Ch ch ch changes

I have never enjoyed change. Not even the kind that comes from a vending machine. Making room for those extra coins in my ever cluttered man wallet in which some would assume I carry every card that I have ever been issued has always been a pain in the ass. It's heavy, it weighs me down, and I can never seem to remember it's there when I need it.

The other kind of change, I enjoy even less. Sometimes it's gradual, and sometimes, it happens in an instant, stops you in your tracks, and you are fully aware that nothing will ever be the same again. I've experienced this sudden type of change in both my personal life and my professional life, but most notably for me, on a Thursday in July, when I stepped outside the office to take your call. That phone call changed everything. The things that seemed like the biggest problems in the world the day before were so miniscule in comparison to you uttering the words "well, I have a brain tumor" on the other end of the phone. For the first time in my life, I could literally feel the world stop spinning for a second. Tears welled up in my eyes and I started pacing back and forth, trying to make sense of it all. I rarely cried around you or anyone else for that matter, because I was afraid you would realize I wasn't quite the badass you always gave me credit for being. This time, I couldn't stop it from happening. I started sobbing and rambling on about how soon I could get home. Calmly and rationally and still somehow cheerfully, you told me to calm down. You told me you were still waiting to find out where to go from there and that some things still needed to be figured out. You told me they were planning on doing surgery the following week. You told me you loved me and you promised me it would be okay and we were going to figure it out. 

I grabbed the door to go back into the office, and a big tall Thor looking fellow playfully blocked my way, until he noticed the tears streaming down my face. He apologized and asked if I was okay. I don't even remember whether or not I responded, but I remember the helpless look on his face.

I sat down on the computer and sent 2 IMs. One which read "I haven't figured out how to say the words out loud yet, but my mom has a brain tumor and I have to fly home." And another, to one of my most favorite sheep emoticon recipients, who is always At My Service, telling her the same thing and asking her what type of paperwork I needed to have in hand, since I didn't know how things would end up from there. All of them etched themselves as characters in one of the most significant chapters in my story. 

As the months went by and things started to change and your memory faded, my work family became the audience for my stories about the funny/heartbreaking things you would say and do. It was you who sent me back to them in the first place, because I was ready to move back home to spend your last year with you. But I think somehow you knew I would be well taken care of and better off coming back here. You knew I had a strong support system in the home I had made for myself in the sunshine state, and you didn't want me to lose it. You knew as well as I did that the phone conversation we had on July 26th changed our worlds forever, and I think you wanted me to hold on to whatever sense of "normal" that I could. Even though the world may have stopped turning briefly the day I got that call, you knew it had to keep spinning, with or without you.

I am forever grateful for the work family that has continued to be there for me as my life continues to change, as it inevitably does for us all. I am thankful that through the difficult changes that I have seen in both my personal and professional life, there will always be bright spots. There will always be sun peaking through the clouds, and while change has certainly provided me with some sadness, it's also dealt its fair share of happiness. As I look around me at the tiny terror currently sleeping in my lap and the home I share with the girl(s and boy) that I love so much, I realize none of these things would have happened without change, either.

As we all whether the storm of more change and some of us spin off in new directions (*cough* VEGAS), I'd just like to remind them that they will never be erased from those pages. Whether they

started spinning off on their new adventures 4 years ago or just yesterday, they are forever part of my story. 

Thank you for making an impact in my life, and thank you for helping me learn how to accept change and move forward...both by setting an example of how to do so, and by supporting me as I learned how myself.

Since You've Been Gone

Dear mom,

Since you've been gone, I've fallen in love  with 2 cats, and I've fallen in love with a blonde haired, blue eyed...girl. (When you know, you know. But hey! Sometimes you're wrong!)

Life doesn't seem to be going quite the way I had envisioned it would, but then again, I guess it never really does. I also never would have envisioned losing you before you ever even got to prove to people that 60 is the new 30.

I can't believe as I have taken on these new adventures and discover new interests and loves that you're not here to share them with. I can't believe I don't get to call you and talk to you about my plans for the future, like I always did. You'd always listen enthusiastically, and I could hear in your voice, even over the phone, that you were wearing that token smile of yours. 

I can't believe I don't get to hear you say that you love me no matter what; no matter who or what I fall in love with along the way, and no matter how the path may stray from my expectations. I can't believe you don't get to reassure me that all you've ever wanted for me is happiness, no matter what form it comes in.

I can't believe you don't get to see that glimmer in my eyes and that smile on my face that so many people keep noticing. The one that comes from genuine happiness, the kind you've always wished for me and for Neal. It's different than the smile that was painted on for the last year as I tried desperately to convince everyone, including myself, that I didn't hold a deep seeded hatred toward the whole world for somehow letting you leave it.

I can't believe you don't get to know her and love her, because I know you would have. And I can't believe she doesn't get to know you; that famous, outgoing, free-spirited mom of mine. Always my biggest fan, and the woman who gave me life in so many ways beyond just giving birth to me. You continued to pump life into my veins every single day by showing me unconditional love. Even on the days when I didn't deserve it, and even on the hopeless days when nothing was going my way and everything seemed to be falling apart. Even on those cold,

dreary winter days when I could barely drag myself out of bed, you found a way to give me hope. I never doubted things would be okay, because you were the one who told me so. Even when you got sick, you kept telling us you knew we were going to be okay. And somehow, despite the pain and the heartbreak and all the feelings that came with watching you fight your battle to the bitter end that are tucked so deep inside all of us, we are okay. Somehow, we've come across people with the same life-pumping ability you always had. They are priceless, and I'm not sure it was so much me who found her, or you who found her and sent her my way. Either way, she is an amazing kitten...oh, and Stormi's pretty great, too! (Just kidding, but see what I did there, guys?)

I don't know that I would have found myself here had it not been for the process of losing you and being reminded how short life is, and how precious the people are who have made it worth living. I don't know that my heart and mind would have been open to leaving no stone unturned, or that I would realize that maybe there's something to those people and creatures and things that make me happy in a world that has been filled with so much sadness.

