Life goes on and I go with it. A long awaited, anticipated and highly planned surprise party for my beloved, Glen was held on Saturday night and was a huge hit. I think I got more out of the planning than I did out of the event itself. Though it was well worth it to see the surprise and delight on his face when he walked through the gate and a million faces and party poppers screamed and popped at him, "SURPRISE!".

There's a great sense of satisfaction in throwing a party for someone you love. You know? It's hard to explaina nd perhaps I won't go into it.

In other news, G's sister, K has become engaged to her boyfriend, Joe. They plan to be married in January - well, this is what G and K's mum has planned! In the meantime, she dropped another bombshell - pregnant, expecting in September. Entirely unplanned, I think she has to come to grips with the reality of it all. For someone who never wanted children, this will be an experience she will have to deal with.

Of course, all this marriage and pregnancy discussion has paved the way for friends and family to ask the questions of G and me. Although the marriage thing will eventually happen (I better not wait forever!), I think the baby thing can wait forever. I really don't think I'd be doing anyone a favour if I were to become a parent. I think this is probably one of the most mature decisions I've ever made, so please don't start sending me emails about how I should stop being selfish and who I'll change my mind in a few years. I'm sick of hearing about it. You know, I might change my mind in a few years, but right here, right now, I'm quite firm about it - thank you very much!

Anyway, enough revelation and scandal. I'm over it.

Twenty three days ago, I saw her and this morning, she passed away. I guess I hope she passed away quietly and peacefully, but I'm now so detached from it all that it hardly affects me and I wonder when the reality of it all will hit me. I purposefully left my web page alone with the last entry on it. I guess I knew that the next entry would be this one. I hate it when my instincts tell me something no one else is prepared to face. The people around me were dealing in dreams, I guess holding onto hope she would fight it. I imagine she only had so much hope and fight left in herself.

I think I'll remember her most for her strength and fiesty attitude. There are only a certain few people whom I would place in this category, as most people I know would have folded long before this. She's someone I aspire to be. Her strength and fight is admirable. Was.

Instead of mourning her loss, crying and feeling completely lost and depressed, I think I've become reminiscent and retrospective about her and the impact she had on me. Her funeral is on Thursday and I suppose it might hit me.

Regardless, I'll miss her. I think those who finally discovered her passing today and sickness were deeply shocked. She will be sorely missed.

Hesitation and apprehension have haunted me for most of the week, until the moment arrives and there's no where to go, but in. Through the white, hollow hallways, I manage to find my way through the maze of halls, the creaky elevators and finally up to where the 'friendly' faces are meant to be. They direct me around the corner and to the right, number 17, she tells me. There's a room full of people, all talking quietly amongst themselves, all in hushed voices, like the dead already walk the place. I know she's changed a fair bit since seeing her last, but I'm not prepared for the change, and as a result, barely recognise her as I get to number 17. Thank god for name tags - the embarassment would be enormous otherwise.

I sit down, she can't speak. Her body still struggling to catch its breath, still twitching and shaky from the recent episode which I have just walked in upon and which I'll never forget. I've seen this all before. The hum and clacker of the machine, supplying her with much need inhalation to ease her breathing reminds me of when I was six, and before that. The smell reminds me of weeks at a time, when I would play with others in the hall, racing wheel chairs and getting into trouble, waiting for the visiting hours to be over.

When the inhalation finally finishes, the nurse arrives, magically - except there's a set of buttons on a remote control ont he bed, and then I know she has been summoned. The dreadful clacking machine is turned off and to a degree, the silence is sweet music. It's hard to know what to say, to stop myself from crying and act like nothing is wrong, to be strong and not set her off. I successfully manage this, but still don't know how. She tells me I must talk a lot, because talking hurts her and causes her to lose her breath. I try so hard, it's forced. I'm not one to talk a lot and prefer to listen.

I launch into the presents and cards that have been mysterously turning up on my work desk and haul the medium-sized bag onto the bed and slowly give them over, adding commentary to fill the silence and prevent her from experiencing an earlier episode, which will never leave my memory. I've seen it before.

Chocolate and underwear in abundance, the conversation turns to those who sent these gifts, to Christmas celebrated two months previous - is that how long it's been since I've seen her? Her shaky hands unnerve me, the smell haunts me and guiltily, I wish to get the hell out of there. MInutes pass and suddenly, salvation another person arrives and I graciously relinquish my seat for the newcomer and kiss her on the forehead goodbye, promising to return later in the week. Wishing her happy birthday before I go, I see the sadness on the newcomer's face and understand that it's her turn to fill the silences.

I barely get out of the ward, down the hall, past the friendly face and into the unsafe elevator, ready to let some tears spill, there's a stranger in there, so I hold back. He leaves and they come, but I compose myself until I get into the car. He drives me home and there's silence again - I'm never good at filling them and I quietly sob.

The revelation that she is dying and she is scared are the worst. It's an unspoken conversation but it's still there. All the memories of my childhood come flashing back, the nasty machine, the smell, the looks on people's faces and the whiteness of it all. I remember that to need that machine so frequently means that the cancerous blackness is catching up with her and it's only a matter of time. The shaking and breathlessness remind me again. The hopeless look on her face upsets me, it's not her nature. She's a fighter and yet, she can't even get out of bed, can't shower. She feels dirty and without dignity.

This all keeps me awake at night and I don't know how I'll make that next visit.