes on, continuing the joke, "I’m a bit of a troll.”  
I don’t intend to think about it, but I do.  Over the last four years, disease has taken an unmerciful fist to my beautiful love.  Myeloma has cracked his spine in so many places his torso is now four inches shorter, the extra skin pushed down by gravity.  His chest is criss-crossed with scars. A particularly long one lay diagonally across his ribs from a liver resection.  An especially nasty one above his left nipple is from where a port was inserted and later removed.  A faint scar runs from his navel to his pubic bone.  The rest of his chest is covered with puncture wounds from various scopes.  There are scars on his back from too many painful bone marrow biopsies.  On his right is anchored a flesh-colored bag:  a result of a loop ileostomy.  When we make love—when we could make love—he would try in vain to tuck it under a t-shirt, horrified that it would ruin the moment.  Which it did, but only because of how it made him feel.  
The first time I saw him I was 27 or 28.  As I was about to step into the Penn State building where I spent most of my time as a graduate student, I saw him across the parking lot.  He was so breathtaking I just froze.  For a moment I didn’t even see that he was kissing my friend, Lucy, and I didn’t remember that I was living with my own boyfriend.  The whole world blackened down to a single pinpoint of him.  He was that beautiful.  
But he’s never been more beautiful to me than he is so many years later in this bed.  
A troll may be a creature of uncommon ugliness, but he heats the blood of the troll who loves him.  Michael looks amazing to me, and no amount of surgeon’s knives can mar that.  That’s the thing about beauty.  It’s irrepressible. It shines through disease, accidents, aging.  
"You are a troll,” I tease, tilting my head up for a kiss.  ”And I don’t want any other trolls.”  
"Good," he says.  

Michael’s Letter to His Congregation, Jan 28, 2014

My dear family in faith,

I will be returning to ** this afternoon, when I am released from ***. I am aware that so many of you have tried to reach me by telephone, and have received several notices of your prayers and love through email. The schedule of tests over the last few days has left me little time either to answer the phone or respond to your kind messages. Rest assured, each note of love and support has meant a great deal to me.

Read More