She is the perfect half to my whole. I see pieces of you in her that I've been missing and that feel so much like home. The way her baby blues light up when she smiles, and the way she is there for me, unconditionally. She may not have been where I expected to end up, but she is exactly where I'm supposed to be.

Oh, and Stormi's pretty great, too.

"I lived a million miles of memories on that road."

I didn't realize it until recently, on a kind of dreary day that looked like a tropical day in Pennsylvania, just how much I miss our walks.

We logged a lot of miles together, you and me. I can't believe I never stopped to realize just how special they were, and that even though your healthy little body seemed like it would be around forever, those walks would be fleeting. The irony of it is that so many of those walks involved you doing just that--appreciating that moment in time. Looking up at the sky and breathing in the air with your eyes closed and a grin on your face, perfectly content with your life and appreciative of all the blessings you were handed along the way.

You taught me a lot of things in our 28 years together, but one I keep coming back to recently is how to truly appreciate life and all the little things that come with it.

Sometimes, when I'm with my little hurricane, laughing one of those deep belly laughs because of something she says or does, I can just envision the smile that used to creep across your face when you'd look at me with pride-filled eyes and tell me how happy you were when you could watch me be happy. The same smile that would appear when you were playing "this little piggy" until I was a full-grown adult and right up until the stupid cancer made you too tired to form sentences, or listening to my stories about my Florida adventures and all the people who made it a home for me, or throwing marshmallows into my mouth from across the living room.

You always had a way of looking at me like I could do no wrong, and like you truly believed with all your heart that I was the best thing since sliced raisin bread, toasted and slathered with butter before being drowned in cinnamon and sugar. You appreciated all the little quirks and every little element about us that fused together to make us who we are. You never once made us feel like any single quality was unlovable, including those that most people would find (and do find) less than charming.

The little moments with people, like those that involved the 3 of us just being together at whatever residence you were inhabiting at the time, seemed to be the moments that mattered most to you. No matter how much you felt like your world was falling apart around you on any given day when life wasn't quite going the way you had hoped or planned, you always seemed to be able to pick out the pieces that were still held together and appreciate them.

I must admit, I'm still learning to be more like you in that way. There are still days that I can almost see that bright smile and smell your perfume and feel your warm hugs holding me tight. There are still times when all I can see is how unfair it is that you're not here with us anymore and I have to rely on those sweet,

Irreplaceable memories. There are still days when I feel like your hugs and your love are the only things that can save me. There are still moments when I miss the old me, because there is a very clear distinction between who I was before losing you (every little piece, day by day) and who I am now. But since life doesn't always give us the options we want, I think maybe you're sending me your love through other people. Maybe they are the people who will create new pieces to fit into some of the holes left behind from the parts of me that went with you the day you had to leave this world. Like my baby hurricane and her incredible family, and like Lola, who still gives me regular doses of honest motherly advice, including but not limited to "use your manners" and "I should beat your ass right now." 

I will continue to put one foot in front of the other and I won't ever stop walking forward, and I'll try my best to do it with a smile on my face because I know you're always right next to me in spirit. I may not be able to see you anymore, but you are never far from my mind and you are always, always, always in my heart.

Sometimes, words just don't work...

I remember when my friend's father passed away, when your body was still here with us but other pieces of you had already left. I remember telling him that I didn't know what to say or do for him, and that words probably didn't make much of a difference at that point. 

And then I remember telling the first person who had lost someone after we lost you that the right words just didn't exist, only that time, I knew from experience. 

We had so much support from so many people after you passed away, and I don't want to discredit that for one second. But when it comes to finding the right thing to say in response to the loss of someone you love more than life, no words will ever suffice or make it hurt any less.

Two people who I love very much have lost someone profoundly special to them this week. And there is a lump forming in my throat as I type this and my body still goes numb as I think about it. Because I've experienced a great loss, so I can relate to that part. But as I've mentioned before, every loss is so very different, because every soul is so very different. So, as much as I can relate to some pieces, I also am well aware that I have no idea what it's like to lose the people they have lost.

Because when you left us, people's hearts broke in different ways and cracked in different places. Neal and I were the only two people who had the pleasure of being raised by you, and we were the only two people who lost our mom that day. But I remember looking at Mary Ann and at Aunt Threse and Aunt Lirda and Uncle Lex and wondering what they must be feeling, because they have so many more years of memories with you. Your siblings watched you transform from a kid, to a teen, to a young adult, and eventually to a mom and the only woman Neal and I had ever known. They were your partners in crime, and they were the people who knew WHY you were the person we all knew and love.

Your little girl who could outflare your nostrils any day and who nailed the art of throwing mini marshmallows into your big ol' mouth had a completely different relationship with you than your baby boy whose head was the size of a watermelon but you'd still be seen in public with at Avril Lavigne concerts and airports when you took him to leave for one unique excursion to the next. But those memories get to stay with us forever, and nobody else gets to keep them but me and watermelon head.

To the people who lost someone this week: I am so sorry. I am so sorry that there are pieces of each of your situations that I can so relate to, and pieces that I will never be able to understand, because they are only yours.

You are both in my thoughts and prayers, as well as the families and friends of those you loved so much.

Measure your life in love

As we are nearing the one year anniversary of your death, I put together a video of the last year of your life. I wouldn't have traded a single second of that year, no matter how much so many of those moments hurt.

I love you and I miss you.

The Last Month

As I prepare myself for the one year anniversary of the day you passed away, I am reminded of something: that day? That moment? That wasn't the hardest part.

This is the anniversary of the hardest part.

The preparation and the month leading up to it. Meeting with hospice and signing papers that agreed we wouldn't be seeking any further medical treatment. Signing papers that said if anything happened, we wouldn't be taking you to a hospital (like grandma Julia always said, a hospital is no place for a sick person anyway.) Signing papers that said we were ready to let nature take its course.

