"We Make Our Choices, Then Our Choices Make Us."

"I am so blessed."

Through 14 months of brain cancer, through a combination of radiation and chemotherapy, through losing hair and eventually the function of your limbs and body and having to rely on others to care for you, somehow you always managed to spit out these words nearly every day until you were no longer able to speak to us.

Suddenly, this beautiful, energetic woman with the body and soul of someone at least 10 years her junior was faced with her own mortality and the challenge of preparing her children, family and friends to survive in a world without her. But instead of letting death defeat you, you chose life. Every day, you smiled your way through and told everyone how much you loved them. Even when you became too weak to form the words, you always showed so much gratitude for the people who cared for and loved you until your very last breath, and who will continue to love you until the end of time. Instead of choosing to feel sorry, you chose to feel lucky. And maybe without even realizing you were doing so, you in turn taught the rest of us to recognize the things that lift us up instead of staring at the things that threaten to beat us down.

For those of us lucky enough to be around you, we didn't really ever have to choose, because you had already chosen for us. If the woman fighting the battle isn't sad, you can be damn sure the rest of us had no excuse. The sad part was never your fight; you were a fucking warrior, no doubt about that. Cancer might have taken your life, but it sure as shit didn't win. The sad part has always been the void that is and was left as pieces of you faded away.

People keep asking me how I'm doing and if I'm okay, since these will be my first holidays without you. Honestly, for the most part, I really am. It's not that I wouldn't do anything to have you here, and it's not that I don't miss you every second of every day. But I wake up every day, as you demonstrated to me, doing my best to choose life and whatever happiness I can find instead of choosing to dwell on your death. Some days, it's easier than others, and some moments during my days still leave me with a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes. Sometimes I get angry and I just want you here with me.

But most of the time, I can find a reason to smile, because I know that's what you want for me. I know you're looking down with a special appreciation for those who have stood by me and our family for the long haul and who continue to be there for us, especially through the holidays. I hope you can hear Josh Groban's version of "O Holy Night," I always blast it for you when he belts out Noel(le) at the end, because I know that was always your favorite part. (No seriously, this isn't even me being a cocky asshole, it really was.)

I hope I am continuing to make you proud, and I hope you have a Merry Christmas/Halloween/Thanksgiving/Whatever Holiday you are choosing to celebrate today.

"And you're taking care of yourself?"

"...Promise me you'll take care of yourself and never forget how much I love you."

Every day. No matter what facets of your life had slipped away from you at that point, you always remembered to make me promise these two things. After going through the motions of wishing me a Merry Christmas and asking if I was feeling better because I sounded a bit congested, you'd always come back to me for a second. Not as the confused brain cancer patient, but as my loving and protective mom. Our phone calls were always bittersweet; because I knew every day, you had slipped a bit further away than the day before. But I knew, too, just getting to talk to you and hear your voice and tell you "I love you" was a precious but perishable gift that, for us, had an expiration date that was drawing near.

You spent every day of my life, from the second I was born, showing me with every breath you took how much you love me. But the day of your diagnosis, you ultimately changed the way you expressed your love for us from something that was somewhat almost tangible, because we could hold you and hug you and you could do the same for us, to something intangible that we would be able to hold on to after you were gone.

All of a sudden, you took on the challenge of breathing enough love into a year's worth of telephone conversations and quality time to last the rest of our lives. You wanted to make sure we never had any doubts (even on the worst days, without the option of hearing your perky voice assuring us that everything would work out the way it's supposed to) that our mom loves us, unconditionally, beyond words and no matter what.

On your last day here with us, when we knew were down to our final hours with you, your enormous-headed baby boy looked up at aunt Linda with your hand in his and said "I never realized until now that no matter how much time I have with her, I'll never be able to tell her enough times how much I love her." He elaborated on that thought in his sentiments at your service; telling everyone how he feels almost defeated by the world when he realized he loves someone so much that he could never put it into words. But at the same time, he won because he got to love someone so much, that they can never even know how strong the feeling is. "I'm so glad my mom never knew how much I love her."

As I sit outside in the 80 degree Florida weather by the pool on December 6th, reflecting on how lucky we are to be loved so much by you, I have no doubt that this is one of the things you had in mind when you made me promise to take care of myself.

I can even faintly hear the words you'd always say to me, when I'd call you from the pool on a warm sunny day when you were freezing your ass off in PA...

"You little brat." (And on really cold days, a different b-word.)

I can only imagine what your view and weather must be like where you are now.

But I know, I'm still a brat.

"Thank you for all the joy you have given me."

"Thank you for all the joy you've given me."

Your best friend leaned down, kissed your cheek and whispered these words to you when she walked in the room on your last day here with us.

I remember watching Mary Ann's reaction to your decline, every time she'd come over to visit, and my heart would always crack in a different way for her than it did for myself. She tried to smile through it and make smart ass comments to you (wonder why we get along so well?), but the pain that sat just below the surface was undeniable for all of us. You two stood by one another, through everything (even though you'd always beat yourself up about making more of an effort to stay in touch with people.) Friendships that have endured all types of weather and have lasted since childhood cannot be recreated, and not everyone is lucky enough to have them. Mary Ann had 30 more years of memories with you than I did, and they are hers and only hers.

Your illness opened my eyes to the beauty of human relationships, how they are all so unique, and no two are the same. Who you are to me is so different even from who you are to Neal, and you "grew us both in the same belly" (as a certain someone always says) and raised us both under the same roof (for the most part.) When I find myself thinking back to your last few months with us, when your weakened body could no longer move the way it once did, I cannot shake the image of my baby brother holding you up. Every morning and every night, after grabbing your arms and wrapping them around his own neck, he'd pick you up and move you from your bed to the recliner, and back again. Every day, no matter how much his back and shoulders hurt or how difficult it was on his own body to move you back and forth, he'd do it. On nice days, he'd move you outside to enjoy the sunshine and cool breezes that late summer and early fall had brought to Pittsburgh. Even though I watched them from afar, those moments he had with you are his and only his. That baby boy that you once held and protected when nobody could deal with his pain-in-the-ass temper tantrums or snotty little attitude (sorry I'm not sorry, bro) evolved into a strong, really kind of odd (but in a good way) caring and protective young man (who dresses like an old man.)

You were (and always will be) my mom; My best friend, my sounding board, my back tickler, my biggest fan even on the bad days, and my whole entire world. You were the first human contact I ever had, and you had a way of making me feel like I was the most important part of your being, and one of your two greatest life accomplishments. You believed in me when I didn't even believe in myself, and you made it clear to everyone you came in contact with how proud you were to be my mom. You signed all my school papers "Julie Zettle (proud mother of Noelle Carlin.)" when your last name was different from mine, and you made sacrifices on your own behalf to make sure I was happy, protected, and that I never doubted I was loved. As the mother of a daughter growing up in a world where body image and one's sense of self are both fragile and easily destroyed by unrealistic standards, you had a way of convincing me that you truly believed I was perfect, no matter what. You placed the greatest value not on appearance or materialistic things, but on who we were and how we treated those around us. During your last month, I'd lie next to you in your bed and tell you how much I love you. Every night, after we tucked you in and everyone else walked out of the room, I'd tell you it was okay to let go when you were ready...because Neal and I would be okay. Sometimes, you'd tell me you knew we would and thanked me. Others, you would just shake your head yes in agreement. One night, I asked you if you were scared. Immediately, you said no. I asked you if you'd ever been scared, and you thought for a second before saying "no, I don't think so." The sense of peace you have had all along, knowing that you weren't scared for anything that might happen, is the reason I can fall asleep each night, knowing you are in a better place. Those moments, in the dark, just you and me, are mine and only mine.

On September 23rd, 2013, your daughter and first born, the spitting image of you when you were my age, lost her mom. Your baby boy with the big head and unique sense of style, who grew up to be the strongest now-24-year-old I know, lost his mom, too. Dad lost the mother of his children, his "ex"-wife, and one of his best friends. Uncle Lex lost his baby sister who was responsible for the death of at least 2 of his pet turtles, and Aunt Threse lost her big sister, without whom the "Sisters" duet from White Christmas would have been meaningless. Aunt Linda and Uncle Bob lost their (often pain-in-the-ass) sister-in-law. Mary Ann lost her best friend since childhood, her partner in crime through summer school and teenage jobs, and later the person who would share chocolate mousse with her during your 3 hour Eat-N-Park lunch dates. D-Far (your bulldog) lost her homegirl, and the mother of your aforementioned baby boy that she somehow loves like her own, even though he stole her sons' toys as a child. Allison lost her Godmother, and the rest of your nieces and nephews lost their crazy, fun-loving, rebellious aunt. The list could go on and on, because you formed relationships with and meant something to so many people. So many people loved you so much, but each of us lost something so profoundly different that day.

These examples don't even scratch the surface of what you have meant to so many of us. We love you, we miss you, and we will never be the same without you.

Thank you for the joy you have given us.

Cancer is Stupid.

I was finally starting to push your cancer to the back of my brain. When I think about you, I was finally starting to think back to the first 27 years of my life when you weren't sick. I could finally remember a time when you'd cheerfully say "Noella Bella! How are ya, my girl?" on the receiving end of the phone or butcher the Happy Birthday song on purpose.

