Regine's Book

by Regine Stokke

  We spent ten years together as classmates. And every year, on the first day of school, we would walk to school together. It was the same every year, from first grade through tenth grade…

  I miss you already, Regine. We've shared so many incredible memories! I'm proud to have known you for so long, and I'm proud to have been your friend. I hope you're doing well now, and that you get some peace after all the pain you've been through over the last fifteen months. You deserve the best.

  You've just gone on a very long holiday, and before too long we'll be on holiday together again. Our group will definitely get together one last time.

  Rest in peace, dear Regine Stokke.

  I love you so much.

  —Marte

  Time stands still

  Tuesday, December 8, 2009

  Things have been tough since Regine passed away. Everyone in the family shares a profound sense of emptiness, I think, especially when we're at home. Something's missing. That's not so strange really, since Regine was so important to us. She got to lie at home in her bed all the way until Sunday. We were all really happy for that. It felt good to have her nearby. I'm pretty sure that she would have wanted to be at home for as long as possible, too. As pretty as she was, she lay in her bed looking like the world's most beautiful porcelain doll. It was really tough for us when the funeral home came to get her.

  The past few days have been spent planning for Regine's funeral. There's a ton of stuff we have to organize, but it's actually kind of nice to have to think about something else sometimes. Any distraction is welcome. The funeral, which is open to the public, will be held at Festiviteten on Wednesday at 12:00 pm. Since Regine wasn't a Christian, we struggled a bit with deciding where to have it. She herself thought Festiviteten would be a good idea, and that's probably why we chose it. It will be a special funeral, for a very special girl.

  —Elise

  On December 15 Sofie Frøysaa (Sofsen) wrote a goodbye to her friend on her blog, and titled it “I find some peace when I see you in my dreams.”

  Dear Regine,

  It's been twelve days now since you left us. Twelve long days of sadness, emptiness, anger, and frustration. Twelve long days spent missing you.

  I sent you a message on the same day that you died. I wrote: “Love you. Always. I know you can't read this. And I know that we don't believe in heaven. But right now, more than anything else, I want to know that there's a better place out there for you. I just want the chance to see you again. I think of your beautiful family. Imagine all of the people who are missing you right now. Thank you for everything, Regine. Thank you!”

  I'm never going to erase your phone number. I'm never going to take your blog off my list of favorites. I'm never going to take you off my list of contacts. I'm probably not going to be able to stop myself from thinking, “I hope Regine logs on soon! I need a dose of Regine-and-Sofsen humor!” Ever since I met you, that's been one of my first thoughts after logging on. And that's one of the things I'm going to miss the most, Regine: your sense of humor. We always laughed at the same things, and laughing together was always so much fun. Even though we were miles apart, it felt like we were in the same room. Like you were right there. Everything seemed so close by.

  I talked to your little sister Elise tonight on Facebook. It was so great. Elise, you, your mom, and your dad make for one pretty great family. When I visited you in Kristiansund, I noticed a rare closeness and warmth among you all. It was special to see. But things will never be the same without you, Regine. I'm so concerned about your family, now that you're gone. Your parents have experienced the worst thing of all. They've lost the most irreplaceable and precious thing they have. You sister has lost her only older sister. Your grandparents have lost their little girl. Your family, your friends—even your cat has lost a fantastic fellow being. Strong, beautiful, wise, honest, bright, talented, fun, warm, creative, engaged, open, and wise Regine. The little girl with the big heart.

  In your big, brown, and beautiful eyes, I could see honesty, curiosity, and a sincere delight in life. I saw hope, strength, and endless love. You never did anything halfheartedly, Regine. You threw yourself into so many things. Photography, writing, politics, and even in your contributions to the cancer cause through your media appearances. What you've done will go down in history. You had a rare talent for moving and motivating other people. Your story has gotten a lot of new people involved in the fight against cancer, and it's also gotten so many people to appreciate their lives more—to live life for its own sake. I'm always going to be so incredibly proud of you!

  Forever grateful for our friendship. Love you forever.

  Martin Hilstad took countless photos of and with Regine. He remembered her like this:

  Regine and I watched a lot of movies together. A lot—either from her hospital bed, or in her loft, or even once at the movie theater I rented so that she could see Max Manus. We often had to look to the extraordinary to make Regine's existence seem even a little bit normal by comparison. Movies (in particular David Lynch's bizarre small-town scenes) also helped us to escape the everyday. But when Regine's condition and the weather permitted, photography was the thing that made us happy. Seeing the world through a lens also gives you some distance from it.

  Before her relapse, Regine and I had made a lot of plans for the near and not-so-near future. Maybe we made too many plans, but at the time everything seemed to be going so well. We were going to “live life now,” as she put it. One of the first things we were going to do was to take her photos to Nordic Light for the photography competition. But then everything was turned on its head again, before we'd even found our feet in the first place! It was April 4, and I'd just come home for the Easter holidays. I was just waiting for the all-clear to go visit, but when the phone rang and I picked up, all I heard was silence. Then, after some time had passed, I heard a low and trembling voice say, “I have bad news…” Things never go as planned.