Watching the Godfather and Lirda's dining room transform into a hospital room with pills and products brought over by your nurses that continued to pile up. And watching you lay in that room, unable to move your limbs and only managing to shake your head or blurt out a few words here and there. Changing you and turning you so you didn't get bed sores, and transferring you in and out of a wheelchair that just a year before that would have seemed like an absolutely impossible concept. You were never supposed to be stuck in a wheelchair, not even for 5 minutes to take you out onto the deck. 

That F word started slipping out of people's mouths, and not the one you loved to say after a really stressful day because "sometimes, you just need to say it." This F word was even worse. We skirted around it at first, but eventually we had to address the elephant in the room. We agreed that your hatred of funerals was reason enough to forgo one and throw you a party instead. Cancer had changed your every feature and I can't imagine you would want people remembering you that way, even with your laid back and carefree attitude. Besides, a funeral never would have suited you. Mostly because we would have insisted on having you laid out in your favorite outfit, and I'm not sure exactly how people would have reacted when they would have come to pay their respects and seen you there, naked. In your most favorite outfit. 

We started to prepare for life without you more than we were ever willing to before, because we knew your physical absence was now on the horizon.

But even those things weren't the worst.

If ever there was a time when we watched you suffer, it was that last month. We were so lucky that you didn't seem to endure much pain throughout your War on Beulah, but you were no longer comfortable or content. Your body was stiff and you were just barely hanging on by a thread. You couldn't gulp down glass after glass of water like you always had (from your piggy glass), and what little fluid we could get in you without that God awful choking sound was thickened with that disgusting powder that turned it into a pudding-like concoction. You bordered on miserable, and that was the most difficult thing in the world to see.

While these memories are difficult and painful to remember, and they may not seem like anything anyone would ever want to recall, they are so important. Because years from now, when September is approaching and that crack in my heart starts throbbing more than usual, I need to remember what a blessing it was when that day finally came for you. I want to be able to look back to shortly after 2 pm on Monday, September 23rd and remember not how heart broken we were; but that sense of peace and relief in our hearts, knowing you were finally free.

I never could have imagined...

As we approach the one year mark of the day you had to go away, I never could have imagined I would be where I am today.

I never could have imagined that I could make it through a minute, let alone 10+ months without tears completely blurring my vision and making me incapable of functioning. 

I never could have imagined how much peace I would find, as opposed to sadness, in the sweet little memories of you that pop into my every day routine. I can't help but smile when I tell stories about the things you used to say and do, and the person you always were. I used to always wonder how people lose such an integral part of their being and continue to move on, knowing that every encounter you have threatens to rip open the delicate skin on the wound that takes so long to heal. The truth is, the skin never really grows back, you just learn to deal with that feeling that will never really go away. Eventually, the pain makes you stronger than you ever thought you could be, but every day poses the risk of bumping that injury at just the right angle to make you wince and swear and scream and cry in pain. But it's okay, because I have a box of multicolored band-aids and the peace of mind to know that's okay sometimes, too. 

I never could have imagined how endeared I would become to those who are suffering loss. How frustrating it is, knowing you are helpless, because there is no right thing you can do or say to make the situation better. We can't save each other from loss, but we sure can lean on each other to help us move forward and continue on. I never knew how much it would affect me, watching someone else lose a parent and remembering all those feelings while still appreciating all the time we had with you that allowed us to say goodbye. All those bitter sweet moments when I would lay with you and kiss your cheeks and just study your face, hold your hands, and admire the way they so perfectly fit with mine, ever since I was little. 

I never could have imagined how much love I continue to have for those around me, even knowing how much it hurt when one of the people I loved the most on this earth was stolen from me far too soon. Someone recently posed the question: is it worse to lost someone who was never able to give their children the kind of love you gave us, or is it worse to know what that love is like and to lose that special bond? Neal and I both agree that the answer is quite simple. It's worse to never have experienced it at all. The love you gave us every single day is what has kept our motors running. You literally could not have loved us any better, and there is absolutely nothing you could have done to show us that you loved us any more. 

Finally, I never could have imagined I would be the happiest I have ever been right here and now, even after you are no longer here to see me this way. Watching you over the course of your final year with us reminded me that life is fleeting, so it's pertanent that we take risks, fall in love, and follow our hearts, regardless of where they lead us. There are going to be really crappy times and we are going to encounter really crappy people, but the good far outweighs the bad, and the bad makes us appreciate the good so much more.

Thank you for making real life better than my imagination.

I love you, a bushel and a peck...and I never could have imagined how much I could miss someone but still "keep on keepin' on."

Thank You for Holding On

Despite my early suspicion that it could no longer do so, the world somehow continues to turn. We are carrying on, just like you asked of us. We're growing up and making choices that we hope will lead to happiness, because now we are living a good life not just for ourselves, but for you. Because you are up there watching us, and all you ever wanted was for us to be happy.

Your baby boy leaves for Europe next week. He will spend 2 years in Grad school, traveling all over and seeing places he's never been before and learning things that will make him even better equipped to run the world some day. He's always been the more adventurous Carlin sibling, considering I have never left the country (unless you count West Virginia, which you should.)

I always tell people that watching Neal with you in your last few months was by far the most heart-breaking part of your battle. I know I threw a hairbrush at his face, but it was only one time, and my job as the big sister is supposed to be to protect my baby broski at all costs. Unfortunately, I couldn't shield him from losing his mom at 23. I couldn't step in and lift you up when you got too weak, and frankly he probably wouldn't have let me anyway. I couldn't stop you from slipping away from us, and neither could anybody else. 

I talked to Aunt Mardie when you started to really decline quickly, and I told her "If this lasts for 6 months, God help us all." She said when we were ready to do so, it was important that Neal and I both tell you that it was okay for you to let go. I started talking to you about it that very night, perhaps selfishly for myself, because it was getting harder and harder to watch...I could see you fading; but your baby boy just wasn't ready yet.

Weeks went by and we moved you back to Pittsburgh and set up your Hospice care. People came and went and sat next to your bed while holding your hands and talking to you, but Neal rarely ever left your side. You held on longer than any of us expected, not because we questioned your strength, but because you of all people preached and preached about quality of life and it was no longer there for you. 

