Somewhere in my memory Christmas joys all around me Living in my memory All of the music, all of the magic All of the family, home here with me

Somehow, the holidays are once again upon us.

I find it harder to breathe during this time of year, and not just due to the Florida humidity. 

So many memories of you both from this time of year play over and over again in my mind.

Mom: I remember begging you to put up lights and Christmas decorations as early as it was socially acceptable. You'd pick up every "Noel" decoration you could justify spending money on when it was marked down on clearance (usually after the holiday was over--that was where your good bargains always happened and you made sure to share that with the world.) When rope lights became mainstream and I came up with the brilliant idea to deck the hill in our front lawn at dad's with "Noelle" written across it, dad just rolled his eyes...but mom, you thought it was just an expression of my creative side.

Your favorite version of "my" song was Josh Groban's, and you'd cry when he hit the high notes. But then again, you would also cry during a good firework display, so those tear ducts were often working overtime anyway. 

You loved Christmas; not for the presents or the material things (especially those not found on a clearance rack), but because you loved your family and you loved all of us being together and just enjoying the company of one another. I can still hear you and Aunt Threse singing and dancing along to "Sisters" from White Christmas--your favorite movie of the season, but While You Were Sleeping, It's A Wonderful Life and a Christmas Story were also near and dear to your heart.

Dad, you were always more subdued about your love for Christmas. You often talked about how you were waiting for them to roll out a hologram tree so you didn't have to do any of the pain in the butt decorative work. But every year, you humored me by putting up icicle lights along the roof of our house while I'd stand by and probably not do half the work I had promised.

I remember stringing popcorn to wrap around the tree and making paper chains together when I was a kid, before cuddling up in your lazy boy with you and falling asleep watching China Beach. I remember how you always tried to spoil me with whatever it was that landed on my Christmas list any given year. One year, in true English major fashion, you and mom told me if I could write a convincing theme like Ralphy did in A Christmas Story, you would consider getting me the puppy I had been begging you both for. Either my theme was convincing or you had already planned on getting me the pup anyway, but a few weeks later we were taking a trip to the local SPCA to pick out my puppy. 

Every Christmas Eve, no matter how old we were and up until just last year, you'd tell us Santa had dropped off our pajamas. When we were kids, it was after our Polish Christmas Eve traditions with your family, with the 7 fish and the Oplatek. And as we got older, it was after we spent time with Aunt Leslie and her family. You could only ever handle the smell of her delicious fried food concoctions for so long, but you really loved the people who had become a part of mom's extended family just as much as mom did.

Though our traditions changed throughout the years, especially as we got older (I still remember you and Neal coming to SeaWorld a few years ago to see all the shows while I closed--I'm so glad you had a chance to experience that.) you held firm to two very important traditions: the aforementioned Christmas Eve Pajamas, and finding Aunt Laura the ugliest ornament on the shelves each year. That tradition started one year when you came home with a (discounted) Pier One ornament and said you had decided Aunt Laura would be absolutely appalled at such a creation, so you would have to bring it to the Reitmeyer Christmas party. It started a tradition that you absolutely loved and left Aunt Laura just speechless each and every year.

You both always spoiled me with more than I'm sure I deserved at times. All you ever wanted was to make not just the holidays, but the world bright for Neal and for me. All these years later, I couldn't tell you what I got every year or why I even wanted it. But I can describe in detail the feelings and the memories surrounding this time of year, and they will live on in me forever. When the air seems a little heavier and I'm missing you both, I will cling to those memories and I will hold them tight. Thank you for giving them to me, they are one of my most cherished possessions.

Stories from my dad's service

Bozo the Clown

Dear mom and dad,

Time just keeps flying by. Sometimes, I find myself stopping in my tracks, pinching myself ever so lightly as not to leave a mark or cause bruising, and wondering if this is really my life. 

And yet other times, it's hard to believe you weren't just here with us. Hard to believe that everything that happened in 3 short years was real. Hard to believe I haven't always been the person I am today, the one who's been broken and tested and somehow still learned to stay standing. 

Sometimes I feel like one of those inflatable punching bags, right down to the bozo the clown exterior with the painted-on smile. Sometimes I feel like the world just kept swinging at me, and no matter how hard the blow or how much it looked like it might knock me down for good, I somehow have inside me a weighted base that makes it possible for me to continually spring back up, again and again. 

