"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.