I remember losing it as I watched Neal's face at the foot of your bed when a friend of the family said "this will probably be her last night." I remember hearing his shaky voice as he read "I'll love you forever" to you one last time, and I remember that heart broken look in his eyes as the priest read your last rights. 

It was only recently that Neal told me "you know, I didn't tell mom it was okay to go until that last weekend." He said he stayed up with you one night and just apologized for all the little douchey things he did or said to you as a kid (which is fair, it probably would take a good 8 hours to recount them all...;))

It amazes me what the heart can do for those it loves, despite the condition of the body as a whole. Your body was probably ready to be done weeks before your heart was finally at peace with saying goodbye. But I look back at all the people who got to see you one last time, and I know it must have been important to you. 

Thank you for holding on until both of us were "ready" to let you go.

Please watch after Neal in his travels. Sometimes, the kid does some real dumb shit. And if you or "Santa" happen to find those eight pop up books or that gumball machine, I'd say the kid has earned it...

"When I look to the sky, something tells me you're here with me."

Dear mom,

Thanks for breaking the air conditioner in my car. It makes me appreciate having someone in my life that's willing to fix it, not sweating on my way to and from work anymore, and having a car to get me to and from places (especially in the heat of the Florida summer.) Because not everyone has those things. But seriously, I need a convertible.

Thanks for putting a couple jerks in my life, because it makes me appreciate all the people I have who don't fit that description. The ones who make me laugh, fix my aforementioned busted air conditioning, send me text messages telling me what my plans are for Sunday Funday because they know I'm totally down no matter what they are as long as they're with them, sit and BS with me at a bar for hours over refreshing brewskis, go guitarfishin' with me no matter how many times I disappoint them, etc. They are all that really matters at the end of the day. 

Thanks for being the reason I am addicted to sugar by giving me and Neal "vanilla milk" before bed every night when we were kids. But seriously, donuts and cake make the world go round..."everything in moderation", as you always said...

Thanks for brightening up the Florida sky while the sun is setting. Just when I thought it couldn't get any more beautiful, I remember you are up there.

Thanks for the ducks that sit along the docks at work. I thought I was pretty clear when I said PAYDAYS and M&Ms, but I'll take ducks and deer, too.

Thanks for giving me so many memories in the 28 years that you were here with me. I feel like some many conversations I have lately at some point involve "my mom used to...", and it only "brings a chuckle to my face." 

Thanks for being such a dork. 

Thanks for being so strong and unbreakable, even in the last year of your life. It makes me remember that if you could go head to head with cancer and all the crap that came with it without ever complaining, I can't complain about the small things. 

I will find the silver linings in the clouds, the blessings in disguise, and the signs you send us to remind us all that you are watching over us.

Jerk Lessons

I find myself thinking more often than ever before that I am, without a doubt, your daughter.

For so many small reasons, but more recently, for this one:

You had that one person that you were there for unconditionally, even if none of us agreed with your decision because of the way that person talked to you and treated you. You followed your heart and didn't listen to a damn thing that any of us were saying we thought you should or should not do, because being there for that person felt right to you. I could go on and on about why that person didn't deserve you, but I will refrain...because It didn't really make a difference in your decisions then, and it certainly doesn't matter now.

I never understood that dynamic and inability to let go of someone with whom you may have had a few nice memories peppered in with a bunch of really crappy ones, until I realized I had stumbled upon one of those people of my own. Someone who I clung to through the dark days and who was my support system through your battle and after you were gone.

On the good days, that person was wonderful, and I have some great memories to look back on. But on the days when they felt like taking out their deep seeded hatred for the world toward another person, I was often the punching bag. I was told on multiple occasions what a horrible person I am and that anything bad that was happening to them was my fault, and the lowest blow of all: "your mom would be disappointed to know what a shitty friend you turned out to be." But even after all those outbursts, I would keep going back for that person when they needed someone, because I didn't want to give up on them. Because I thought they needed someone like me in their life, and I thought being loyal to someone, regardless of whether or not it was reciprocated, was something that would have made you proud. But what I really didn't want to accept was that someone I cared about so much was so toxic and was poisoning everything around me that I was trying so hard to keep clean. I didn't want to believe that some people in this world just aren't good for our well-being, and we have to let them go.

It was in those moments, when I was being put down and insulted, that I have "cried for my mommy" the most. I don't have the ability to call you and tell you I'm sorry for putting up with people who don't deserve a place in my life, regardless of what kind of friend they were in the beginning. You raised me and tried so hard to make sure I loved myself, and you always seemed proud of me for surrounding myself with people who love me, too. You would have been disappointed in the situation, and you probably would have had some choice words to describe someone who was hurting me.

But there's also a part of me that wants to tell you I get it. I get that there are some people we will always have a soft spot for, even if the rest of the world doesn't understand or relate. I want to go back in time and be more supportive to you through the choices you made, because I now have a deeper understanding. It sure as hell doesn't make the decision to let people treat you like crap when they feel like it any less wrong, but it makes me understand why it wasn't so easy for you to just walk away. You always seemed to take my advice to heart, and as I got older, our mother-daughter walks through park forest or along edgewater drive became adult discussions, in which you'd open up to me more and more as though I was just one of your friends that you were venting to while you were trying to figure it all out. I'd give you my input, but it was never backed up by experience, because at that point, all my friends were awesome. :)

I miss those walks. I miss the fact that you would almost always call or email me and tell me how much you appreciated my thoughts and feedback, how you were really taking them to heart, and how you didn't know how I became so wise but you sure were proud of me for it. My recent situation could have given us material to walk for miles, mom.

But don't worry, I'm not walking alone. For the one disappointing friendship I have to let go of, I have SO many rewarding friendships to make up for it.  

So many people to make me laugh, so many people to support me, and so many people to put things into perspective. 

Because if anyone should remember that life is too short to surround yourself with people who bring you down, it's the people who have had to watch it slip away from someone that should have been able to hold onto it a lot longer.

"It Takes a Village..."