That base in the bottom of my punching bag was built by the two of you. Every little act of love you threw my way...every time you encouraged me to come to a conclusion on my own, but still instilled in me the knowledge and peace of mind that you would always have my back; every time you built me back up when the world around me had made me feel small; every time you reminded me of my potential; every time you tickled my back or stroked my hair as I buried my head in your chest to get one of your big bear hugs; every time you laughed at my smartass jokes or cried with me as our worlds came crashing down...all of that and so much more has somehow accumulated and, when adhered together, is apparently heavy enough and sturdy enough to sustain the two worst blows I could have imagined.

Getting through the big stuff has sometimes proven more seemless than expected, while the little things hit me hard and from out of nowhere. It's those moments when I pick up the phone to call dad and ask him for his logical, sound advice on something, or when I'm laying on the floor with Radar and he puts his paw around me like he knows how much I needed him and that I'm still hurting because I miss you two more than I could put into words. It's the moments when I suddenly become aware of how much someone reminds me of one of you or when I see an elderly person hobbling along and realize watching my parents age to that extent won't be something I'll ever have the heart-wrenching privilege of experiencing. It's those moments when horrible things are happening in this world and I can't even pretend anymore that you two will forever be able to protect me from it or somehow make it okay. 

I'm not claiming to be some larger-than-life hero with superhuman strength or to have accomplished some great feat. I'm not a warrior who's going up against brain cancer or trying to solve world hunger or finding a cure for disease. But I'm stronger than I had ever imagined I could be. If I'm able to get out of bed with the knowledge that I will spend the rest of my time on this planet without my two biggest cheerleaders and lay down at night with the comfort of knowing that I've spent another day being the kind of person who would make you both proud, then I'm doing pretty okay by my own personal standards. 

I know time won't likely stop flying. All I can hope is that I can continue to just keep up.

Letting Go

Two years ago today, I came home from the Crawl for Cancer bar tour, climbed into your hospital bed with you and told you goodnight. 

I had been telling you for weeks at that point, every night before I'd kiss your cheek and go to bed, that you could let go when you were ready. That night, you listened. And now, two years later, I understand why. While it took your body another 2 days to finally shut down, YOU left us 2 years ago tonight. 

Unbeknownst to the rest of us, after everyone else went to bed that night, your baby boy sat beside your bed and finally gave you permission to let go. I had told him weeks before that I was planning to tell you it was okay to go when you needed to, and I gently encouraged him to do the same. Aunt Mardie reminded me on the phone with her, about a month before you passed and when your body quickly stopped working the way it had been just days before, that you would hold on for both of us forever if you could, but especially for that baby boy of yours. When I told him about the conversation, he said he just wasn't ready to do that. So I never brought it up again.

I remember talking to dad later that same day, after my conversation with Neal, and he broke down and told me he'd be okay if you left that very day, because he just couldn't watch you like that anymore. Dad reminded me throughout your illness and after your passing the importance of respecting everyone's individual right to grieve the way they need to. If Neal wasn't ready to let you go yet, I needed to respect that. And it's not that either of us were ever ready to let you go...let EITHER of you go. But after years of the two of you doing what was best for us regardless of how much it hurt you, I knew we had to do the same. And what was best for you at that point, when cancer had taken over your whole body and you could barely move, was to set you free.

Neal told me not long ago that he didn't have that talk with you until that last weekend. He said he just wasn't ready before then. We've talked a little bit about your last year, and he asked me recently if I thought you even going through treatment at all was the right decision, or if we pushed you to make that choice because we weren't ready to lose you.

I believe you would have done anything to be with us as long as possible; even if it meant putting poison in your body to fight off cancer cells, even if it meant radiation, even if it meant MRIs every few months despite your extreme claustrophobia, and even if it meant 3 hour infusions. Even if it meant your quality of life declined steadily over the course of a year, and rapidly in the last 2 months. 

Thank you for doing all that you did...for being uncomfortable the way you were in the end, for laying in that bed for all those days...until we were "ready" to let you go.

Facebook and other important topics

I have a love-hate relationship with Facebook right now, as it is kind enough to remind me where we were 2 years ago at this time. How difficult everything was, and how uncomfortable and sick you were.

Ironically, the prior year at this time, we were all just wrapping our hands around your diagnosis, and you took the lead on choosing positivity. Choosing to wake up every day and feel blessed instead of asking "why me?" Choosing to spend every day leading up to your death living instead of dying. Choosing to feel lucky instead of cursed.

I remembered the other day, as an unusually but welcomed cool (ish) breeze swept through the Florida air, that you would have likely described it as "heavenly." It dawned on me that you used that description a lot. I can remember walking through Park Forest with you, as you'd look up to the sky and close your eyes (only long enough so you wouldn't walk into a tree or some other inanimate object) and say "this fresh air is heavenly." I can remember you describing the sun shining on your face the same way. 