But all it takes is one little thing to send all the feelings that went along with your battle rushing back to me like a fucking tidal wave.

We had been at Geisenger for a few hours, waiting for you to get what would end up being one of your last chemo treatments. But you sat there smiling like a champ, not exactly listening to the rules of the nurses when they asked you to keep your arm straight. I came over to remind you to cooperate, and you smiled agreeably, but naturally forgot a few seconds later. I stepped away to treat myself to the complimentary goldfish snacks and nutri-grain bars on the counter, and to try and forget for a few seconds that you were so far gone from us at that point. You could barely stand on your own and you couldn't remember where we were or what we were doing there, but maybe that was for the better. I'd rather you not have known. You still wore that big grin, and you happily wished everyone that walked by a merry Christmas, even though it was late June.

I noticed her immediately because she was younger than all the other patients there getting treatment, in fact she couldn't have been much older than me. She was wearing a wig and a similar smile to yours. I remember, for whatever reason, thinking she looked so much healthier than you did. I didn't know any of the other people in that treatment room that day, but I knew not all of them would get the same fate as you. Some of them would overcome the monster that is cancer, and they would get to move forward. We always knew you wouldn't be one of those people. We knew what we were up against, and despite your positive attitude and determination to kick beaulah to the curb, you knew it too.

I was sad to learn recently, when looking at a friend's Facebook page and instantly recognizing her face, that the girl (not much older than me) lost her battle as well.

I tell people all the time how lucky we were, given the circumstances. You never suffered, and you weren't uncomfortable until the very end. You were so full of love and positivity, not just before you got sick, but during your battle with this stupid, fucking disease as well. You never complained, and you loved and appreciated people so deeply and so openly. Neal and I know, with every fiber of our being, that you were proud of the people we grew up to be, and not every kid who eventually grows into an adult gets to be so lucky.

I still cringe when I think about sitting in those waiting rooms with you and all the things our family had to learn about cancer and the dying process. A lump forms in my throat when I think of how positive we all started out, and how we had to change and adjust our outlook, our hopes, and our prayers.

I promise I will never let cancer define who you were, and I will never let losing my mom to cancer define who I am. Because you, and everyone else who battles this horrible, no good, stupid fucking disease is so much more than that.

Fuck you, cancer. And your little dog, too.

My Tribute to Jazazzle

When my mom was first diagnosed with GBM, I remember her best friend since childhood telling Neal and I "Sometimes, you love someone so much that there just aren't enough words."

This was the perfect way to sum up how I felt about the people that came to my mom's celebration and service on Sunday. Some people came from a few miles away, and some people came from a few hundred miles away. We didn't get the chance to sit and talk with each of you as long as we would have liked, but Neal and I are still saying, days after, how perfect the day was and how lucky we are and how much it meant to us that so many of you were there for us and for my mom.

We wanted to honor my mom in a way that she would have wanted. She hated funerals, but loved to party. She was a free spirit and loved blue. She spent many of her younger years with her siblings and friends skating at the North Park rink, and I can think of very few places she loved as much as she loved North Park as a whole. She loved M&Ms, Smartees, Potato Chips, Deviled Eggs, T-Bones chicken, and pretty much any dessert item you could think of. Those are only a few of the reasons that Sunday was so perfect. Neal and I wanted to incorporate the little details that we remember about our mom, and we are beyond appreciative that people who came to celebrate her with us on Sunday went along with the theme and treated it as a happy occasion because of the life that was lived, instead of being sad over the life that was lost. It's exactly what she would have wanted, but we couldn't have done it without you all.

When my mom lost her mom 3 years ago, she wrote the most fitting and amazing speech to honor the person she was. It blew us all away and was so fitting to my Grandma's character and incorporated humor but also took on a serious tone.

I never could have imagined my opportunity to do the same for my mom would come so soon after that, but I'm so glad my mom somehow gave me the strength to stand up and get through the following 'speech' at her service. A special thanks to all my cousins for helping this come together and giving me input and ideas (such as "slow down, because you're reading it way too fast" and "maybe you should actually write 'slow down' on the paper, just don't read it out loud.")

I love you, momma. I'll miss you forever, but I am 100% confident that you are in a better place, cancer-free, underwear-free, and watching over us all.

Nothing I could say today could ever sum up everything I want to say, so I won’t even try. Instead, I’ll just share a few of the most important lessons that my mom taught me in her time here with us.

My mom taught me that people are more important than things. No material thing on this planet ever held more importance to her than the relationships and bonds she formed with those around her. And I can assure you, if she ever found a material thing that even came close, she would have found a way to return it anyway.

My mom taught me that there is a special bond between sisters. She never gave me one, but we tried our best with Neal. I must say, nobody pulled off that Snow White dress quite like him. On the other hand, there is nothing like the bond between brother and sister--although, I did not kill any of my brother's turtles.

My mom taught me that being a middle child was like being in a secret club. While not having one of her own, she kept that special bond with other club members in the family.

My mom taught me that if it’s somebody’s birthday, you sing regardless of how well you can carry a tune. One of the first things everyone is going to miss is that phone call on their birthday.

My mom taught me that sugar is its own food group.

My mom taught me that a chapstick kiss on the window could endure all types of weather.

My mom taught me that it’s okay to march to the beat of your own drummer and to color outside the lines. She was the woman who was dressed up for Halloween in August; who would put the convertible top down once the outside temperature hit 40 degrees with the windows up and heat blasting; who considered popcorn and M&Ms to be a well-balanced meal; and who wore all black to her third wedding (just to name a few.)

My mom taught me never to say “Shut Up”, but all other words and expletives are fair game. But if the setting is not appropriate for profanity, a "fooey!" or "fiddlesticks!" will do just fine.

My mom taught me that a flock of ducks qualifies as siblings, too.

My mom taught me to never leave the house without doing my eyebrows (still working on that one.)

My mom taught me that true beauty is found within. She was so much more than blonde hair (or red hair, depending on the day), blue eyes, and the dimple on her left cheek. She had a heart (and two teeth) of gold. She lit up a room with her presence, brought life to any party, yet made everyone feel unique and special.

My mom taught me that the cure to a stomach ache isn't found in the medicine cabinet, but in a two liter bottle of Pepsi.

My mom taught me to understand that when she said she would arrive somewhere at a certain time, you should always build in an extra 15 minutes to two hours.

My mom taught me that if you love someone, you show them. Every single day. You show them with little things--like sending Valentine’s and St. Patrick’s day cards and making vanilla milk before bed—and you show them with big things—like caring for them when they are sick, paying for a plane ticket to Africa, watching YouTube videos of chorus concerts she probably didn't really care to see, and sitting beside their bed at night and listing all the people who also love them.

My mom taught me that undergarments are optional.

My mom taught me that when a backyard goes up in flames, a bucket full of pond water (and a few unlucky fish) isn’t very effective in putting out the fire.

My mom taught me that attitude is everything. From the time Neal and I started school, she put the greatest emphasis not on good grades, but on a check mark next to the box that said “demonstrates a positive attitude.” I didn’t realize until my mom got sick how thoroughly she lived and breathed the importance of that every day of her life. Whether it was recognizing her blessings through her battle with brain cancer over the last year or finding the small miracles in every day, I think it’s safe to say my mom earned a big giant check mark next to “demonstrates a positive attitude.”

A friend of hers summed it up well when she told me the other day, “Everyone needs a Julie in their life.” I am so lucky I got to call her “mom”. I will spend the rest of my life trying to make her proud and trying to remember my blessings instead of my misfortunes, but I will most certainly also spend the rest of my life missing the person who inspired me to do so.

Last but certainly not least, my mom taught me that when driving away and making an exit, you always beep twice.

"The ballad of a dove, go with peace and love..."

September 23rd, 2013.

The most defining day of my life so far. The images of that day will likely be with me forever.

I woke up that morning, knowing my time with you was now down to hours. Our wonderful hospice nurse, clad in pink pants and animal print clogs, showed up the night before after you'd been sleeping and unresponsive all day. The look on her face after she walked into the dining room where you slept after being called on her day off was all I needed to know that you were almost ready.

She gently checked you out from head to toe, noticing your purplish knees and labored breathing. Still, she talked to you sweetly as though you could hear every word. I hope you did, because I know you would appreciate how great they were to you and to our family.

The nurse pulled me and the 7 other family members who were there into the living room to explain to us what to expect from that point. She gently asked whether or not we wanted to know a timeline. We all agreed we did. "I would say 48 hours," she told us. My stomach dropped and I felt like I'd been punched square in the jaw. I looked around at my family, all with matching tear-filled eyes and mouths ajar like my own. She gave us the run-down, told us what would happen before, during and after. She told us she was glad we called her and she was glad she was the person on-call that evening.

What do you tell someone when you know you have probably have less than 48 hours with them? What had I forgotten to whisper in your ear over the last 27 years that I needed you to know?