"it takes a village to raise a child."

The last Mother's Day before you got sick, you sent Neal and me a message, containing that quote, asking us to pass it along to our "other mothers" and people who contributed to and looked out for our well-being.

You were always so thankful for the people who looked out for us, taught us, and even gave us some tough love when we needed it. You were so proud to be our mom, but you recognized the importance of all the other people who have loved and protected us through the years.

Yesterday was Courtney's graduation. Your sweet baby niece has evolved into a sweet young lady who didn't once even trip while wearing heals and walking away from that stage (I'd be lying if I said I'm not a little disappointed.) As we listened to the different speakers talk about their evolution through the years in that school district, I couldn't help but think what your thoughts would have been regarding all of them. You probably would have laughed with me and Neal as we made fun of one of the speakers, whose voice was one of the most annoying sounds I have ever heard. You would have loved the girl who came out from behind the podium, put a baseball cap on sideways, and proceeded to do a very impressive rap song, with the lyrics changed specifically for her soon-to-be alma mater. You would have enjoyed the mash-up of popular songs, and you no doubt would have been crying throughout the entire ceremony. 

These events are strange without you there with us, but when I look around me, I see all these people who helped to make up our village. All these people who were there with you and with us through it all, and all these people who still remain.

Major life events--especially graduations--are a great reminder that, while nothing can compare to the role a parent plays in our development, so many others also contribute to the people we become.

I had the opportunity over the past week to catch up with a few of the people who play or have played a starring role at one time or another in the village that built me, some of whom may not have even realized their significance. I am so thankful for all these people. They are all priceless.

While you were undoubtedly part of the village that raised Cork and all the other nieces and nephew that you absolutely adored, you would be so proud of the person she's grown into over the past few years. She's smart (...except when she's saying dumb things), funny, beautiful, and kind-hearted (except when she's being an ass.)

You will be missed as we celebrate this milestone together through the weekend and all the others to come, but have no doubt, you are there with us in spirit and in our hearts.

(P.S--Cork, just kidding about all the things in parentheses)

"Deer Sign!"

I had 2 major fears as a child: nuns, and deer.

Sadly, I can explain the second better than the first. I actually have no idea what contributed to my first fear, but I can vaguely remember the second.

It all started innocently enough. Allison and I would play the deer sign game (which basically involved yelling "deer sign!" when we would pass a yellow deer crossing sign in the car. Creative, we were) and you would often take us to go visit the deer at North Park.

But somewhere, along the way, i became terrified of these seemingly gentle animals. Was it because I suffered a traumatizing deer attack as a child? 

Not even close.

It was because you would get SO DAMN excited at the sight of deer grazing along a green hillside that you would so audibly express your enthusiasm to a point that it startled me.

Other than your frequent outbursts over those majestic creatures, I really had no reason to fear the deer. After all, the first stuffed animal I ever had the pleasure of owning as a child? Baby Deer. (Deer and creativity were clearly two recurring themes throughout my childhood.)

As I grew older, my deer fear began to subside, so much that one day while visiting Cha's farm, we spotted a deer, still as could be in the distance. We approached it slowly as not to startle it and whispered to each other that we should try to get a closer look. I was determined to be brave, so I agreed and tiptoed a few steps closer, then a few more. This continued for approximately an hour until we discovered that the deer we were trying to be ever so stealth in sneaking up on was actually a target that uncle Juice used for hunting. Lesson learned and blonde moment (or freaking HOUR) accepted.

Deer re-emerged as a theme right when you were diagnosed. It was during those dreadful 10 days between your biopsy and learning the results that we literally caught two deer, right in front of your car, in headlights. Neal immediately said "that's a sign." We spent 10 days trying to bargain with the big guy upstairs, asking to please let this brain tumor be something that will just go away, something that doesn't start with a C. Despite what we thought could be a literal "deer sign," Neal and I slept on the pull-out couch with you in Aunt Lirda's dining room, with you sandwiched in the middle. We held you close and squeezed your hands for one last night while we were still your babies and you were our momma, before we had to grow up and gradually begin role reversal that would last a year. We ended that year in the same exact room, holding you close, squeezing your hands, and saying our last goodbyes.

The night of your memorial service, after everyone else left and the celebration in your honor was over, all the cousins and aunts and uncles took a flower from the various centrepieces to throw into the creek that ran through North Park, one of your favorite places. We each threw our flowers in the stream, told you we loved you, and stayed silent for a while as we watched them start to float downstream. It was quiet and still, and as we all walked back to the building, standing in the field not far away were 2 deer. Neal and I smiled at each other. 

"That's mom."

This week will likely have some difficult moments, as we sort through your things and figure out what to keep and what can be let go of. Your things are all here as though you never left us, your worn out sneakers (despite many attempts, you were God awful at buying shoes for yourself) and a desk full of old drivers licenses, pictures, other keepsakes and notes stashed away from Neal and me, written to you (or "Santa") years ago. 

Despite the sad finality of it all and memories of your last weeks here that are starting to flood back into my mind, I know it'll be okay. 

...because I saw the deer (all of them) grazing along the hillsides on our way back home. 

We also saw the bear, running across the highway. I'm not sure what that was a sign for, but I know you whined and carried on about how you wanted to see a bear too when dad and I saw one crossing the median while making the same drive years ago. Well played, mom. Well played. 

Peace, Love and Raffi

I was driving to work yesterday and I found myself sporting that peaceful smile that often crossed your lips when you were just taking in all the good things around you. 

It would be really easy to find things in my world that would easily wipe that smile off my face, the biggest of all being your absence. But other than the fact that these past 2 years have dealt their fair share of heartache and pain, when I look around me, I still see a lot to be thankful for.

I see these people, the ones who played large and small roles in my coping with your cancer and preparing for the rest of my life without you. All these people matter so much. From those who simply expressed how sorry they were and that they were there for me if I needed them, to those who cried next to me behind a wooden gate and took turns paddling, because we were rowing the same boat. (This is an exaggeration...I don't really row. I'm a lady.)