I guess that's why I knew you were telling the truth and not just trying not to make me feel okay about it when you told me you weren't scared; and that you never really were. I believe you were scared for us. Scared about us not following our dreams and scared we'd get stuck missing you too much. Scared we would forget what you told us about how important it was for us to carry on, even though you wouldn't be here with us. 

But how could you be scared when you were so sure of what it was like up there? How could you be scared when you already described things down here as you imagined they are up there? 

You never told me what to believe or who to believe in. You never forced religion on me and you never tried to make me see the world as you saw it. All you ever did was showed me how to believe in something. To this day, I'm not exactly sure what it was you believed in or what religion you would have been "classified" as. In fact, you always described yourself as "spiritual but not religious." Your moral compass did not revolve around anything you learned in church or on Sundays. It revolved around treating people with respect and love and making them feel like they were the most important person in the room when you were talking to them.

I can't tell you for sure what or who I believe in, because sometimes it changes from day to day and even hour to hour. But I can tell you that I believe in you, and I believe in Dad, and I have no doubt in my mind that you are both up there watching over me. And really, that's all I need. 

Also, I believe in Santa Claus.

Pieces of you

Dear mom and dad,

I look for remnants of you everywhere I go. 

I find you in the cotton candy clouds and the Florida sunrises and sunsets. I can still hear mom telling me to go outside and look at the moon, because no matter how far apart we were, we could always stare up at the same one. 

I find you on long drives, when you keep me safe from harm and fill my head and heart with happy memories of yesterday. When I can hear dad's voice saying "hi sweetie" (mom, you hated the "sweeties" as much as you hated the "honeys", but dad reserved it just for me) and feel his arms around me. And I can hear mom's laugh, see the way her smile would find its way all the way up to her eyes, especially when she was looking at us. 

I find you in moments with Stormi, when she makes me laugh or fills my heart (even the broken parts) with joy and love...when she reminds me that life goes on, and this is exactly how you would have both wanted me to live it. I find you in small reminders that I didn't just stumble upon her; mom sent her to me. (#jcpn for life.)

I find you in sweet (and sometimes sorrowful) reunions with the people who knew you both well. I find you in stories from your early days ("for Christ's sake, Harry, it's not a f*cking sonogram.") and in nicknames, like Noella Bella, that Aunt Threse keeps alive now that mom cannot. I find you in hugs from the people who are missing you like I am, and who will never let your memories be forgotten.

I find you in my fur-covered heart band-aids. (Mostly the newest addition, since the other 2 veterans are partial to the Hurricane.) I find you when Radar lays his head on me when I'm sad, and when he curls up next to me after a long day. 

I promise you both that I will never stop carrying you along for this ride. I will never stop telling stories about you, even if it feels like some days, they are all the comes out of my mouth. 

I will never stop being proud of where i came from, and I would never change anything about this life, no matter how much I wish all of you, and not just the remnants of you, were both still here next to me. 

Signs

Since losing you, mom, and even leading up to that, I have always believed in signs.

Signs that the people we love never really go away, and signs that they watch over us always.

The first sign we got from you was when Aunt Mardie landed in Pittsburgh from Las Vegas, opened her suitcase, and found a penny smack dab in the middle of her suitcase, perfectly placed on top of her leather jacket.

I joked that I was VERY specific with you about what signs I would be looking for (paydays and M&Ms) but the truth is, I will gladly take them in any form. 

We found pennies everywhere that week, in the strangest of places. Places we may just never have thought to look before losing you, but places where we needed to find them most. 

Dad, you were always silently aware of my relationship and dynamic with mom toward the very end. I think the fact that you could relate, after losing your own mom, tore you apart. You talked often about how much you always missed her, and how you still talked to her, and how, when people asked how you and your three siblings were so calm and uninterested in fighting over property or money, "she could have left me a million dollars or one dollar; the day she died still hurt like hell."

You knew it was about to hurt like hell, and so I think you tuned in more than you may have before that. It was an unspoken support, and you never drew attention to it. I didn't even know you read this blog until Lirda and the Godfather told me you had called them over to the computer when I wrote one of my entries when the end was drawing near, and said "you have to see this one." Later, you would come out and tell me you read my latest entry and that it was well-written "as always." (I'm not recounting this to pat myself on the back...I just want you to know how much words like those meant, knowing you were an English major.) 

Things I didn't think you even necessarily paid attention to one way or another were subtly pointed out to others. The most notable being when Mary Ann would scratch my back when she sat by mom's bedside and you told her "you should feel really special. She usually only lets her mom do that." The day or so after mom had passed, you and I sat outside on Aunt Linda's front porch. I asked you to scratch my back. I think it threw you off and maybe it broke your heart a little bit, but damn if you didn't give it your all. 