So I told you I loved you. I told you I was serious about the paydays and M&Ms. I told you it was okay to let go when you needed to, because Neal and I would be okay. I told you I loved you again. I grabbed your hand, forgetting you wouldn't be grasping it back like you'd done all these months, up until just the day before. I kissed you on your cheek, your forehead, your nose. I traced your ear with my finger, then the outline of your face. Then, I went to bed. It was the last time I ever fell asleep and would be able to touch you and see you after I woke up, and not just be with you in my dreams.

I walked downstairs, took one look at you, and I knew. I knew you would let go that day. Your face was pale. You looked like you were already almost gone. The nurse arrived to bathe you, and thought even turning you on your side might be the end. When you were all cleaned up, she quietly told us "she will probably pass today." She tucked you under the "I'll love you forever, I'll like you for always" picture blanket Neal and I had gotten you for Christmas.

People started trickling in. Your best friend Mary Ann has been by your side since you were kids. Aunt Threse came over, then Ally, then Cork. LA Wright brought food and stayed with us. We all took turns coming in and out of your room, loving on you and kissing your cheeks and head and whispering in your ear how much you mean to us.

I laid next to you in your bed and almost fell off. Then I thanked you for everything you've done for us; for being the best mom I could ever ask for. I thanked you for being there for me through everything, and I told you anything I ever accomplish in this life will be because you have loved me so much. I felt just like Celine Dion, only blonde and not Canadian, eh? I thanked you for giving me a brother to be there with me through this. I told you again how much I love you. I kissed you again. I told you I'm sorry you had to go through this, but I thanked you for being so strong and setting such a wonderful example for all of us. I told you I was happy you would get to be with Grandpa again; I know how much you've missed him after all those years apart. I told you we were going to party down for you, instead of having a traditional funeral, because you hated them. I told you I knew you would be there with us in spirit. I told you again how much I love you. I kissed you on your cold cheek. I studied your face; I got my eyebrows (or lack thereof) from you. I looked at your nose that you always thought was so big, and I thought about all those times we'd flare our nostrils at each other and you'd start laughing. I thought about the time you came home with a fake nose piercing and Neal freaked out about it because he thought it looked awful. I looked at the scar on the upper left side of your face from when you had fallen at the doctor's office just a few months before. I traced the place on your left cheek where your dimple would have been if you were smiling. God, were you beautiful...

The priest came to read you your last rights. Your whole family surrounded you, holding hands, sobbing, and reciting the "Our Father" in unison. It was probably the most beautiful and heartbreaking thing I've ever experienced. I leaned over to Courtney and told her the priest was noticeably attractive. I knew you've always appreciated the fine looking gentlemen. People went in and out of the room, but Aunt Threse, Allison, Courtney and I stayed in there with you. Then, Aunt Threse looked up at us and said she thought you would be going soon. Everyone came in the room. We watched your shallow breathing slow down. Just as you took your final breaths, I turned around to look out the window and noticed the sun peaking through the clouds. I know that was you. I know you felt us all around you, and I cannot think of a more peaceful way for you to have gone.

I will miss you every single day of my life. I will try so hard to live my life the way you would want me to. I will try to make decisions that would make you proud. Even though I miss you every second, I am strangely at peace knowing you are in a better place, and back to your old self.

I still feel you all around me. You sure have given us 3 beautiful days since you've been gone. I smile when I look at the blue sky and think about all the times you'd look up and say "the sky is the same color as your eyes." And although they may not be paydays or M&Ms, I've gotten the pennies and I love you, too.

"There are bad times, but thats okay, just look for the love in it, don't burn the day away."

I don't want to remember you like this, so I'm not going to.

Because you should be remembered as the free spirited, M&M-loving mom who loved Halloween so much that you couldn't wait until October, you had to dress us up and throw a party in August.

You should be remembered as the rebellious middle sibling who never believed in following all the rules, but still found a way to be respectful of other people and their values.

You should be remembered as the one who was notorious for singing "Happy Birthday" loudly and off-key; who waited until it was dark outside to take everyone skinny dipping. Your favorite outfit was always no outfit, and you never kept that a secret. Underwear? Totally overrated and rarely ever a necessity.

You should be remembered as the chaperone at my soccer tournament who tried to take the whole team to a rated R movie by claiming we were all your daughters. All 15 of us. In later years, you hosted co-Ed sleepover parties for a bunch of high school kids, and you actually trusted us. But you never did disappoint when given any opportunity to insert an inappropriate comment in any conversation.

You should be remembered as the fireball who wouldn't slow down or quit moving; who did weird exercises in public to "feel the burn." The spunky, outgoing kid at heart who would always be up for putting on a pair of rollerblades and hitting the streets of Park Forest with me. The speed demon who power walked through North Park at a pace few could keep up with.

You should be remembered as the fun-loving hippy who only smoked cigarettes and drank alcohol (soco and lime) on Tuesdays. The sugar addict who invented "vanilla milk," a concoction of warm milk, vanilla and sugar, and gave it to us before bed. The only person I know who would put Karo syrup on pancakes (the only thing you hated more than maple syrup was coconut.)

You should be remembered as the 50+ year old who showed up to a family wedding wearing a dress that exposed parts of you that you were proud to show off (much to the dismay of your children.) You should be remembered as the last person to leave the dance floor. And to some, you will always be remembered as "flapjacks."

You should be remembered as the klutz you've always proclaimed yourself to be, but never more graceful than on your slalom waterski, gliding across the lake. You loved it when it was smooth as glass. You were the "breast" water-skier.

You should be remembered as the best back tickler ever. The crazy mom who would throw marshmallows across the living room and try to land them in my mouth. The somewhat "ditzy" fool who wondered if a balloon would float up in the air if you put it over an open flame and then screamed when it popped.

You should be remembered as the former "painted lady" with ever changing hairstyles; from blonde to red and back to blonde, no matter what, you never thought it looked good...but no matter what, everyone else always thought you looked beautiful. You won queen of hearts in high school, and you vowed never to leave the house without doing your eyebrows. Even so, you have always been a natural beauty with more looks and charm than you ever gave yourself enough credit for.

You should be remembered (fondly, of course) as one of the cheapest people on the planet. Nearly everything you ever bought, you found a reason to return. You even thought at one point that the stores may have added you to a watch list and had become weary that you were shoplifting and not just indecisive.

You should be remembered as the loving mom who not only made it obvious every day how much you love and cherish your own children, but all those we've held near and dear over the years as well. One of my old friends said recently that one thing she'll always distinctly remember about you is that you genuinely enjoyed being around our friends and had their best interest at heart. But even when one of them got engaged, you held your ever-emotional self together because you had not applied water-proof mascara.

Sometimes, I wonder if you always had an idea that your time here with us would be limited. Maybe that's why you've always showered us with so much love and adored our friends and extended family the way you have; because they will be the people we will turn to and lean on for support and love when you are no longer here with us physically to provide those things.

Your body is still here with us, and through a tiny whisper you are still able to give us the "I love you"s that have supported us along the way and kept us going when we wanted to give up. But all those pieces of you that are already gone, I will miss forever.

You will be remembered as my mommy, my first and forever best friend, and my hero.

...And I'm serious about showing me signs with Paydays and M&Ms instead of feathers and pennies.

Medicinal Profanity

Sometimes, I regain feeling in my body and temporarily leave behind the numbness that has set in over the past year from everything being too difficult to even process most of the time.

Sometimes, I want to kick and scream and cry and yell and just allow myself to be as pissed as this situation warrants. Sometimes, I want to stop subconsciously trying to hold it all together to be strong for my mom and my family and everyone that is waiting ever so patiently for me to let it fall apart. It's not for lack of caring, and it's not because I'm avoiding reality. I'll have years to be sad about it. But sometimes, acknowledging a crock of shit is simply unavoidable, as is using the Fuck-word. According to my mom's house rules, using profanity is perfectly acceptable and sometimes even necessary, as long as you never, ever use the phrase "shut up."

It fucking sucks that I'm 28 years old and have somehow convinced myself that it's perfectly normal to lose a parent before the age of 30.

It fucking sucks that my mom won't be here to watch all the future successes and failures that the rest of my life has in store for me. It sucks that she won't be there to mend my heart when it is broken or to tickle my back and not let me eat handfuls of M&Ms, because the only acceptable way to eat them is two at a time.

It fucking sucks that the last images I will have of my mom won't be the happy, healthy, vibrant woman she has been for 26 and a half years of my life. They will be images of confusion and sickness, loss of mobility and a weakened body that I've had to pick up off the ground and hold steady.

It fucking sucks that my brother has to be such an adult at 23 years old. It sucks that he has to make decisions and see and do things that no 23 year old should have to even think about. It fucking sucks that I can't protect him and I can't relate to what it's like to be that young and to be losing a parent.

It fucking sucks that there is no possible way on earth to thank my dad for everything he has done for us. It sucks that there are literally no words that exist to sum up the gratitude I feel toward the man that still loves his ex-wife enough to answer the same questions over and over again, to watch her decline and still be able to smile with her even though she has no idea what's going on, to change her and to hold her up when she's too weak to stand on her own.

It fucking sucks that over the past year, cancer has made my mother almost unrecognizable. It fucking sucks that more often than not, she looks right through me instead of at me.