I think about this place that's taught me and changed me and helped me grow from a TS adult to a FT adult. You were so thankful for this place, all the lessons it threw my way, and the people who made it up. I was in this place when I got that first call. I can still feel my body going numb and the tears welling up in my eyes as the walls started closing in around me after you blurted out that sentence that would change our lives forever: "I have a brain tumor." But then I think about all those people in this place who loved me and supported me through it all. Who asked about you and appreciated your strength and charisma and goofy little quirks from afar. All those people who would have made you so happy, knowing they were looking out for your "little" girl. 

I wasn't going to stay in this place with these people, though. I was going to leave it all to spend every second of your last year with you, knowing that, "on a bell curve", a year was about all we had left. But you refused to let me throw it all away, and you refused to let me sit at home and watch you fight a losing battle. You told me I had to go back, because the idea of me sitting around watching you go through treatment "doesn't sound fun for anybody." You and dad asked me what would happen once it was all over and done; when I had left all that I had worked for in this place, to go home and watch you fade away to nothing. Once you were gone, then what? And so I listened. It wasn't the first time I watched you and dad both put me and Neal first. Your marriage may have ended years and years ago, but "in sickness and in health" was something you held onto through the friendship that followed your divorce, and for the kids that you proved time and time again that you both love so much; enough to send them back to their lives that they've created far away from you, regardless of how much you missed them, and enough to spend a month or a year taking care of eachother so they could continue on their paths, whether it was "your responsibility" or not. 

In retrospect, that peaceful smile all traces back to the things you gave me and the choices you helped me (or kicked me in the a**) to make. Even though I miss you like crazy and wish you were still here with me, I know you are still leading me in the right direction, even if I don't see the signs clearly for myself at first.

Every time I hear raffi belting out "Baby Beluga," I know I'm in the right place, exactly where you want me to be. 

Turns out, mother (and father) really does know best.

Fearless

If someone would have told me two years ago that by the time I turned 29, you would be gone but I would still somehow be waking up every morning with a heart full of so much gratitude for a life from which cancer had stolen you, I never would have believed it.

Any of it.

Because you were supposed to be here forever. The body and mind you had worked so hard to keep healthy and strong couldn't possibly deteriorate in one year's time. People always told you, "you're one of those people who is going to live to be a hundred." Because as other people your age started to experience health problems that resulted in having to pop a variety of pills every day, there you were...speed walking on your lunch break, eating whatever the heck you wanted, but "in moderation." I never quite realized it until recently, but I always saw you as unbreakable. 

You "broke" at 2:10 pm on a cloudy Monday. Cancer wore your body down, and it creeped into the brain that had always been so sharp, stealing years and years worth of sweet memories that you always held so close to your heart. We watched your body change, we saw your hair fall out, we smiled sadly as your memory progressively faded with each passing day. But that heart and spirit of yours? Never once did they even crack.

A few weeks before you took your last breath, I laid next to you and asked you if you were scared. Immediately and without hesitation, you said "no." I asked if you'd ever been scared, and you thought for a second before saying "no, I don't think so." I told you, as I had done every day during your last month or so, that when you got too tired, you could let go. Because Neal and I would be okay. I thanked you for showing us how to be strong. 

I forgot, however, to thank you for being fearless. There are so many words I could use to describe you, but if I had to choose just one, that would be it. I can't remember a single time in my life when you ever showed an ounce of fear. While you were "spiritual but not religious," I think your belief in a higher power was stronger than you ever really displayed for the world to see. You were always gracious; always thankful for your mini (and sometimes major) miracles. You may have driven us all absolutely insane with your constant need to give us 378 choices when trying to make a decision, plan a family gathering, or make us something to eat...but in the grand scheme of things, you were so at peace with life.

I constantly think about how awful it would have been to have ever thought you were scared. You fought what almost always ultimately ends up being a losing battle so hard, and you did it with a smile on your face. 

Thank you for showing us how to be fearless, strong, and unbreakable until your very last breath.

The Dreaded Year of Firsts

For the first time in my life, my flight will land in Pennsylvania and you won't be there to greet me. 

The year of firsts. Everyone warned me, but there's simply no avoiding the feeling in the pit of my stomach when I can't push reality as far back in my mind as it will go anymore. 

You had to leave us at the end of September, and then came Halloween (your favorite holiday, and you'd almost always dress up as a gypsy.) Then came all the other winter holidays that I don't remember even breathing through until I found myself almost blinded by my own tears while driving home on Christmas Eve. It was the overwhelming thought that this was only the first of many holidays without you that sent me over the emotional edge. 

Then came April. The second wave of everything at once. Your first birthday without you here, and exactly one week later, my first birthday without you here. No butchered "happy birthday" song shortly after midnight at the exact minute that I was born. No "I love you, Noella Bella!" from the other end of the phone. No upcoming plans to celebrate our birthdays together, the way it's supposed to be and the way it's always been. You were supposed to have more birthdays, dammit! 

But when all the emotions are pouring out, I know you can hear me. I know you are there with me, and I know you know how much I miss and love you. Sometimes, I feel like I'm not sad enough for it being the first year without you. I feel like people don't realize how much I really really love you and how much I miss you every second of every day because the way I have reacted to losing you isn't what people expect, especially not me. 

I remember being serious abou kind of really wanting the world to end in December 2012. I remember telling people I could not imagine living in this world without my parents, and some day, they would have to leave. When you were diagnosed 8 months later, I felt like I had jinxed you and jinxed myself. This could not all be real. Walking out of the Hilman center that day, I couldn't imagine how I would get through it; how we would go on without you. But you didn't give us the option to dwell on it. You told us it would be okay, and you told us you were sorry it had to be this way. You were the one who just found out YOU had terminal cancer, and there you were telling US you were sorry. ("Classic Jazazzle" :)) You reminded us of the importance of living every day because you could have 1 year left on this earth or you could have 10, but a day wasted being sad is a day you will never get back. You told us you would just have to spend the next year showing us and telling us, every second of every day, how much you love us so we could remember it long after you were gone.

