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.