It’s called, “anticipatory grief”. I was young and in my 20’s studying philosophy and death and dying when I first learned about it. This was the time, that I learned that there were different kinds of grief. I’d experienced different kinds of grief in my life, and I only knew this because they had felt different from each other, but, I didn’t understand why, until I was sitting in a too warm cramped philosophy class in university that summer.
Anticipatory grief is the grief that one feels before a loss, usually of a loved one from an illness, when death is imminent, but has not happened yet. It is a time of deep and painful sorrow – knowing you are about to lose someone, but not knowing when, where, but just living with the knowledge that this loss is going to happen.
The emotions experienced during this time are similar to the ones experienced in grief – anger, sadness, denial, disbelief, depression, bargaining, anxiety, guilt and more. Grief is not linear, and does not occur in the same patterns in everyone who experiences it.
I first experienced this kind of grief as my father lay dying from influenza in a hospital bed, fighting with every ounce of stubborn strength in his exhausted body tried to beat a virus that robbed me of him, just a few days before Christmas in 2023. There was this kind of limbo state between being told he was going to die, and the morning his tired spirit tiptoe’d out of that hospital room and went home.
For me, during this time, it seemed like time, and also my emotions would vacillate wildly from horrific and world ending sorrow, to laughing and sharing fond memories of the past. And then, all too suddenly, the memories became end of life restlessness, shallow breathing, and then my dad died. Anticipatory grief became regular grief. I still feel the loss of my father as a bitter jagged hole inside my chest. I did not expect that I would be, once again, sitting in that limbo state, feeling that helplessness, and that same abyss-deep sorrow, but, here I am.
Because I feel helpless, the only thing I have that I can do, even poorly, is write about it. So, here goes:
My friend Katie is dying of cancer.
Katie, also known as Thistle Thistle online, is, in her words, a “prolific” and multitalented creator – a costumer, photographer, musician, jewelry maker, sculptor, and many more. There aren’t many things that one can do, that Katie hadn’t at least tried to do once. She has this whimsical and completely irreverent jack of all trades sensibility about her that is informed by the same DIY punk rock ethos that informed my earliest upbringing in punk houses with xeroxed fliers and homemade clothes aplenty. This DIY homemade/handmade vibe is one of the reasons I first came to admire Katie and her work online. I was, of course and as usual, doomscrolling one day when this tiny little goblin faery sprang onto my feed talking about all the things that matter deeply to me – queerness, the liberation of the female body, historical clothing, antiques, homemade everything, glitter, The Secret Garden and American Girl dolls. It was like watching a fully curated museum of my own likes talking directly to me. From that moment, I was a fan and ardent follower. I ordered so frequently from her online shop with it’s limited and one of a kind releases that Katie came to know me to the point that she remembered my name and my ring sizes and would include little notes and drawings and small treats into my orders. No matter the day I was having, if I came home to find a delicate package from her, carefully wrapped in her signature brown paper and tied with a delicate black/white string, I knew I’d have a great day, a great week, and great forever.
Each time I wear Katie’s creations, I get so many compliments from people – everyone is amazed when I tell them that this ring, or belt, or necklace, was handmade by someone. These people marvel at the creations, sometimes asking to gently touch a moss agate ring, a sculpted Victorian hand belt buckle, chuckling at a NSFW t-shirt that talks about Hildegaard von Bingen and pussy, or simply marvelling at a tapestry Katie painted that hangs in the front entrance of my home.
This is the level of magic inside the two small hands of this woman I’ve never met, but who lives inside many places in my home and inside my heart.
I remember once, Katie released some straggler rings from past collections, and none were in my size. I was such a Thistle fan that I bought them anyways and was simply going to take them to a jeweler to get changed to my size. When I opened the package, Katie had resized them already, like she had read my mind. It was like she knew me. I suppose that’s part of the beauty of online connection, we can come to know total strangers in different lands and places often on such an intimate level. Some of my very closest friends are simply people I started chatting to one day about one thing or another in some forum or online game or on Reddit. These are people I maybe have only met a few times, but I treasure them all the same.
I suppose, too, that’s the beauty of purchasing from small businesses and supporting creators that aren’t faceless entities. You come to know them, too.
Her devotion to her supporters, customers, followers was immense. In the face of online hate comments that would criticize her, she would simply laugh and give it right back with this spitfire attitude that made me laugh during lunch breaks and cozy Sundays spent scrolling. Stupid assholes in her comments sections were often treated to a particularly Katie brand of tongue lashing and sent crawling back behind the pickup truck profile pictures from whence they came, and most importantly, none of these comments ever dulled her shine or her whimsy.