It fucking sucks that my mom's understanding of what's going on in her brain and body is beyond the point that I can thank her for everything she's done to make me who I am. It sucks that I can't tell her in a way that she'll understand that the only fucking reason I will ever survive the rest of my life without her is because she made me strong enough to do so.

It fucking sucks that the one person I want to be able to run to and have fix everything is now unfixable.

Hey, remember that one time when I started this blog to remember all the things to be happy about and thankful for?

Fuck that. Not today.

525,600 minutes.

August 10th, 2012.

The day my world was shattered.

We sat in that stupid fucking waiting room at the Hilman center in Pittsburgh for what seemed like hours. I looked around at a room full of people who were bonded by a horrible disease and wondered if I would soon be one of them. We had spent almost two weeks waiting for biopsy results, hoping it would just be a bump in the road for my free spirited momma. Convincing ourselves that she knew something the rest of us didn't when she'd say "we're going to kick Beulah's ass." I remember thinking it was the only outcome, because people always told my mom she'd outlive everyone. She walked into that doctor's office active, healthy, and full of life and walked out a cancer patient with approximately one year left to live, "on a bell curve."

And so here we are, exactly one year later. I hear my mom's sweet, happy voice and for a split second, I can almost forget that physically and mentally, she's almost just the shell of the person she once was. I didn't know she'd fade away pieces at a time. But looking back, there are a few rather significant things I didn't know that I've learned over the last 525,600 minutes.

I've realized that your true support system will shine through on the darkest days, and everyone else never really mattered anyway. I've learned that people love me and love us more than they can put into words, and it means more to me than I in turn can put into words. But if I could choose a word that would sum it all up, I would choose "banana." Because it's fun to type.

I've realized that the most important person for me to be in this life is myself. If people can't accept it, tough shiitake mushrooms. Every day, when I look in the mirror, I want to try to be more like the person my mom has always seen when she's looked at me. Because my mom has always made me feel like a hero, and the person I am in this life is someone who wears a cape and their underwear on the outside of their pants.

I've realized that what I thought was important, in the grand scheme of things, really isn't. Hitches without jackstands? Pedestrians crossing the street when it's not really their turn? Dead hookers wearing winter formal dresses? Borrowed latex gloves? Aerosol cans not properly disposed of? None of it really matters....except maybe the aerosol cans if exposed to a flame.

I've realized how much my parents love my brother and me. They love us enough to let us build amusement parks in the backyard, to graffiti our bedroom and basement walls, to make multiple stops on a road trip just because one of us has a shy bladder, and to take care of not just us when we are sick, but also each other. I know what loyalty is because of them, and I hope that I'm able to show it to others as well as they have shown it to us.

I've realized that I'm stronger than I ever realized. I'm not sure if it's because I've been lifting the 5 lb dumb bells or if it's because my muscles are exercised when I give bone-crushing hugs, but I never would have imagined I could have made it through this year still standing.

To everyone that's been with me and with us on this road thus far, I don't think "thank you" even really sums it up. Your support has meant everything to me and to my family. As the road starts to get bumpy and it becomes harder to steer, I know I have the best people sitting next to me in the passenger seat.

For the record, the passenger seat in my mind is very spacious and fits all the aforementioned people while still providing an adequate safety belt.

For a while, we had it all; We never dreamed it wouldn't last...

Yesterday, while lounging in a raft in the neighborhood pool that is conveniently located right across the street from B-Rad G's Hizouse, of which I happen to be the foursquare mayor, I looked around me at the blue sky and perfect day and realized how homesick I am for northern summers.

I was lucky to have grown up in a neighborhood with kids my age whose hobbies, like mine, included sleeping until noon and spending hours just talking and laughing on a front porch or sitting on a sidewalk or in a front yard. We'd watch "Now and Then" to ring in the summer, and my mom would save up a good chunk of her vacation time for summer so she could take us to Whipple Dam or Raystown. Friends were always welcome, and like one of them pointed out to me recently, she genuinely enjoyed the company of all of them. She was, is, and has always been one of the "cool moms." Once we were teenagers, any expletive was fair game, but if you told anyone to "shut up," you got the look of disappointment and the "Heyyyy! No shut up!" Speech. Once her and my stepdad got a boat, we upgraded our summer activities to wake boarding, waterskiing and cliff jumping. We'd eat turkey roll ups with cheese, courtesy of the Giant deli. When we weren't sitting on a front porch, we were in a back yard sitting around a bonfire lighting marshmallows on fire.

As I got older and somehow managed to obtain a drivers license (apparently my driving did not nauseate the instructor like it does to other people with weaker stomachs), northern summers were no longer limited to Devonshire Drive. I ventured out into the working world and discovered the joy of alcohol consumption in moderation. Sometimes, moderation wasn't used and I then discovered the joy of driving the big porcelain bus. Summer days were warm, but summer nights were still cool enough to require one of my plethora of hoodies, which now hold my love for Brian Campbell. My mom loved my high school and college friends as much as she loved my childhood Park Forest friends, and she appreciated their speed and efficiency at ringing up her groceries, since most of my college friends were made working at your friendly Northland Center Giant, store number 72. Quality, Selection, Savings...every day.

Little by little, every summer since childhood was spent gaining more and more independence. Riding our bikes all the way to the Park Forest pool or walking to Wendy's all by ourselves made us feel like grown-ups. Having a drivers license and getting a job, making stupid decisions and paying for them the next day...finally, we weren't little kids anymore. God, what I wouldn't give to be a little kid again....

Over time, we all grew up and moved away. The neighborhood crew (or as we liked to be called, the Groundhogs...anyone remember why? Damn, we were cool kids...) and the Giant crew all went in different directions, but our roots can be traced back to the same place. No matter how much time has passed since we've seen each other or how much has happened in between, we always seem to pick up right where we left off, as though nothing has changed and we are still just a bunch of kids letting glue dry on our hands and destroying beepers as we bask in the overcast glow of a northern summer.

"Please know that I am forever changed because of who you are and what you have meant to me."

Yesterday, just as I was leaving the classy land of Wal-Mart, the heavens opened up and rain came pouring down. Instead of making a run for my car for fear I might melt, I decided to try and wait it out in the lawn and garden section with the 2 employees who obviously were not yet qualified to work in the AC and two other loyal shoppers. We stood there in silence for a while, watching in envy as others strolled on in with their stupid umbrellas that they had come prepared with. I considered paying one of them 15 bucks before realizing that I could easily just walk inside and purchase a new one for much chaper, but no, I was not willing to do that. So the 3 of us stood there looking at the sky like idiots, wondering when the storm would pass, while the 2 employees stood as far away from us and the rain as possible. We made small talk and the two people I never would have otherwise struck up a conversation with all of a sudden became life-long pen pals. No, just kidding, I will never see them again. But it dawned on me how crazy it is that just one common bond can bring together people who would otherwise have no reason to interact with one another. Some bonds are as small as waiting out a rainstorm, while others are much more significant.

Cancer is a common bond. A fucking shitty, horrible, no-good, evil common bond that has brought me close to people I may have otherwise never had a reason to strike up a conversation with. Cancer's invasion into my mother's brain and into my family has brought me closer to some, while ripping me away from others. It has shown me who really cares and, unfortunately, who really doesn't. It has proven that there are some people that are just meant to be in my life and will always be there for me, no matter what. No matter how many times I make mistakes or drive them nuts or disappoint them, they will always be there to pick me up off the ground. There are also a few former acquaintances that have etched permanent tattoos on my heart...not just the kind that wash off in 3-5 days and can be applied with lite beer. I can think of the distinct moments in time with each of these people when I've realized I can never forget their faces or the moment they became a part of this story.

My "lifecoach" Lola (who must never leave me) was the first person I texted when we found out my mom has cancer, and not the kind of cancer that goes away. I told her I didn't know if I could do it, because I wasn't strong like her. She told me I would learn to be strong. I don't think I've quite mastered the skill yet, and on some days, it's harder than others to put on a brave face. Sometimes it's difficult to have the attitude I know my mom wants me to have and live the life I know she wants me to live, with no regrets and not a single second wasted, even as she deteriorates and slips away from us. But whatever strength I've acquired has come in part from these people, who just happen to know what it's like to be stuck in a storm with no idea when it might be over or how to pick up the pieces once it's passed. In my 28 years, I've learned that people come and go and not many people stick around in your life forever. Things happen and people move on and grow up and change. But when I think of all the people who have been there for me and helped shape the freakshow that I have become, I smile...usually at the most inconvenient times, and usually in public, which makes me look like somewhat of a psycho, but I digress. Regardless of who will still have a starring role in my life in 5 or 10 years, for right here and now, I am so thankful that I've been given the people I need to help me through the storm.

Why CAN'T we have Christmas the whole year round?

Every day, my mom gets to wake up and believe it's Christmas, Easter, or whatever other holiday she feels like she should be celebrating. With the excitement of a child waking up to see if their hard work and good deeds they really tried to showcase between Thanksgiving and Christmas (No? Just me?) landed them on the naughty or nice list, she wishes me a Merry Christmas. Every day.