I know you knew about the Paydays and M&Ms. I never even thought to have a similar discussion with you about what types of signs I'd like from you. So when Neal sent me a picture of a green M&M and a green mike and Ike (always your favorite candy, and green was your favorite color) in the middle of the living room floor that couldn't have possibly been there before, I knew it was you, telling us you were safe and next to mom. 

As if I even needed confirmation of my suspicion, Aunt Mardie called both Neal and I a few weeks later and told us about how she spoke to one of her friends in Vegas who had met you and is "in-tune" with subject matter such as this, and she told her "a woman came to take him." Thinking she was referring to the neighbor who came to help him when he told her he wasn't feeling well, she said "that's right, his neighbor came to take him to the hospital but ended up calling an ambulance." She said "No, a woman came to take him home." When she first said the words, I automatically thought: Grandma. But then she told me she mentioned something about a soulmate, and how soulmates aren't always married, and that's when I realized...

It was the other woman whose death hurt you like hell. (I quietly noticed things too, dad. You never once fooled me.)

Never in a million years did I think 2 pieces of candy in the middle of the living room floor would give me such a sense of peace.

Wherever I am, you'll always be more than just a memory.

Dear mom and dad,

This state isn't the same without you.

Pops, this was the first time I came home and losing you was my new reality. You weren't there to greet us when we stepped off the plane, and we didn't get to BS through those windy roads on the way home to State College. 

The last time I had been here, when I first stepped off the plane and placed my feet onto Pennsylvania soil, you were technically still here with us. From there, I was engulfed in conversations with your nurses and doctors and making really tough decisions, followed by funeral arrangements and getting everything in some type of order. I don't think we stopped to breathe until we sat down in the airport waiting to catch a plane back to Orlando. We were surrounded by constant distraction and to-do lists, so I had the luxury of avoidance. The luxury faded as we traveled home, and the numbness almost immediately set in. It's the numbness that has to be there in order to talk openly and matter-of-fact(ly? Sorry, dad...not sure about this one!) about events that have taken my heart and dropped it on the ground like a ceramic plate, causing it to shatter into pieces that scatter, some of which are never again found or recovered in order to try to piece it back together. I'm not sure where they go, all I know is that they're missing.

I knew coming back was important, but I also knew it would hurt like hell. I knew I'd be looking at landmarks and places I used to know that now felt so empty through eyes that were blurred with tears. I knew being in the place I grew up without either of you would turn it into just an old familiar town that doesn't necessarily have a place for me anymore. 

The thing is, there are a lot of things I already knew to expect after losing you, mom. A lot of feelings that I may not have seen coming 2 years ago, but that I now could spot a mile away. The difference was that the year leading up to that September day had given me time to try to prepare for some of it. I made note of events and occasions and holidays that would probably be the last. But this time? Blindsided. I didn't know the last time I drove down any of these hometown streets with you would be the last time. 

Being in State College without you was very much an internal part of the process that I was able to share with and explain to Stormi (who I will once again remind everyone is a freaking Godsend) and friends (who will always remind ME that Stormi is a freaking Godsend) but when we would drive down familiar roads or I would have a flashback to being somewhere with you or mom, it was something that needed to be explained, because I was the only person who experienced it with you.

Pittsburgh, however, was very different. Pittsburgh is filled with people who knew you both well, and who loved you for many, many years. Pittsburgh is where I could hear you, mom, saying "you girls are so bad!" As Joanne and I diligently went above and beyond the call of duty just to make fun of 90s Carrie. Pittsburgh is where I can hear stories that I've never heard before about dad in college or during his younger years, or both of you from our time on Regency. Pittsburgh is where fragments of both of you are still speckled throughout my interactions with family and your friends; whereas state college is made up mostly of past experiences. 

It's still, however, bittersweet to be around people who love you but are missing you just as much as I am. It's like this unspoken sorrow that kills you a little bit inside, but you put on a smile because isn't that what we are supposed to take away from something like this? That life is short and you have to appreciate every day and every person, because neither are promised for us tomorrow? 

But what I learned from watching mom fight something horribly sad head-on and with a gracious attitude is something I try to carry with me wherever I go. I hope I can always be for the people missing you what they are for me: pieces of you that will live on forever. 

I love and miss you both. 

(Also, as I watch the douchecanoe across the airport waiting room scream at his young children and make them do ab exercises as punishment until they are in physical pain, I am reminded how lucky I was to have you two as parents, because you were perfect. I'd take you both over abs of steel any day!)

Please protect the a**hole

Dear mom and dad, 

Please keep Nelson safe.