Katie wrote occasionally about the grief she felt losing her beloved father to COVID-19. I found comfort in her writing as I struggled too, to cope with the loss of my own father.
In darker moments of mine, where the world seemed hopeless and my pain so searing and awful that I felt like I couldn’t breathe, I would remind myself that Katie continued to send out her whimsy and magic into the world despite going through the same thing, and it hit as a reminder that I should too. How better to conquer grief than with love?
Katie was diagnosed with stage 3 breast cancer in February of 2024, something she shared online.
She was 32 years old when she was diagnosed.
Her honesty and frankness as she went through cancer treatments – chemotherapy, surgery, etc, was inspiring. Even in one of the most horrific things a person could ever go through, she continued to try to help others, she continued to create magic and find joy in her life with her partner Spain, her two dogs, and Thistle Thistle. Who else but this faery turned into a human would do some HOTTOGO while getting chemo? And you could see in her comments and social media, how many others with cancer found solace in Katie’s brave and determined fight.
She created a GoFundMe, and donations rolled in. Bands like Thou, Sliimo and Folk the Empire held benefit shows for her. As Katie is in the USA, she had to fight corporate insurance and the United States healthcare system, and she shared her frustrations online. I raged as she raged. We all raged.
Concerned friends, fans, and followers filled her PO Box with letters, gifts, treats, and love. Katie always posted online about the kindness she would receive from strangers.
I sent her a care package from Canada filled with thrifted treasures I had found in my travels that had reminded me of her – elven style party wear, a patchwork jacket in her signature neutral colours, a leather bag, a sterling silver “K” pendant made by a Vancouver jewelry company called Pyrrha, chocolate, and a letter to her explaining how much she and her work mean to me.
She emailed me when she opened the package, delighted with everything inside. We became pals.
In her last act of friendship to me, she sent me a special unreleased ring she had just made, in my size, as a gift. I have not taken it off. The ring is an extant style ring that bears the word GLORY around the band.
She would tell me I was beautiful when I would post Instagram stories with fit checks. We gossiped about dolls and life, and her dreams of a cabin in Canada.
In January of 2025 she posted that she was “no evidence of disease”.
It seemed like the battle was won. Cancer quiet.
She returned to creating, sculpting new snake rings and one of a kind moss agate pieces for eager supporters to snap up.
But then, she went quiet. She was admitted to hospital.
She would post occasionally, but updates were few.
As I work in healthcare, I grew fearful. And then, on this past Saturday she posted that she was dying and wrote a touching, poignant goodbye post that reduced me to shuddering rage filled tears and the anticipatory grief filled my chest once again.
Her post sparked confusion, and an outpouring of some of the most intense love and grief that grew into this strange online chorus from all of her followers and supporters. I knew Katie was a famous figure in the online world, but as the comments stacked up, I grew to understand just how beloved she is. So many comments echoed my own experiences with her and her magic and kindness. As grief filled me, so too did the realization that my experiences with her were one of many and I realized in this awful moment how deeply one person can truly impact the world. How many thousands of people have worn the rings she made with her own two hands? How many people bought the nailpolish she made or the belts she sculpted, or her candles or her t-shirts and tapestries? How many girls with natural hairy armpits had felt empowered by her writing on the liberation of the female body? How many became pals with this little magical woman who seemed more fae than human? How many others had seen Katie in her most vulnerable states following her cancer diagnosis and felt less alone? How many how many how many? THOUSANDS. One person reached out and touched the lives of thousands.
How is it that one person can hold such magic?
Right now, my faith struggles. How can I believe in a higher power that would strike down someone with such gifts and magic and vibrant being?
How can I accept a Creator this cruel? If God is real, he’s going to have to beg my forgiveness.
One thing about moments like these, is that we must face that we have no control, truly we do not. We do not truly control the world, it’s fairness or unfairness, our bodies, and ultimately our destiny. We are reminded of the impermanence of all things, our mortality, and ultimately, that no matter what we do, we all must face death.
I’m a learned individual, I know all these things. I’ve worked in healthcare, I’ve worked with cancer patients and the dying, and the dead, and I know these things just like the back of my hand, and my soul and my body and still and horrifying so, it does not make accepting the loss of this person, this light, my friend, KATIE, any fucking easier. I find no comfort in this knowledge of mine.