There are moments when the sadness of this disease is almost more than I can handle. When all I want to do is scream and cry and hit something other than one piece of candy against 2 others of its kind. (I went there.)  But there are also moments when she is just so god damn adorable that I just want to hug and squeeze her so hard that she tells me to let go because my super human strength is overpowering and she is becoming short of breath and seeing stars, but in a good way.

The human brain is a crazy organ. It's hard to know what is going on my mom's these days, or where she is in her mind. Wherever it is, I'm glad it's somewhere that seems to make her happy and content. I'm glad she gets to wake up every day thinking it's Christmas, instead of waking up screaming, only to realize that this horrible fucking nightmare is, in fact, reality.

My mom turned 59 in April. On her birthday (which she kept insisting "is not REALLY my birthday.") she was convinced she was anywhere from 30 to 80. On her birthday (April 12th), we wished her a Happy Birthday over and over and over again. When she woke up on April 13th and we told her the date, she was only borderline offended when she claimed that nobody had even wished her a happy birthday. Five minutes later, it was Christmas again.

People keep telling me it could be so much worse, and I know they're right. And when I stop to really think about it, I know that among all the horrible images and experiences this disease has given me and my family, this is one of the bright spots. This is what I'll hopefully be able to look back on some day and smile about. Because for months, my mom got to celebrate Christmas everyday.

"Fill your lives with love and bravery, and you shall lead a life uncommon."

When the inevitable doom of my mom's diagnosis sunk in, she made it a point to remind us the importance of living each day to the fullest and embracing all that life has to offer. All those years of her weirdly marching in place in front of the television set came in handy as she marched head-on into the horrors of this stupid disease with her chin up and a smile on her face, no matter what. No matter how many months the "average" person gets after diagnosis. No matter how aggressive this form of cancer is. No matter how much of our future she knows she will be missing out on.

In the beginning, it was easy to remind myself that my mom's biggest concern is that my brother and I keep living and "carry on." It was easy to take opportunities to spend time with people and do things that I may never had been inclined to do before realizing the brevity of life, because my mom was still very much my mom. She still "knew what she didn't know." She knew what was going on, and she knew what the outcome was going to be, and she was still content just to wake up every morning and be able to tell everyone how much they mean to her and how much she loves them.

Now, not as much. Now, it feels like a greater portion of her is gone than the portion that still remains. She no longer knows what she doesn't know, just that she's confused and she tries to compensate by saying things like "I was just thinking about that." or "I thought you had mentioned that before." These are the moments when the sadness of this situation and what it has become almost completely takes over me. These little tiny moments, that seem miniscule in comparison to some of the other trials and tribulations she will continue to face with this disease, are what makes me feel like I've been punched repeatedly in the stomach. Because I'm reminded that she's somewhat of a stranger to me, and maybe even worse, I'm a stranger to her. She knows my voice, knows that I'm her daugher, knows she loves me. But during these moments, it feels like we are just two people trying desperately to hold on to what we're losing.

Lately, I've had a hard time remembering that my mom's biggest concern is that I continue on, and try to still enjoy some of the beauty that life has to offer among all the pain. I've let my mind slip away to a point where I don't even want to deal with not only her illness, but most of real life in general. I've channelled all my focus into the wrong things, and I've gone through the past few months expecting that other people will be able to do this for me. But the truth is, it is me and only me who will have to get through this. Other people have helped, and I'm sure will continue to help. But at the end of the day, nobody else knows what it's like to be my mom's only daughter. Nobody knows what it's like to be her first born, the person who made her a parent. Nobody else knows every single aspect of this sacred bond we share, and it's not for anybody else to know. It is ours and only ours.

This is only the beginning of the difficulty I will continue to face finding balance between fulfilling my mom's wishes and finding happiness--despite it all--and mourning the loss of the mommy who used to be able hold me together when I was falling apart. But I'm starting to find my footing again. I'm starting to remember that as weak as my mom's body and mind may be, her spirit is still strong. The last thing my mom wants for me is to turn into a robot and go through the motions, forgetting to smell the roses and appreciate the little moments...because that's not the example she's set for us over the years. Instead of being sad and upset and numb all the time about things I have no control over, I need to go back to taking a different approach. I need to do things and make choices and live a life that my mom will be proud of, no matter what.

And I need to start doing weird stretches and exercises in public, regardless of who is looking at me like I'm nutty...because that's a choice my mom would be proud of, after all her years of leading by example.

It's something unpredictable, but in the end is right...

7 years ago today, Keck and Jeff got hitched. It was a perfect wedding, especially because there weren't a lot of rules for me to follow. Besides wearing the incorrect type of bra to try on my bridesmaid dress and therefore causing a slight wardrobe mishap that the bride-to-be was not in the mood to deal with on the morning of her wedding (and who could blame her?), I somehow was able to maintain some level of class throughout the evening. In fact, the whole wedding was classy, despite the track record our group of friends have.

There was no eating soap to make my hands cleaner, and no washing my hands with mentadent toothpaste. Nobody pulled a coat hanger off a hotel wall, and there was no hiding of video game controls that ended in retaliation in the form of saran wrap and possibly crisco on people's cars. Nobody wore a tee shirt with a profanity on it in block letters, and nobody almost died due to their cat allergy. Nobody did anything inappropriate to a wrapping paper roll, and there were no cardboard cutouts of anyone there, because we were all in attendance. Nobody did a shot of one-five-fun up to the Nebraska line, which later resulted with his head in a bucket. Nobody did anything that would make Christy put them on register 15 for the rest of their life. Nobody urinated in the stairwell of Keck's apartment complex, or in the lobby at the Ramada Inn. Everyone kept their pants on (at least during the ceremony and reception.) Nobody called their own name when they flipped a quarter into a shotglass because they were thirsty. No cups were flipped and no beers were ponged. Nobody "burnt potatoes." Nic, Jarrod and Scotty-too-hotty did not grace us with their personal rendition of "A Whole New World", and Scotty and Tej did not lock lips this time. No movies were played that required subtitles, because they had actors with British accents. Nobody thought they were pregnant because it had been 2 weeks and they would already be showing.

We did, however, sing "AWAY, AWAY" and "OKAY, OKAY" when appropriate during Friends in Low Places. Slim Jim did probably drink some Boones Farm, and there is picture evidence that middle picture photos were a-plenty. We sang off key to our favorite songs, and there was a lot of crying our eyes out at the end of the night.

Leading up to that special day, while Keckles was shopping for the perfect dress and picking out photographers and food menus and cake, (which I do believe was actually supposed to be Krispy Kreme doughnuts, you lying bitch!) I remember my mom telling me how bad she felt that her mom wasn't there to do all those things with her. How much she wanted to just jump in and be there for her however she could, not to be a replacement, but to be there in any way possible for one of the most important people in my life. I'm certain I couldn't have possibly told her the amount of bullying that comes with a drunk Keck when she suspects others are more sober than herself, but I digress......

When we found out the results of my mom's biopsy, one of the first things I thought about was that comment she had made before Nikki's wedding. I remember getting a lump in my throat, thinking back to that day and not ever realizing at that time that if I ever get married (let's be honest, that seems like a bit of a stretch at this point anyway,) I will find myself in the same predicament. But my intention of this post is not to be depressing or sad while reminding all 3 of my loyal followers that life throws you shitty curveballs and you never know how things are going to work out. If anything, it's a reminder that while life can be a piece of shit more often than not, it also goes on. I can't even begin to imagine at this time what it's like to participate in one of these sacred traditions that are so closely tied to family, especially parents, with one of those key components missing. I can't even begin to imagine how hard it's all going to be, and frankly, I don't want to right now. But Nikki, stronger than she probably ever realized, even back then, is a perfect example that somehow, people figure out how to go on...and lucky for me, I share the same group of friends that she has.

Happy Anniversary, Nikki and Jeff! Thanks for letting me be a part of  both your life (mostly Jeff, because you never really had much choice in the matter) and your special day. I love you!

Measure your life in love

My mom wrote and delivered this incredible tribute to her mom exactly 2 years ago:

"Today we’ve gathered to celebrate the life and legacy of our mother, Regina Reynolds Felkar Remalia. It warms our hearts to have you all here. On behalf of Lex, Threse and I, thank you for traveling from far and near to be with us.
A special thanks to Megan Ringeling for sharing her time and talent to sing Ave Maria – one of mother’s favorites.

We each have our own memories of Regina, covering her life of 85 1/2 years. These we will hold in our hearts always as a way of keeping her spirit alive.

Regina’s remarkable legacy is our focus today. It is fitting -- and by design -- that June 1st was chosen as the date for her memorial service, as this would have been our dad’s 90th birthday. So, we come full circle -- for it was the love that Alex and Jeanne shared through which this legacy was born.

Mother was always welcoming people into their home. During the early years of marriage, her father-in-law, brother-in-law, and grandmother lived with them on Longvue. Growing up, our holiday table often included people who may not have had a place to go otherwise.

Perhaps when the house became too quiet, came the decision to adopt. Choosing Lex was a no-brainer – this adorable baby boy with curly hair and big brown eyes was first. The second – a blue-eyed, blonde tow-head – turned out to be a handful! Terry was cute-as-a-button, but she had a few health problems, and knobby knees.