And that was the key to it all. There weren't any doubts. There were no huge unanswered questions. We told you how much we love you, we thanked you for everything you did to make us who we are, and we promised we would be okay. And somehow, despite the year of firsts, we really are. And it's all because of you.

Though I have my moments and my breakdowns, somehow i wake up every day and it never feels like you are too far away. I know you must visit me in my dreams, and I know it has to be you that brings me a sense of peace every morning when I wake up, knowing you are in a better place and knowing how lucky I am to have had you for 28 years. 

I will miss hugging you when I step off the plane, but I won't miss the confusion in your face or that feeling in my heart as I saw the result of what cancer and chemo and radiation had done to your brain and your spunk. Every time I came home, I couldn't deny that you had slipped further away into an adorable, child-like shell of the strong, vibrant, independent woman who raised me. I smile about the funny memories we had with that goofy little character that cancer had somehow so gracefully turned you into, but I remember the person you really were, and I have no doubt that you are that person once again.

Cancer-free, worry-free, and most likely still clumsy as all hell.

I love you and I miss you. Thank you for loving me through the year of firsts. Please be there for Taylor this weekend as she tries to cope with the reality of turning 35 and deals with the smartass comments I most likely will be unable to hold back, and please help her to understand why I can no longer hang out with her because I don't associate with 35 year-olds.

"And when you realize love is all that matters after all, it sure makes everything else seem so small."

Six months ago shortly after 2 pm, nine of us stood around your bed as your heart stopped beating and you took your last breath.

I am one of only two people on this earth who got to hear that heartbeat from the inside, but I am one of many people who knew what that heart was beating for. At the end of the day, it all came down to one simple yet complex thing: love.

Love made your wheels turn. It kept you going when things got tough. It tore you to pieces and it put you back together before tearing you to pieces all over again. It fueled your fire, and it gave you purpose, and it made you feel lucky to wake up each day.

Your love for Neal and me made us strong enough to lose you and somehow keep pushing forward. As much as it hurts, and as crappy as it is, we have now survived 6 months without the only woman who knew how to make our heartbreaks hurt a little less...you loved us so much while you were here with us, that it is somehow enough to sustain the pain of being without you.

Through loving us, you also set an example for how to love others; unconditionally, even when people may not deserve it, and never ever doing things out of love with the expectation that you will get something in return.

Your love and appreciation for the world and the people in it was what made you see the need and importance of letting go of grudges and baggage that weigh you down. You were simplistic; most of the time, you wore that blue dress with the fish on it. You traveled light, you didn't harbor negative feelings toward people who may have hurt you more than you ever deserved, and you were apologetic when you hurt someone else. You weren't perfect, but I don't think you ever realized how close you came to it in my eyes.

When I meet people who knew you and loved you (because they were pretty much mutually exclusive), they always tell me how much I look like you. This makes my heart melt, but it also makes me realize that it's equally important for me to act like you. Not that I mind for a second being told that I have been blessed with even a portion of your good looks, but I will try my very best to work toward hearing "you have your mom's spirit" instead. 

In addition to being the most important thing in your life, love is also what's gotten me to today. The love I've been shown by the people who have provided me with support each step of the way, and the love I feel for them in return is what makes me want to get out of bed in the morning. It's what reminds me that your spirit is still here, even 6 months after you are gone. And it will be here forever, because cancer may be a thief in so many horrible ways, but it couldn't touch your spirit. I will try so hard to show people what it was like to be loved by you by trying to love them in a similar way. I will try so hard to stay focused on love, and to forget all the rest. Because at the end of your days, the rest didn't matter. The people who loved you and were there for us all were and are what matters.

You left behind a world of people who miss you like crazy, but who have been so lucky to know what it's like to have been loved by you. 

Thank you for loving me; no matter what, even when I didn't deserve it, and even when you didn't get anything in return besides a pretzel to the eye or a broken car windshield.

I love you and I miss you. Thank you for seeing me through the last 6 months. 

Once Upon a Time...

I've spent some time recently questioning some people's places in my story. If I would have written them out a few chapters ago, how would the story be different? Would I be better off, or worse? I know you would have been able to relate to me on this, because of some of the characters in your own story; the story of Jazazzle, the Strongest and Most Amazing Mom on the Planet.

But then, I find myself thinking about all those people who had minimal appearances in our stories, but who we will remember forever because their place and timing was crucial to the plot.

Neal and I will never forget Jocelyn, the nurse from UPMC who took such good care of you. She was only a part of the story for your 5 day stay at Presby after your initial brain tumor diagnosis, but she marked the beginning of our appreciation for the nurses and doctors in charge of your care. She pulled Neal and me aside at one point and told us how good we were with you. We weren't treating you differently and while it was important to us that you were being taken care of, we didn't cut you any slack and still lightly made fun of you, as we always did together, as though nothing was wrong. At that point, you were still so aware with the exception of little memory lapses here and there. I will never forget her asking us in the hallway outside your room if we were scared, to which we both agreed we were, but that you had such a great attitude and we were trying to do the same.

I don't even know the name of the woman at the Hilman Cancer Center who sat behind the desk the day of your follow-up appointment, but she was so friendly and hilarious and put our minds at ease, if only for a few minutes, to joke around with us. That day, we'd find out the results of your biopsy, and life as we knew it (and hoped it would continue to be) was over. We walked into that room as the children of a relatively healthy, positive and energetic mom who just happened to have a brain tumor, and walked out of it as a family coping with terminal cancer.

We met Dr. Drappatz the same day, and his attitude aligned closely with yours. He wanted to treat it as a "chronic illness" and not something that was a life sentence. He was optimistic, and he wasn't giving up on you. I will always remember his smile and his demeanor during that first appointment, and I will always remember his face on your last appointment. Genuine disappointment and sadness. He talked to you and not about you, and he told you the chemo was no longer working and that the tumor had grown and crossed into the part of your brain that would start to affect your motor skills and speech. You told him, "I didn't realize we were already at this point." He told us our options, and he told us the outlook. He gave you 6 months, but you only stayed for 2.