And once again, I find myself vacillating between staring into space and bitter wracking sobs that frighten my co-workers and people on the street when I’m crying in my car and I’m completely fucking helpless because I live in Canada and I can’t fucking do anything.
I can’t cook meals or go grocery shopping, or run errands, or hold hands, or do any of the things we must do during these times that feel insurmountable.
When my father was sick and then died, I stopped eating, I stopped sleeping. My hair started falling out and my immune system tanked and I ended up with shingles and then a painful skin infection that spread down my arms in hot red waves.
I couldn’t do my laundry or wash the dishes, or do anything but lay curled into a ball on the cold floor of my living room and stare into nothingness.
Had it not been for concerned friends bringing me food and flowers, I don’t know that I would have made it.
Katie’s husband, her beloved Spain, is going through the worst kind of anticipatory grief and I can’t help him. I tell him how sorry I am, and how much his beloved wife means to me but the words seem stupid and shitty and just not fucking enough, you know? But it’s all I have.
Over the last few days as I’ve connected with other people I know who have been impacted by the work of Katie/Thistle Thistle, I began to understand, that I needed to write this letter. I’m not sure who I am writing it to anymore. Katie? Spain? All of us who have loved and been loved by her and her magic? To me? Is it to all of us?
Grief is horrible, because it makes us feel like we are alone, like we are isolated and alien and disconnected from others. But the truth is that loss is universal. We all lose, we all will lose. If you haven’t lost, you just haven’t lost yet. I hate those words as I write them. I hate that I’m writing this at all.
But – Katie – I don’t know if you will see this, but I write all this so you know that you and your work gave me back something I felt had been taken from me. When I needed it the most, I found you. That is truly what magic is. And what a gift to have existed in this time, in this place, alongside you. What a gift to have loved and been loved by you. My voice is one of so many. How many other people did you give a little bit of your power to? How many others had their lives enriched by your creations?
You are held by so many, in such deep admiration, love and reverence. I’m sorry that this happened to you. You didn’t deserve it and it wasn’t your fault and you fought bravely and valiantly. You will not be soon forgotten. Your impact, your work, your love, is being sung right back to you ten fold. As you look back, and you will, look back on a life well lived and a life well loved.
I love you. Truly. I never met you, but really, I didn’t have to.
I spent the weekend giving away possessions of mine to try to enrich the lives of strangers in my community, things I didn’t need anymore, things that were beautiful – antiques, collectibles, random doo-dads I’ve thrifted. I did it in your name. When people asked why I would be giving things away, I said it was to create a few smiles. I said it was for my friend who in her last act to me, gave me something very special. That’s what Katie did – she gave.
A woman who picked up some apothecary shelves of mine to house her seed collection asked permission to plant seeds in your honour. They will bloom each year for you. As I think of your gardening armour, I tell her that I think you’d probably really like that. She leaves seeds on my porch for me to plant, and I will, when I’m ready.
A woman I give a lamp to, that hung in my grandfather’s home for years and I remember so vividly from childhood – something I have struggled to part with since my grandfather’s passing during COVID, leaves me a succulent on my porch. She asks to see a photo of you, and I send her one and she is struck by your beauty. She lights candles for you.
A religious woman I gave a heart shaped table to says she is giving it to her friend recovering from heart surgery who collects heart shaped things. She prays for you.
~*~*~*~*~*
And, Spain. I’m sorry. I keep you in a special place and want you to know how my heart grieves not only alongside you, but also for you. When the time is right and you are ready, and if I can help you, you know where to find me. If I can send you food, or flowers, or you may want to talk, I want to listen, and I want to help.
To all of the friends, fans, lovers, followers, and customers of Katie’s – you are not alone in your grief. Its normal to feel so many emotions right now, and they’re all valid. I stand alongside you teary-eyed and heart-broken in this grief as we prepare to lose someone who touched us in some of the deepest acts of magic and love. I witness your pain and I hope, that with this letter, you too can witness mine.
In times of grief, I find myself returning to a quote from the poet Rumi,
“Now that you live here inside my chest, anyplace we sit can be a mountaintop”
I hope to find you again, my friend, in another life.
Don’t forget to tell your dad how much we all love you. You will leave achingly big shoes to fill.
You’re one in a million.
And with trembling lips and tear stained cheeks, and rage inside my heart, I write this final thing and I hate that I have to, I hate that there’s nothing else left to say:
Goodbye, Katie.
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