Now, keep in mind that we were all adopted at various stages of infancy. It was no secret that mother never could handle all the “icky” stuff that came with babies – changing messy diapers, cleaning “spit up” – you know, all that stuff! Good thing Aunt Leslie was next door to help!

Our biologies may be different, but we have much more in COMMON. We are a FAMILY – a life shared with the same loving parents and a million memories, creating ties that bind. Jeanne and Alex brought these three children together to create this family – the big brother, the middle child, and the baby sister. They loved us, nurtured us, spoiled us, disciplined us, and loved us some more.

I realized recently that Lex is so much like our dad – having acquired many of his qualities, and talents. When Lex has a job to do – no matter how big or small -- he does it with passion, pride and precision, just like dad. And, . . . he speaks volumes with a roll of those brown eyes – like dad did by whistling!

When Lex and Linda married, almost 38 years ago, we didn’t realize how much his bride was like our mother. Linda always looks nice -- not a hair out of place -- whether vacuuming or going out for the evening. She’s the hostess with the mostest, creating a warm, welcoming home -- with lots of flowers, just like mother! Lex and Linda have three children -- Carrie, Kevin and Kimberly -- and three granddaughters to Carrie and her husband Blair – Alexandra, Laura and Christina.

I was dubbed “the mouth.” My second husband, Phil Carlin, and I brought Noelle and Neal into the Felkar family fold. Noelle and Neal are the ones who reminded me of Grandma Jeanne’s precious legacy.

Threse, was nursed and nurtured into a strong, cute-as-a-button, tough as nails woman, with knobby knees. I don’t think mother ever realized how strong Threse is -- that’s how she keeps Bob in line! Bob, her husband of 28 years, has many of dad’s qualities – a great sense of humor, and knows how to balance hard work with play. Allison, Sarah and Courtney are Threse and Bob’s daughters.

Regina’s legacy is more than just this listing of Felkar family members. It is a rich, intricate tapestry woven with love, laughter, tears and joy, represented by thousands of family photos and videos of special occasions, family gatherings, and children at play.

For bringing Lex, Threse and I together to create this extraordinary family is a legacy more valuable than gold, and one we will all treasure forever. When our families get together, and we’re enjoying our children, and our children’s children at play, your signature will be on those moments. For this, we love you and thank you, mother. Your legacy as matriarch – make that queen (as Regina means queen) -- of the Felkar family lives on.

You had a wonderful life: two loving husbands – adoring Alex, and high school sweetheart, George – three remarkable children, good friends, good health, and good hair.

You went out on your own terms -- with grace and dignity. May you rest in peace.
Happy birthday, dad – here she is!"

I had no idea, as my mom stood up before her family, solid as a rock, that less than 2 fucking years later, I'd have to be even thinking about how I will ever even begin to pay tribute to her. I didn't know that the part about our families getting together, and "enjoying our children, and our children's children at play" wouldn't end up applying to her. I didn't know she wouldn't be here for those get-togethers. I didn't know that my mom wouldn't get even close to a life of 85 and 1/2 years, but summing up the 59 (hopefully +) is going to be damn near fucking impossible.

I remember looking at her up there, as she read those words that she had so perfectly pieced together, and thinking about how proud I hoped my Grandma was. Nothing my mom did ever seemed to make her mother proud, and she spent years trying to be accepted in her eyes. People used to always tell me "Your grandmother loves you as much as she knows how." For a Grandma, I guess this was okay, because I was lucky enough to have not one, but 2 others who made up for the unconditional love my maternal grandmother lacked. But you only get one mom, and my mom got one that never made her believe she was accepted exactly as she was, or that she was proud of everything she had become. As a result, she took the exact opposite approach when raising my brother and me. Sometimes, I wonder if she always had an inkling that her time with us would be limited. In my 28 years with her, she has pumped so much unconditional love into my heart that even when she's no longer here with us physically, I will never ever have to wake up and question whether I made my mom proud. I will never have to rack my brain and search my memory for the moments when she showed me how much she loved me, because she's done it, one way or another, in every moment I've ever spent with her.

The last encounter I had with my Grandma was an unpleasant one at best, and involved me telling her off for not treating my mom the way she should have. I will never, ever regret that, because my mom stood back and watched and later told me nobody had ever done something like that for her. In retrospect, I loved my Grandma as much as I knew how to love someone who was unable to love my mom the way she deserves and has always deserved to be loved. While I never saw eye-to-eye with my Grandma (we had come to terms with that at a certain point, and she grew to appreciate my smart ass banter for a short time), I am realizing more and more every day that she has helped me come to appreciate the way my mother raised me so much more than I may have, had I not had their relationship to compare it to. And, she made my mom who she is. And who she happens to be the best mom ever to Neal and me, and one that has showered us** with more love and affection than we may have even deserved at times (Mostly Neal, and mostly when he was throwing an unnecessary temper tantrum over a paper flower.)

**Note: I, of course, received more showers than Neal, since I am the firstborn/favorite.

 

"Memory is a way of holding onto the things you love, the things you are, the things you wish to never lose."

I find myself asking this question again and again: How is it that we're here?

Wasn't it just May? Didn't my mom just get a guest pass to go to the North Athletic Club with me when I was home for the week? Weren't Neal and I just ragging on her for the Crystal she kept in her new abode, that her friend told her had some type of magic power, and when we asked what that magic power was, she said "Well I don't know!"? Wasn't she just talking about how she'd won her Biggest Loser contest at work, and wasn't I just thinking about how jealous I was of my mom's ripped physique? Didn't she just know everything about us? Wasn't she just telling us how proud she is of who we have become? Wasn't she just telling me how happy she is that I made a life for myself in Florida, and that I've found friends who don't put up with an ounce of my BS and who look out for my well-being? Weren't we just taking every effing second of her good health for granted, never ever thinking there was even a possibility that the healthiest woman alive, besides on Tuesdays when she'd smoke one cigarette and drink a SoCo and lime, would end up with brain cancer?

Didn't she just read the most unbelievable speech at my grandma's memorial service? Wasn't she just driving people batshit crazy because she was giving them too many options and overcomplicating family get-together plans? Wasn't I just at her house, where she'd ask me if I wanted anything to eat and I'd tell her I was good, and she'd say "I know you're good, but what do you want to eat? Toeat, toeat?" Weren't we just being towed behind the boat, me on my wakeboard and her on her ski? The ski on which, even being as clumsy as she's always been, she could look like the most graceful person on the planet?

Things have changed fast since her diagnosis in August. So different even just from who she was when she came back to Aunt Linda's from the Hilman Center on August 10th, the day my perfect world (that I never appreciated the way I should have) was shattered into tiny microscopic pieces. When my uncle (her brother) came home that day, after we had already been served that nice big sucker punch to the gut hours before, she told him "Well, I got my death sentence today. How much time do I have left again, guys?" But she promised us she wouldn't take a second for granted, because a wasted day is a wasted day. 

I didn't know she'd almost turn into another person. I didn't know she'd forget my birthday, or that I live in Orlando. I didn't know she wouldn't be able to understand that her baby boy--Who grew up to be the smart, hilarious, big headed hipster with the most ridiculous glasses and a fashion sense that borders on non-existent--graduated from the Penn State Honors College. I didn't know I'd have to figure out a balance between appreciating the form she is in now and already mourning the loss of the woman I called mom for 27 years. I didn't know I would have an appreciation beyond words for the support I'd be receiving from people who have unfortunately been through similar situations.

I didn't know any of this, because you never know. You think you have it all figured out, but in reality, life is less predictable than we think. You never know when you're going to get a phone call at 10 am that changes everything. You never know who is going to support you through the tough times. You think you do, but you don't. My ex boyfriend said it best when he told me in times like these, you'll be surprised by who is there to support you and who isn't. This rings true for me.

From some, it's an unspoken support that is shown by making me laugh and allowing me to escape for a while. From others, it's a loud, unwavering support reminding me everyday, no matter how much I may blow up their phone or drive them crazy, that they aren't going anywhere. And some poeple show me a little bit of both.

I hope years from now, when I think about my mom, I won't remember this horrible transition from the familiar to the unfamiliar. I hope I won't remember how hard it is for me to act tough when I see her in the form she is in now, with such little hair, such little balance and range of motion, and such confusion. I hope I'll remember the woman who fell in love with 4 ducks named Stretch, Brownie, Baby and Hercules when her kids left the "nest." I hope I'll remember how goofy I thought she was when she'd actually have the duck quack into the receiver of the phone. I hope I'll remember all those years that she broke the rules by swimming past dusk at my grandma's pool and skinny dipping in state parks. I hope I'll remember what a free spirit she's always been, and how she's always encouraged us to be ourselves, even if it means going against the grain. I hope I'll remember all those evenings spent at her house, where she'd tickle my back and play with my hair and laugh when she'd start to doze off because I'd flail around to wake her up so she wouldn't stop. I hope I'll remember how good it always made me feel when people would tell her I'm the exact replica of her, and she'd tell them that wasn't the case, because she wishes she could be the kind of woman that I grew up into. Ironic, considering the inspiration she's been to those around her. I don't know if, even in her healthiest moments, she ever realized what an incredible human being she is. I wish I could have told her before we got to here.

