Regine's Book (33 page)

—
Tutta

Many kind thoughts to you in this difficult time.

Regine will never be forgotten.

She's touched so many people.

—
A fellow human being

Regine inspired so many people to reflect on their lives. We all grew to love her through her blog—which was beautiful even when it was sad.

Condolences to the family.

Sleep well, Regine. And thank you so much for everything you gave to us.

—
Frida Petrine

Condolences—in the form of visits, phone calls, text messages, Facebook messages, and countless blog posts—kept pouring in from the friends and family that Regine left behind. Regine's childhood friend Marte Steffensen wrote the following on her own blog:

I can't find the words. I'm just overwhelmed with emotion. I can't breathe, and everything is confused and mixed up. I've checked your name on MSN at least a hundred times today just to see if you're
logged on. When I found out that you'd left us, the whole world stood still. I couldn't hear anything, and time seemed to stop.

We had such a great childhood together! I swear, no one had more fun than we did when we were kids. We did so much. We made tree houses, recorded Smurf music videos, and made the world's best horror movies. (And yes, I also remember the time we found a skull out in the woods. An animal skull—which we promptly placed on top of a stick so that we could pretend it was a horse.) You, me, Malin, and Therese—we did everything together. We even brought the same imaginary friend home from school every winter! (Actually, we alternated who was going to have to take “Ank” home every week.) We were both obsessed with photography, and I remember like it was yesterday the time when we went to the
Nordic Lights
photography festival together, and met those famous artists. The high point was probably meeting Matt Mahurin. We both loved Metallica, and Matt had recorded a video with the guys, and knew Metallica personally. We stood there talking to him for a
while
, now that I think about it. Oh my God, we were so happy then.

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

Tuesday, December 8, 2009

T
hings 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 hospital 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.