Since he became a world traveler, I've developed a moderate level of anxiety prior to every trip for which he's left the country.

Now, it's worse than ever.

Today, my baby brother goes back to  Europe to resume his graduate studies, which came to a screeching halt on May 28th when his worst fear came true: something horrible happened to dad and he wasn't there.

Ironically, I watched my little brother become a man parallel to watching mom revert back to a child. A fiercely independent badass and probably his greatest hero for the first 22 years of his life, Neal stepped in and became her crutch and picked her up when she got too weak, spoke sweetly (when he wasn't frustrated as hell) in words she could understand, and read her a bedtime story (that held importance and meaning throughout their entire mother-son relationship) on the day she faded off into her final sleep.

I'm certain you are both proud after watching him take care of so many grown up things that no 25 year old should have to think about after dad's death. At 25, you're supposed to be able to rent a car. Not meet with lawyers to discuss how to pay for death taxes and figure out how to pay off a mortgage and what to do with a vacant house when you are off traveling the world. But he's handled it with stride, and I'm sure all 3 of us are equally thankful for the support he's felt from friends and family as he's continued to be such a responsible and respectable adult.

Neal is usually the first to admit that he can be a real asshole. One of his favorite past times is making fun of me and the greater majority of the decisions I've made in my lifetime. But I've grown rather fond of the asshole, and let's face it...our pack of 4 has now been dwindled down to 2. I need him. And I need him to be safe and happy. 

Please continue to watch over him (as you have been for both of us) and return him safely to the US of A when he's ready. 

I love you both. Thank you for giving me a brother to be my best friend and to be by my side for the very reason that convinced you to bring another child into this world: so I didn't have to be alone after you were both gone. 

Carrying on your legacies

Dear mom and dad,

I like to think I've always had the drive in me to do the right thing and to be at least a semi-decent person. But I realized recently, when someone mentioned you would both be proud of me and Neal for the people we have become, how much more important and meaningful it is for me to embody the values that you both instilled in me now than it ever was before.

We have this incredible support system from so many sources, many of whom knew both of you...so when they constantly flood our hearts with compliments regarding our character through times of grief and difficulty, it holds far more weight than they may realize.

Since the day I became a "motherless daughter", letting people down, disappointing people, or making the wrong decisions has opened up the floodgates for me that always lead back to that September day when my heart broke for the first time. I realized today that it's because when I do something that is less than admirable according to my own standards or when I make a mistake, in my mind, it's not just a representation of the person I am. It's also a representation of the people you were. 

People have told Neal and me that both of your legacies will live on through us. While it's an honor to have been your daughter and to have belonged to both of you, it also comes with a great deal of responsibility. Because while neither of you ever may have recognized it because you were always so busy taking care of us and each other, they are some great big shoes to fill.

If people see strength in me, it's because I saw it in both of you. I never really thought I was capable of what I've been through over the last 3 years. My greatest fear was always losing you both, and here I am. 

If people see a (sometimes inappropriate: #morbidmoments2015) sense of humor in me in almost unbearably sad circumstances, it's because I learned it from you, dad. You told me once, when mom had gotten really bad and she couldn't even remember how old she was anymore, that if we couldn't laugh about it, it would hurt too much and we'd all go crazy. And you reminded me that mom didn't seem to mind and learned to laugh at herself, even if she didn't remember she'd done so 30 seconds later.

If people see a positive attitude during the worst of situations, it's because I learned that from you, mom. The day you found out you had cancer, you told us it didn't matter if you had a day left or 10 years, you'll never get today back if you waste it being sad. I try so hard not to waste my days, and to recognize the rainbow instead of the storm clouds. Because that's what you did. Every (Christmas) day, you woke up and you were happy to be alive, in spite of the fact that you knew you were dying. 

At the end of my time here on this earth, the single most important notion that I want people to walk away with is this: "she must have been raised by two remarkable parents."

Because I was.

May 29th, 2015

Listen, guys...

When I wondered if it would be worse to lose one of you over the course of a year, where we'd have to watch you suffer, or to lose one of you suddenly and in an instant, I didn't actually want to f*cking know (that was for you, pops.)

That Thursday morning started like any other day. I went for a run, having no idea that the world I finally felt like I was adjusting to without my mom was about to be once again turned upside down.

I should have known something was wrong, because on Tuesday, while stormi and I were out shopping, I stopped in my tracks because I smelled my dad. A combination of his aftershave and old spice deodeeant. Nobody was around me, and I thought "something's wrong." But by the time I got to the car where my phone was, I had naively forgotten about it. 

I'm sorry, dad. I should have called, just to hear your voice one more time. 