  Near the end of Easter, it must have been April 13, we went out on a small photo excursion. I remember it perfectly. We went down behind Regine's house. Followed small trails that she had probably made herself. She walked in front with a combination of care and determination—just like she used to, actually. At that moment she seemed healthy, and it was so strange to think about what was happening inside her body. She took a lot of breaks, but it wasn't just to rest; it was also, maybe just as often, to look at something interesting (e.g., a small leaf on her shoe). We walked down along a marshy area where Regine used to go on camping trips. She photographed all kinds of things, while for the most part I ended up taking photos of her—a kind of “behind the scenes” documentation of the photos she took. Even though Nordic Light didn't seem like a realistic possibility at the time, a lot of her photos from this trip ended up in her exhibit a few weeks later.

  One particular moment really stuck with me. I'm not sure if it was that day, or another day around then, but Regine said something simple like, “The best flowers get plucked first” (something she'd heard Svein Kåre say at Riksen), but then she added, “so you need to start preparing yourself.” At the time, it was kind of awkward to hear her say that, because I didn't like the idea that she was already resigned to what was happening, but in hindsight, when you come right down to it, it's almost reassuring.

  We'll talk, Regine.

  Eli Ann described the sense of loss and sorrow that she felt for her best friend like this:

  My dearest friend,

  I remember the day you got the awful news like it was yesterday. We were looking forward to a Friday night filled with laughs and good friends. There's no one who could have predicted that we would end up sitting at the hospital, sobbing.

  Thinking about what lay in store for you was really scary. I didn't want to accept the idea that things might not work out in the end. It wasn't a viable alternative in my mind.

  Every other weekend, a couple of us—your concerned and worried girlfriends—would come to visit you at the hospi
tal in Trondheim. It was so hard to see you getting worse and worse, but it was always good to be with you.

  Not having you close by was really hard on us. Sometimes at night we'd have long phone conversations about how you were doing. We'd talk about the pain and despair, but we'd talk about the good times that we'd shared, too. In the middle of the most difficult times, there was also a lot of laughing. I think it did us both good.

  I admire you so much for how you tackled this cruel disease—and I know I'm not the only one. You felt that you had to keep fighting, that you didn't have a choice—even when it was hard for you to find the strength. But not many people could have done it with so much courage, almost in spite of the fear you had to feel. Not many people could have done it with so much strength, even though your body was weak. Or with so much compassion for the other people with cancer—even though you had more than enough to worry about already.

  I'm so glad that you got to celebrate your eighteenth birthday, a day they didn't think you'd get to experience. It was so great to celebrate with you, our dear friend, just like old times. Everyone loved it. The evening was unforgettable for all of us, and it was great for everyone to see you so happy and content. Leukemia devastated your body, but it couldn't break your will to live. And in spite of how limited you were by the disease, you still got to experience so much. You always knew how to appreciate the little things—even as you dealt with the big things. Things like picnicking in the forest (with strawberries), and eating out of a picnic basket surrounded by ants; baking (with enthusiasm—and with varied results); and all those rounds of Mario Kart in the beanbag chair in the attic living room. I remember one time in particular when you finished the course and smiled that big smile of yours, and said, “Eli, you're terrible!” because I still had a whole other lap to go. I miss this all so much that it hurts; I miss our talks about the hard realities of life, about the small pleasures, and about the big mysteries, too.

  Regine and Eli Ann during their helicopter ride to RaumaRock, August 2009

  It was an intense fifteen months, and it went quickly from total happiness to an almost incomprehensible sadness. It hurt so much when they told you that you didn't have much time left. But even though you were suffering, you managed to pull yourself together so that I could come and visit. I know it took a lot out of you.

  I'll never forget the last evening you were alive. You were so exhausted, but still so brave. You managed to get out of bed and sit in the living room, but it wasn't long before you couldn't handle it anymore. We probably both knew that this was the last time we'd see each other. Even at the very end of your life, you were thinking of other people. The friendship necklace you gave me that night is the best gift I've ever gotten. It brings back so many memories; it reminds me of all the years we had together: all the great times, sad times, and close times. I'll carry them with me, and when I miss you, I'll think of them.

  It was hard to see you get taken back to bed, and to hear you say that you felt like you were dying. Your pain was so visible. I gave you a hug and told you I loved you, painfully aware that this would be the last time I would see you alive.

  You lay quietly in your bed, like I saw you doing the night before. But the pain had eased and the fear was gone. Finally you were getting some rest. We got to say things that needed to be said while you were still alive, and that conversation has helped me to deal with my sadness—although nothing could compensate for the loss of such a beautiful person and friend.

  I love you so much, Regine. You'll always be my best friend, and you'll always have a totally special place in my heart! Whatever I do, I'll think of you, and I'll never stop wishing you were here. But we'll meet again one day, in a better place, without pain and sorrow. I could talk for hours about how much you mean to me, Regine, but the inscription on the jewelry puts it best. Thank you, Regine.