Then there was Susan, the nurse who came to care for you at dad's house in State College. Susan was honest with us, and wonderful with you. She'd ask you to do things, and you'd tell her "you're the boss!" To which she'd always respond, "no, my friend, you are the boss." I will always remember the day Susan told me "suck it up, buttercup, and put on your big girl pants" when I was complaining about how cold it felt to me outside.

Then came Good Sumaritan Hospice in Pittsburgh, where Aunt Lirda and the Godfather were kind enough to let us all stay in their house so family and friends could come see you and ultimately, say their goodbyes. The nurses were once again wonderful with you, but we sure did love Gretchen and her leopard print clogs. She, too, was careful not to talk about you when you were in the room, and she'd always take us to the living room to talk about what we could expect. She told us "I never worry about Julie when I'm not here because you guys are taking such good care of her." Most of that credit should go to Aunt Lirda, Aunt Threse, and that incredible baby boy of yours that I get to call my brother. Although he assures me he will never be willing to do half the things for me that he did for you, nothing phased him. He fed you and changed you and rarely left your side for long periods of time, and illustrated so perfectly the bond between a boy and his mother. Gretchen was the person whose face confirmed that you were getting ready to leave us that Sunday when she took one look at you and your purple knees. She gathered us all in the living room and gently explained to us what to expect in the next 48 hours. She was the person who came to the house the very next day when you had passed and told us how sorry she was. We thanked her for everything and said goodbye, because her part in our story was over.

And finally, there's Beth. I haven't dealt with any other funeral directors and hope not to for a long time, but I like to think no matter what, Beth would still be our favorite. We met with her the day after you had passed, and she was so nice and probably had absolutely no idea what she was about to be getting herself into. Neal and Beth had a very close phone friendship for over a week regarding your obituary and some other shenanigans that Beth handled with so much humor, sensitivity and professionalism. I can't imagine many 20-something's who have just lost their mother finding such enjoyment from and appreciation for the funeral director handling such affairs.

All of these little anecdotes and so many others that aren't coming to mind right now are such sweet reminders of the importance of every single character in the story. Over the last year, some of my characters may have turned out differently than the story had painted them out to be in the beginning. The last year and a half has certainly dealt its fair share of pain and character twists to me and to my family, but it's also been full of a lot of really great people.

To all those that have made their mark in our stories and on our hearts, even those that may not have turned out to be the best of characters for my story in particular, thank you for the part you played. It wouldn't be the same without you.

I'm Already There

Last night, as I was getting in my car to leave work, I found myself missing you more than I do in a typical day. The last few weeks have provided unquestionable signs from you that have exposed the true colors of people you are likely trying to steer me away from, but also have reminded me of the support system I am so lucky to have. I find myself going through the motions and wanting to pick up the phone and call you, only to be punched in the stomach with the realization that this is no longer possible.

I looked up at the moon, flipped on the radio, and was reminded that you are always with me. The song "I'm Already There" came on, just at this line:

I'm already there
Don't make a sound
I'm the beat in your heart
I'm the moonlight shining down
I'm the whisper in the wind
And I'll be there until the end
Can you feel the love that we share
Oh I'm already there.

The lyrics alone would have been proof that you were with me at that very moment, but the song itself has meaning beyond that. I remember you telling me years ago that the song always struck a chord with you, because you wanted Neal and me to know that you were always with us, even when we were spending holidays or family vacations apart.

It's comforting that these memories that seemed to be so far in the back of my mind continue to resurface over time. It's nice to be reminded of healthier times, and that you have loved us so much all along. I've told people before that sometimes I wonder if you always knew your time with us would be limited, because it's almost like you were preparing us early on for these days without you. I will never question that you loved us with your whole entire heart, or that you were proud of us, because you told us and you showed us with everything that you had.

Thank you for being there with me last night, and always. I will keep my eyes and ears open to your signs, and I will never forget how much you love me.

...And you heard me and Neal correctly. We said "Diabetes."

"Those who are nurtured best survive best."

You took so many pieces of so many people's hearts with you the day you left us. This is the first time I've ever known what the the world is like without you, but I can only imagine how much better a place it is than before you were a part of it.

One of the things that meant the most to you in this world was the people around you, and the relationships you formed with them. While none of us will ever be the same without the pieces of our hearts that you carried with you, Neal and I are also so lucky that you left behind parts of you from all different stages and elements of your life, from your siblings and childhood best friend, to your wonderful friends that you made along the way up until the very end.

I've been thinking about you a lot as I examine my own relationships, and the company I've chosen to surround myself with. So many of them have surprised me in the best ways ever when I am reminded of how they love me, unconditionally for me, and only want what's best for me and to see me happy and content in a life that they know is so very difficult without you in it. I feel like every time I am shown this unconditional love, it is like a sign from you that even though you can't be there with me and for me through my successes and struggles, you are reminding me that I'm okay; I'm well taken care of, and even though you may not be able to fix my heart when it is broken or remind me of the things I deserve and the things that you want for me, you are watching over me and leading me to all the people who can.

You used to always tell me how much my own friendships and the way I've always tried so hard to maintain them was a quality of which you were envious. You never felt like you picked up the phone to call people enough, or stayed in touch enough, or made the effort that the people you loved so much deserved from you. I can tell you with great certainty that none of those people have any doubts today how much you loved them, so I don't think you ever gave yourself enough credit.

I feel you with me those mornings when I wake up and finally just allow the pain to wash over me and the tears to fall as they may. I feel you with me as I make it through my day with a sense of peace in my heart in knowing I am finally just taking it as it comes, one day at a time, and dealing with how much it hurts. In letting it all out when it reaches the surface, it has in turn allowed me to acknowledge it and then go on with my day; to focus on all the good things you are bringing into my life and all the lessons you are already teaching me, and to try not to fret too much on the bad and learn as much as I can from that as well.

I miss you and I love you. Thank you for watching over me.

But seriously, a payday or M&M every once in a while would be nice, too...a deal's a deal, after all.