Thursday morning, I got a call saying you were on an ambulance because you texted the neighbor saying you hadn't been feeling well. Trying to track you down and just find out what was wrong was a process in and of itself. When I finally got ahold of someone who confirmed you were there, I got a false sense of hope when she told me you were awake and alert, just short of breath. "Okay, this is just going to be another scare. Another opportunity for neal and I to gently tell you to get your shit together, because we don't want to be orphans." 

After giving the doctors some time to assess you, I called back. It was then that I was told you were very sick and they were admitting you to the ICU. Medical jargon was thrown around, most of which I didn't understand. Unfortunately, the only topic I had extensive knowledge about was treating GBM. This was a whole new ball game. I booked a flight, talked to some more doctors and gave them permission to sedate you to give your over-working body a break...not knowing I would never again see you conscious and awake. The doctors kept telling me how sick you were, but at that point, I couldn't accept that what they were really saying was that you probably wouldn't make it.

The day of travel was a blur. Neal's incredible friend and my future beard of a SIL went to the hospital and sat with you so you wouldn't be alone. I'm so sorry you were alone up until she got there. I talked to more nurses, who told me "his outlook isn't good." It felt like people were skirting around telling me what I knew deep down in my heart.

As I sat on the flight and pleaded with mom and God and whoever else was listening to please just let you be better, I stopped and started to wonder if I was praying for you or for me. You fought silently for a long time. I don't think you ever got over losing mom, despite how much you'd try to convince us so. You lived alone and your children were living their lives, separate from yours, and I don't believe you'd have wanted it any other way. I started to think maybe it was time for you to not have to fight anymore, and maybe I'd have to learn to be okay with that. 

Once I landed, things had gone from bad to worse. I stepped off the plane and was told "your dad really isn't doing well and the doctors need to speak with you." I asked if it could wait until we got there, but was handed the phone instead. The doctor told me we were now exhausting our resources. X-rays showed you had severe pancreatitis, and your organs were starting to fail from all the pressure in your abdomen. All I heard was "mortality rate of 85%, but the mortality rate is high regardless." And "he could very well bleed to death on the operating table." I barely remember the ride to the hospital, just that the doctors agreed to let me see you first. As I walked through the doors into the ICU, 3 incredible friends greeted me with sad looks on their faces. I'm sorry if I didn't acknowledge any of them, but I barely remember that part. All I remember is walking back into that room and seeing you attached to a dozen tubes and machines. I lost it immediately. I told you I was so sorry it took me so long to get there. I told you neal was on his way. I told you if you couldn't make it through, that I hoped you knew how thankful we were for everything you'd done for us and how much we love you. 

I was told by about 4 people how risky the surgery was and the (un)likelihood of you even surviving it. I contemplated forgoing it because I didn't want Neal to miss out on a chance to say goodbye, before someone kindly reminded me that Neal would want me to do anything to save you. I'm sorry I didn't have more faith in your strength for that procedure. I fully expected the strange surgeon to enter that room with whatever look of sadness he could muster. I expected that when I came into that room and saw all those tubes and machines connected to you, it would be the last time I saw you alive. I grabbed your hand and I thanked you one more time...maybe one last time, for all you had done for us; for all the sacrifices you had made and for how much you loved us. I hope you heard me, but it's okay if you didn't. I like to think you knew all those things without having to be told. 

What seemed like forever and a day later, all those who doubted your strength stepped into the room and told us you had fared better than they expected. They said you were stable and they would continue to monitor you. I went back to our family friends' house and tried to get a few hours of sleep.

I got 2 calls in the middle of the night. One that said you were teetering back and forth between stable and unstable. The nurse asked if I had any questions, and said the odds weren't good. I knew this. I told her my concern was getting my brother home in time. I think I knew it was time for you to go and be with mom and grandma and all the other people you were missing terribly, so my hopes were redirected to Neal and his ability to make peace and find closure. I could no longer protect you and take care of you, it was out of my hands...so protecting my "baby" brother became that much more important. I knew it would soon be just the two of us.

I got another call a few hours later saying you had coded overnight and we were on the last ditch effort. It was only a matter of time, and your body was too tired, and you weren't responding to medications. I got to the hospital and was met by all the people I had sent SOS messages to, asking for company because I couldn't be there alone to receive the news I knew would be coming.

I walked into the room as your blood pressure had started to drop, which meant the last ditch effort was wearing off. I was told you weren't going to make it and the doctor suggested I should just let you go. They asked if I wanted them to do CPR if it came to that. My initial thought was yes...I had to do everything I could to keep you there for Neal. But then I realized, after 30 years of you making selfless decisions for the sake of Neal and me, it was my turn. I told them no CPR. I asked for a priest to read last rights; I knew that was important to you. (5 priests later, and I think you were good to go and totally covered.)