A letter to myself, from myself.

Dear Me: In case you ever forget, this is what you learned your 27th year of existence:

Life can change in the blink of an eye. No matter how tough a facade you try to put on, when the words "I have a brain tumor" come out of your mother's mouth, it won't even cross your mind how you look sobbing at the door to your office.

People will surprise you. Sometimes for better, sometimes for worse. The worse makes you appreciate the better.

There is a correct way to eat pasta, and it involves a spoon.

Just because someone is family doesn't mean they will stay in your life forever. Even selfish assholes have family.

Just because someone has no blood relation to you doesn't mean they're not your family.

Lola is right 99% of the time. If she tells you to wear sunscreen, you should wear sunscreen.

Slurping oysters out of their shell is not socially acceptable.

Brian sings like a dying angel.

All those times your mom called you at the exact minute you were born to sing happy birthday to your answering machine? You didn't appreciate them enough.

Your brother was put on this earth to be your best friend. Remind him every chance you get how much you love him, how proud you are of him, and how lost you would be without him. And thank Dana, too. She voted "yes" on the sibling survey, because being an only child has its perks, but who does the child have left when the parents are no longer here?

Maybe when you're 28, you won't slam people's hands in car doors anymore.

Your mom is your hero. Always remember and never forget how much she loves you. And remember to take care of yourself, because you promised.

While some people may have let you down this year, you're really lucky. You have people that reminded you every day how much they love you and who have checked in on you and your family to make sure you were getting by.

Maybe in your 28th year, you'll be able to put into words your appreciation for the support your mom's friends have shown you. They hold a special place in your heart already, but one day, you will likely want to turn to them for stories reminding you about the funny/crazy things your mom said and did when she was healthy and full of life.

Despite the circumstances, you laughed a lot this year. With the help of your family and close friends, you somehow figured out a way to find the humor in a horrible situation. You have somehow managed to keep close the people who make you laugh the most, and they have been the crutch you have leaned on throughout this endeavor.

You're still pretty proud of yourself when you use big words.

You love Brian more than he loves you.

The Orena parking lot is not a classy or lifecoach-approved place to kiss a boy.

You have felt like the unluckiest, yet luckiest person on the planet. You get to have the most special people in the world as your friends, and they will be there to see you through this. You know this because they work hard to make sure you never forget it.

You will never be this young again. Only 2 more years will you be an age that starts with a 2...get your shit together.

Happy (almost) Birthday, Jazazzle!

On Friday, my mom will be 59. Before August, I wouldn't have thought twice about my mom turning 59. There was no question she'd make it to her next birthday. But on August 10th, we were given the rude awakening that more birthdays aren't guarunteed, even for the healthiest of people. On August 10th, we learned that "on a bell curve, the average survival rate after a GBM diagnosis, even with treatment, is one year." On August 10th, we learned that our mom probably won't have many more birthdays. On August 10th, we were reminded that life is short and nothing is guarunteed. But on April 12th, we will get to celebrate another year of life for our Jazazzle.

In her 58th year, I saw my mom in a whole new light. She is no longer just the woman who fixed my boo boos, cheered me on in all aspects of my life, and raised me and molded me into the person I am today. She is no longer just the mom who moved me to another preschool, because she refused to make her baby go to a school where the teacher required me to color inside the lines. She is no longer just the mom who stormed onto the soccer field and pulled her daughter and her daughter's friend out of the game because she wasn't going to let us play in inclement weather (sorry about that scene, Stace.) She is no longer just the free-spirited hippie who kept a crystal on her bookshelf because her friend gave it to her and told her it had magical powers. She is no longer just the mom who's told my brother and me every day that we are perfect the way we are, and believed it with every fiber of her being. She is no longer just the mom who signed all my school notes "Julie Zettle (Proud mom of Noelle Carlin)."

In her 58th year, I realized that my mom is my hero for so many reasons other than just the fact that she gave birth to me. I realized that the positive attitude she has always posessed is not just something she displays on the outside when everything is going swimmingly, but it's something that's inside of her. I realized that my mom has inspired more people than she ever could have believed or thought possible. I realized that my mom has lived a life that has made a difference to others, and I hope I can do the same. I realized that my mom could have chosen to give up, knowing that all the cards are stacked against her, but instead she wakes up every day with a smile on her face and an appreciation for another day.

I'm so lucky that I've gotten to spend almost 28 of her soon-to-be 59 years with her. I'm so lucky that she was there to watch me grow up. And I'm so lucky that she's still here, even if she thinks every day is Christmas and that I work as a waitress in New York.

Happy (almost) Birthday, mom! Thank you for all you have taught and continue to teach us. We're havin' some fun now!

"Maybe my mom talked to God and asked him to make us friends so this wouldn't be a complete loss."

It took two stooges and 27 years to find my sister.

It was a snowy December day...no, that's inaccurate, we live in Florida. It was a hot December day, and my nasal passage was heavily congested and my eyeballs were in pain due to the sinus infection I had been diagnosed with one day prior. I was about to go home to spend Christmas with Jazazzle, but I didn't want to get her sick because of all the treatment she was going through that gave her a weakened immune system. I was already in First Aid for something unrelated to myself or my sinus infection, so I asked the First Aid supervisor--who was pretending to be filling out paperwork so she didn't have to interact with me--what I needed to do to assure I didn't get my mom sick. I told her my mom has brain cancer, and she told me her mom had it too. I told her it sucks. She agreed. Then she told me not to kiss my mom on the mouth, which I found to be slightly disturbing, and I don't think I hid it well.

Fast forward to a week or so later, when my plane had just landed and my nose was bleeding like a MF. Jazazzle was very concerned, and convinced we needed to seek immediate treatment. I really just wanted to be able to put her mind at ease, so I texted my new "pal"...who actually thought I was an intimidating biatch but I had her digits so I could give her inaccurate information about machinery. I asked her if the world was going to end for me sooner than December 22nd (which was only a few days away, at that point) due to the fact that my nose wouldn't stop bleeding and my mom was convinced I was going to die if we didn't get help. She asked me how long it had been bleeding, and I told her approximately 6 minutes. Her response was, "And you haven't called an ambulance????" And the rest is history. With a very similar sense of humor, absolutely no filter, and most importantly, a shared nightmare experience with our moms, there is no doubt this crazy fool is my sister from another mister.

Since my mom got sick, I've found that the people I connect most with are those who, unfortunately, have been through a similar situation as my own. I've found strength in other people who have sympathized with me over the horrors of cancer and what it does to a person you love. But in another sense, I've felt like our situation with my mom is so unique, because it doesn't follow the common "path", which in most ways, is really a blessing. This seems like a cross between cancer and Alzheimers. Other people can relate to the treatment side of it, to watching her lose her hair and trying to plan and brace ourselves for the future without getting too far ahead. But they don't relate as much to the major memory loss. To having to explain things over and over. To her not knowing where she is, what she's done during any given day, or that the holidays have already passed. In this case, my mom is not in pain or suffering. I am in pain, because it rips me apart to watch as she slowly fades away from us. To have someone come into my life who provides that older sister protectiveness and wisdom from her own experience has been a Godsend. She told me one day that cancer is a thief, and truer words may have never been spoken. She understands it like so many others don't, and no matter how much I know it must be difficult to have to relive it, she is always there with the best advice possible that only someone who's been through it can provide. She's told me multiple times how sorry she is that I have to go through this. She reminds me to try to find little pieces to still enjoy, and she tells me I need to call my mom when she is missing hers. She calls me out when I'm acting like a bratty little sister, a talent I've spent years practicing, by the way. She reminds me all the time that she's not going anywhere and that she'll be there even on the darkest days, and that she won't let me fall. But if I fall on my own while walking, that's a very different story and I'm pretty sure she would laugh at me.