  Elise had lost her big sister. This is how she described missing her:

  Dear Sister,

  I was just thinking about everything that a sister means, everything that a sister gives to you. A sister offers support, love, understanding, and laughs; she's someone to argue with, someone you can lend clothes to, and someone to just hang out with. Those aren't things you can get from everyone, and no one can give you all of those things at once like a sister can. You gave a lot to me, Regine, and I gave back to you as well. We shared everything. Everything. It was us two. Big sister and little sister. Regine and Elise. And now that's gone forever. The word “never” is difficult to get your head around. I've tried. I've tested it out for a while now, but I've never managed to really understand it.

  It's impossible to think that I'll never get to see you again. I would do anything to see your smile one last time, hear your happy laughter, or see your fed-up expression when I make a mess or when I just don't get something. You weren't supposed to leave me. Not yet. We were supposed to travel together. You were going to move to a big city after high school, and I was going to come and visit whenever I wanted. We were going to have kids at the same time, so that they also could be best friends. We were supposed to fight about the front seat in the car, and about who would get to have the attic room. We were supposed to get old together, and live next to each other in the nursing home. We were going to plan Mom's and Dad's funerals when that time came. Now I'll have to do it all myself. No more Regine. Ever. Still there were a lot of things you wanted me to experience, accomplish, and achieve. I made a lot of promises to you and you told me secrets that you didn't tell anyone else. It's a big thing for me to be the one carrying your deepest secrets. Not even your best friends, just me. I'll keep my promises, and your secrets are so well hidden that no one will ever find them. Trust me.

  Regine and Elise

  I have a crystal clear memory of the day when the funeral home came to get you. It was late Sunday evening, and Mom and Dad had gone to bed a while ago. I was sitting in the living room with my computer on my lap, just like we used to do together. Before Dad went to bed, he turned off the TV and put the TV controller at the edge of the table. Of course I was so lazy that I didn't want to reach for it, so the TV was still off. Then with no warning it suddenly turned on, all by itself. MTV was on—your go-to channel. Not only that, but they were airing a show about Metallica—one of your favorite bands. I felt like it was you reaching out to me, so I kept the show on. Just like you to be a little smart-ass just like that—crossing the divide, via Metallica.

  I pray to whomever's out there that there's a place where we can meet again. A place where we can laugh and be happy and just be together. I hope things are good where you are now. I want you to be happy. I want things to be good for you. I'm scared that place doesn't exist, and that you're totally gone. Where are you? Come back, come home again. We miss you; everyone misses you; I miss you. You'll always be my big sister, no matter what.

  Love you forever, Regine.

  With profound love and gratitude, Julianne wrote this to her beloved daughter Regine:

  Some words from Mom—a declaration of love

  I'm sitting on Regine's bed with a cup of hot chocolate right now. Lasse and I just went on our daily visit to the gravesite and lit some candles for her there. It's below freezing outside and there's a lot of snow. I hope Regine doesn't feel this cold wherever she is now. She should be here with me, drinking hot chocolate, and working on her book release herself. Instead, I'm going to try to write a few words on my own. Publishing her blog as a book was one of her big dreams, and we promised we'd make it happen for her.

  I've spent a lot of time in Regine's bed since she died. I cry out my sorrow, my loss, and my despair here. We've lost our dear daughter Regine, who was only eighteen years old. Sometimes our cat Josefine joins me here. I think she's sad, too. Josefine was a big part of Regine's life for eleven years, and they meant a lot to each other. Josefine was a real consolation to Regine during her illness, always faithfully rambling after her. The week before she died, Regine said that when Josefine died she wanted her to
be buried alongside her at the gravesite. We'll see when the time comes—but if I know her father, he'll make it happen. I think back on when Regine was born. She smiled for the first time when she was only a day old, and it wasn't because of colic if that's what some people are thinking. She was so beautiful that I couldn't stop looking at her. With big brown eyes and long curly eyelashes. Oh how I miss looking into those beautiful, wise, and warm eyes of hers. I look into them, in her picture by the bed, and feel my throat tighten before the tears come. It's so unbearable. A few days ago, I dreamt that I looked into her eyes and stroked her lovingly on the cheek before she laid her head next to mine. It was so vivid and comforting. It didn't last long, and I didn't dream anything before or after that; it was as if she came home to comfort me in that dream.

  All her life, Regine continued smiling at the world. We even called her Sunshine! She was a quick learner and could count to ten when she was only twenty months old. Bubbly and full of life, Regine loved to work on dances, plays, and miming songs. I remember how hyper she would get when she had something to tell us; she couldn't stand still, and would stand there shifting from one foot to another and hopping on the floor. And, being the monkey that she was, she was also prone to climbing up between the doorframes with her feet planted on either side. I also remember now the presentation she made when we were in the country: Regine, with her incredible imagination, was going to impersonate the newscaster Traula. She dressed up in an oversized down jacket, with glasses that were way too big, and a green hat, and read the weather report. The forecast was for buckets of beer, and all the men were racing outside with their mouths wide open toward the sky (there was also soda rain and candy hail for the kids). And when she was seven years old, she sang along to the Bon Jovi song “It's My Life”—complete with the refrain “It's now or never. I ain't gonna live forever. I just wanna live while I'm alive.” I'm relieved now that we took videos and photos of those performances.