People started trickling in and the last priest who came to do last LAST rights was the priest from your church. I told him about Neal and how I was hoping he'd make it home in time. By the end of his bedside prayer (and song...), he looked at me and said "you know...your brother's on his way home, but maybe dad's on his way home, too."

It was too much to process. All I wanted was to allow my little brother the opportunity to make peace with both of your deaths. I needed him to have closure. I hate that I couldn't protect him from losing you both, because that's what big sisters are supposed to do. So I had to at least try to keep you here until he could see you.

But you had other plans. Within 30 minutes, you were gone. The nurse (who was wonderful) asked us all to step out to see if they could do something with your wound because the pressure in your stomach had started to build again, and you must have been waiting for us to do so. A few minutes after we were asked to leave the room, the nurse stepped out, made eye contact with me, and pulled me into the room to give me a moment. And that was it. At 2:45 on May 29th, my greatest fear (becoming an orphan) had come true. 

Neal made it home a few hours later, and he knew immediately upon seeing our faces. He didn't get to be with you in that hospital room that day, but I think maybe that's how you wanted it. At 25, he's already witnessed more than he ever should have had to. The sight of him crying during mom's last rights flashed back in front of me as yours were being delivered. A 25 year old shouldn't have to see both of their parents die. He shouldn't have to remember you both during your last few moments, when you looked nothing like yourselves. It's bad enough he had to see it once with mom.

I remember you on the phone with him during mom's last appointment with Dr. Drapatz, when we found out her treatment was no longer working and the cancer had spread. I remember you losing it from him losing it on the other end of the phone. It broke your heart to watch ours break the way they did. It's okay that you spared him that. It was important for me to hold your hand and thank you and tell you goodbye, and I wouldn't change being in the room with mom and you both as you took your final breaths. But at the same time, I wouldn't wish it on my little brother. It's a bitter-sweet thing, to see someone in their final moments on earth. On one hand, they're not alone and you get to be there with them. But on the other hand, it will always be the last memory you have of them. And it's okay that Neal's last memory of you was during your skype call, when you were happy and relatively healthy and probably rolling your eyes at what a dufas he is.

Thank you both for parenting us correctly; for loving us so much, and for preparing us to survive without you. 

Goodbye, Daddy-O

When grandma Jeanne passed away, I remember looking at mom in front of us, delivering the most perfect farewell for her mom that I could have ever imagined. I remember the desire that developed inside me that day to pay tribute to you both when you would leave this world behind. I never imagined that day (for both of you) would come less than 5 years later, and less than 2 years apart.

I take more pride in being able to recount some of the most important lessons learned from you both and share them with those who loved you most than I do in any other life accomplishment. Because I never thought it would be possible to stand up in front of people, in the wake of either of your deaths, and be able to complete a sentence without breaking down, let alone an entire speech.

I loved you both more than I could ever properly tell you or show you. I was the kid who refused to sleep at friends houses growing up because I would miss you both too much. I was the teenager who didn't go out with friends and get into trouble, but instead spent most evenings with my mom, watching our favorite shows and laughing and enjoying the company of one another. I was the college student who didn't move out of my dad's house, because (aside from it being cheaper) our father-daughter relationship was perfect and our living situation was fun and laid back. I was the young adult who agreed with my mom that we would not say goodbye as I packed my brand new pontiac vibe and moved to Florida, because I knew it would destroy us both. And I was the daddy's girl who soaked up every second of our 16 hour car ride to Florida before fighting off tears as I hugged him before he left me to be on my own for the first time in my life; a thousand miles away from my home and the only life I'd ever known. And I was the adult who spoke openly about my desire for the world to end in December of whatever year it was supposed to happen, because I couldn't imagine being on this earth without my parents. 

Losing you both was always one of my biggest fears. Yet here I am, facing this world without you both. Dad, you always said the mark of a good parent is to prepare your children to live without you. And here we are.

Thanks for everything, daddy-o...

Less than two years ago, I stood up in front of many of you and tried my best to sum up the most important lessons my mom taught me.

 

Today, I'm here to talk about Phil.

 

Better known as my dad, Phil was one of the most straight forward, hilarious, brutally honest people I've ever known. He never held back his opinion, and it usually involved the F-word a minimum of 3 times. Multiply that by 10 if he'd been drinking.

 

He probably obtained his funny bone from a combination of growing up in a colorful family (2 derelict brothers, an outspoken little sister, and a Polish mother) and the situations he found himself in during his college years as a Fiji.