A-Woww, the little things you have done for me since I realized we are, in fact, sisters separated at birth could fill a book. When I feel a meltdown coming on, you always make me feel better and you always make me laugh. You only lie to me sometimes, but don't worry, I will remind you about them forever. You spent time with my mom and brother while they were here, and you reminded me again and again with that nice death glare you often give me to just go along with whatever my mom is saying, because correcting her only frustrates her and she won't remember anyway. You made sure she ordered tea wherever we went, even though you knew she wouldn't even end up liking it. You don't let me sit around when you know I'm feeling sad, and you always offer to help me clean my room and/or car, even though I tell you that I don't need help. You keep my wallet receipt-free after cleaning out that pile of old receipts and expired cards and throwing them away without giving me a chance to stop you. You lecture me again and again about doing the right thing, and how I know better, and how I need to stop letting people walk all over me. You don't feel bad for me when you know I'm in a situation because I didn't know how to say no or I didn't want to hurt people's feelings, and you remind me that I got myself into the situation on my own. But you still hug me when I'm sad, and you take me home when I drink too much and come pick me up on your lunch break to retrieve my car. You are extremely jealous of my vests and other wardrobe choices, and you have conformed to calling your Harley Davidson a Litterhawk, because you're tired of this conversation: "My Harley Davidson..." "Your what?" "My harley.." "Your what??" "Fine...MY LITTERHAWK." You eat sugar bricks with me and enable my overall sugar addiction, and you pick me up in the dent-mobile to cruise over to WaWa for some quesa-diLLas that take 14 hours to make. You often say the same things as me at the exact same time because we share the same brain, except yours is smarter, and you speak dinosaur. You tell me when I have pizza sauce on my face, and then get pissed when I'd prefer to just leave it there because I look like an idiot. You yell at me and I yell at you when we are arguing over the same point. When everything goes to shit and I tell you I'm not okay, you remind me that it's okay. You only ditch me for lunch on rare occasions, and when you do, you still bring me back food. You invented the Guinness Float. You make me try new things, like Oysters and Thai food. You slurp oysters out of a shell, and that's f*cking disgusting. You try to trick me into liking hummus. You charge your phone everywhere we go, and nobody even really judges you. You sometimes cry when you think I will ditch you as my sister once I get a boyfriend and get married, but you should know that I never, ever will. Because you are stuck with me forever and ever.

You came along at the perfect time, and you've stuck by my side every day since then. If my mom were more aware of what was going on these days, I know she would be grateful that I have someone like you to help me through this. If this was the series finale of Full House when Michelle Tanner and her memory are two different Olsen twins in the same shot, my mom's memory Olsen twin would be smiling at you and just sofa-king thankful for you for taking such good care of your baby sister-face.

I love you, my pineapple lifesaver! The twizzlers are ready....

"Please come see me before you you start. I want to tell you that you are pretty."

To my BJC, otherwise known as K9:

You know how they say people come into our lives when we need them most, and everything happens for a reason?

Well I think that's bullshit. :) Well, the second part mostly. That whole "everything happens for a reason" thing is no longer something I can buy into 100%, given the current circumstances. Someone give me a legitimate reason that cancer kills little kids or some crazed lunatic walks into an elementary school and shoots 20+ people. There is absolutely nofa king (yep, you bet your ass I did) explanation. There's no way to justify it, and there's no god damn way to make it better. 

However, the part where people come into our lives when we need them most? That I buy into. I hope I tell you this often enough, but in case I don't, you have been one of the best support systems for me since my mom's diagnosis. With just one random text asking me if everything was okay, you all of a sudden became not only one of my favorite people (I'm pretty sure you held that spot before I even left Orlando to go home in the first place), but also one of the best friends I have at this moment in time, and one of the people who understands me better than anyone else.

At the dawning of this beautiful, appreciative love I developed for you (because you are a boy and you are a friend), I asked you what you would do if you were in my shoes. You were honest, and you told me what I needed to hear at that point along this "journey." When my plans changed a few weeks later after I'd thought it through and my parents convinced me I needed to go back to my life in Orlando, you never judged me. You never tried to talk me out of it, even if it wasn't the decision you necessarily would have made. What you DID was let me know, with every heartfelt and hilarious text message (that also provided my family with some much needed entertainment at just the right time when I read them aloud over and over again), that you were there. And that was the greatest thing you could have done for me.

I never could have imagined that the random employee I first met when he was working a special events shift would soon end up being such an important part of my life, someone who can always make me laugh no matter what, someone I love so much, and such a great friend. I suppose the same could be said for the supervisor who "yelled" at me for wearing my sunglasses inside, the random blonde biatch who showed up out of nowhere trying to steal my blonde thunder, or the guy who whispered just a bit too much. 

BJC, I tell you regularly that I love you, but I hope you know how much I really do. You make me laugh every single day. Everything does not happen for a reason. But you coming into my life was one of the things that did. Thank you for being there for me, for being honest with me, for not beating around the bush and telling me everything is going to be just freaking swell. Thank you for listening to my stories, for telling me your stories, for being logical and understanding when I tell you I've just had a meltdown. Thank you for keeping the running mom jokes alive, and for understanding that they are not meant to be hurtful or to make fun of her in any way. Thank you for giving some of the best hugs ever. Thank you for reminding me that EVERYONE doesn't suck, and that nothing seems as hopeless if I can just find a few people that I genuinely enjoy being around and who know how to make me smile. Thank you for taking such good care of Jeremy Ant and Anthony Ant. I miss Cleo. 

And thank you for loving me with all your vital organs with the exception of your small intestine. Can't win them all, I guess. 

"The truth is, in time, that's all we'll be to eachother anyway...A population of memories."

The Penn State facebook page posted this picture this morning, and looking at it made me feel like I had been punched in the stomach.

To everyone else, this just appears to be a picture of the inside of a building. But to me, I can still see my mom's blonde hair speed walking across one of those hallway balconies and walking down those steps with a big old grin on her face to come meet me when I was finished with class or when we were picking her up from work, and later when I had just gotten off the airplane from Florida after months of not seeing her. She was happy and healthy, and whether it had been a day since I had seen her or 6 months, her face always lit up as she walked toward me as she'd greet me by saying "Noella Bella!" (prolonged emphasis on the Ls). 

Her face still lights up this way when she sees me, but it is no longer the face of someone who remembers the accomplishments, heartbreaks and roadbumps of my 27 years...this new but familiar face doesn't even remember that I'm 27. On most days, it's enough that her face still just lights up when she sees me. When this all first started, my biggest fear was that my mom would forget who I was. I remember talking to our amazing family friend when I was still trying to decide if returning to Florida was the right thing to do, because I didn't want my mom to forget that she had told me I needed to go back and then to think I had abandoned her. And I didn't want to be gone long enough for her to forget me. Our friend told me that loving Neal and me is in my mom's DNA, and that she may continue to forget a lot, but she will never forget that she wants what's best for us and she wants us to be happy. 

I told one of my friends yesterday that I understand and know what's going to eventually happen with this stupid monster that has invaded my mom's brain. She got a sad look on her face and asked me if I really do, and the fact that the sad look didn't go away tells me that she knows I really don't. Sometimes I feel like I can't even look most people in the eye anymore because I'm afraid they'll see right through me--but a few people already do. I realized last night, after I got home from running around with a soccer ball outside while A-Woww climbed a mountain that was actually a very small hill and thought she saw a comet in the sky which was actually an airplane, that I have not yet fully processed that the old version of my mom is never coming back. The version that would have been right out there with me, and that I would have had a hard time keeping up with. The version that, as I was thinking how nice it'd be to go back to Dunedin/Clearwater where my Grandma lived, would have said we should just get in the car and go. My Grandma may not live there anymore so we really have no ties there besides memories...but hell, it'd be an adventure. The last time we were there to get some things from her condo, Jazazzle had toyed with the idea of trying to buy it herself. There were so many memories there, and leaving that beautiful place behind seemed crazy. I remember driving along that causeway for the last time...my then-boyfriend and I were in my car and my mom and brother were driving behind us. My mom said that was the first time it had all really hit her, and she got choked up as she looked around at the beautiful place that had been a second home to us for so many years. That bridge over the causeway that separated one piece of land from another also suddenly separated my mom from her mom, and it finally sunk in that she was really gone. She said when she came back to visit me in Orlando, we may have to take a trip back there because of all that it represented for us. She made it seem so easy....as if driving back across that bridge would have put us right back where we were, arguing back and forth with my Grandma about things that I can't even remember now. If only it were as easy to go back to a time as it is to go back to a place...because the place just happened to be a b-e-a-utiful location that hosted all those crazy-good memories that I hope to never forget....

All those late night "illegal" swims in the pool.

All those walks along the marina...especially the late night walks, when my grandma would put the hurricane shutter down after she promised she wouldn't. 

All those dolphin sightings and amazing sunsets off the clubhouse deck and pier.

Early morning walks along Edgewater Drive, where we'd see manatees off the shoreline and discuss how ugly they were, yet cute at the same time.

The time my mom and I got a blow-up boat and paddled out to one of the islands and met Captain Jim, who apparently "lived" on said island and who informed us that if we had arrived just 30 minutes earlier, we would have caught him sunbathing in the buff. Captain Jim gave us some great insight on all the different ways you could eat ramen noodles when living on an island. He also towed us back into the marina because paddling against the wind turned out to be counter-productive and we didn't get very far.

The time a seagull shat upon my head and my mom laughed and laughed and insisted it was good luck. 2 years later when it happened to her, she found it slightly less amusing.

So much has changed since those days, but at the same time, it feels like it was just yesterday. Memories like these are bittersweet, but I hope they'll be as vivid in my mind as they are right now forever. I know my Grandma and I didn't always see eye to eye, especially toward the end. But I will be forever grateful for the memories I would not have with my mom if it weren't for her. Because I think it was in those moments--where Jazazzle and I spent a lot of time together, just the two of us--that I got to learn who my mom really is, and why she is that person. I would see the relationship between her and my Grandma, and feel so thankful that someone who was raised by a mom who unfortunately never seemed to know how to give unconditional love and acceptance can show my brother and me, every day of our lives from the second we wake up until we close our eyes to go to sleep, so much love.