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.