"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!