 

A sense of humor is one of my favorite things my dad taught me. Though my wit will never be as quick as his, my stories will have just as many F-words.

 

My dad taught me to use my head for something other than a hatrack. For years, he reserved the nickname "hatrack woman" for my blonde moments.

 

My dad taught me that popping two ibuprofen before drinking heavily will almost always prevent a hangover.

 

My dad taught me that playing on his opposing trivial pursuit team was a guaranteed loss.

 

My dad taught me to never throw anything away. While cleaning his house, I found 13 hairdryers. Which will perfectly compliment the 3 I have at home.

 

My dad taught me that you can never have too many fans running at once. And even then, it's always good to have a bandana to soak up any excess perspiration.

 

My dad taught me that the only acceptable thing to quit was smoking, even if it takes 40 plus years to accomplish.

 

My dad taught me that friendships and maintaining them is one of the most important things in the world. He taught me that it's not easy, and you have to put a lot of work into them, but it's always worth it...even if it may not have seemed like it the morning of, what the Fiji family refers to as the "Jonestown massacre."

 

My dad taught me what love is through seemingly small things, like Christmas eve pajamas, bringing home fresh donuts every Sunday morning, and picking me up from the bar at 2am. And he taught me what love is through big things...like sitting by my bed every night when I was a kid and listing all the people who loved me as I faded off to sleep, moving me a thousand miles away to Florida, and taking care of my mom through her battle with cancer.

 

My dad taught me that you actually lose money if you have a 20% off coupon at Kohls and don't use it.

 

My dad taught me patience. Whether it was answering the same question 30 times from my mom, or waiting for Aunt Linda to find a 15c coupon at the bottom of her purse, he always showed patience. Except when Neal conveniently forgot his wallet and shoes every time he came home, or when someone would insist that "slippy" was a word in the English language.

 

My dad taught me that just because a marriage may be broken doesn't mean the family bonds it created have to be.

 

My dad taught me that it's still okay to rock a mini-van, even when your children are fully grown.

 

My dad taught me that alka seltzer is the cure to all ailments.

 

My dad taught me the importance of vehicle maintenance. Apparently, it's less than acceptable to go 20,000 miles without a single oil change.

 

My dad taught me that family goes beyond bloodlines. Family is about the people who stick by you through hell and high water. The people who invite you back on vacation year after year, even after your son climbs on the roof of your beach house and nearly gives everyone there a heart attack.

 

My dad taught me that pajama pants are not acceptable attire to wear in public.

 

My dad taught me that happiness for the people he loved mattered to him more than anything else. For Neal and for me, he didn't care what career path we chose, to where we traveled, or with whom we fell in love...as long as we were happy.

 

I never have to wonder if my dad was proud of me or if he loved me, because he showed me every single day. He lives on in Neal, through his quick wit, stubbornness and stunning good looks (in addition to the fact that Neal's wardrobe is made up entirely of my dad's old clothes.) And he lives on in me, through my sheer awesomeness and my ability to keep literally everything I have ever purchased, in case I might need it in the future.

 

Thank you to the many people in this room who contributed to the man and the father that he was for us. Because he was the best.

 

 

 

Reunited

Take good care of him, momma. I'm glad you are together again to subtly annoy the crap out of eachother. I love you both to the moon and back. 

Philip Carlin Obituary

Thanks for being a statistic!

Dear mom,

Thank you and dad for getting a divorce.

I believe I learned more about love from two people who showed it for us and for eachother long after their marriage was over than I ever would have from two people who stayed together because they thought it was the only option.

I'm not saying it was always easy. On you, on dad, or on us. And I'm not saying there weren't times when it was difficult to put all your feelings aside for the sake of Neal and I. I'm not saying there weren't times where you probably wished it would have played out differently; where you wondered "what could I have done differently to change this outcome?"

At the end of the day and at the end of your time here with us, Neal and I witnessed a love story from start to finish. It may have ended as a completely different kind of love than the kind that was there when we first entered this world and this family, but the beginning, end, and all types of love in between were all equally important for us to learn and observe. 

I will always remember the reactions people would give when we tried to explain the dynamic of your relationship..."yeah, my parents are divorced but my dad loaned my mom his van to drive to florida while he (uncomfortably) squeezes into her Sebring convertible." To us, your partnership never ended. Your support for your kids never wavered and it never changed or lessened regardless of the circumstances between the two of you. 

Through my own journey of accepting that I was the product of a relationship that did not work out, I gained character and strength. I am who I am because I am the child of divorced parents, just as I am who I am because I am here on this earth without you. I am stronger, wiser, and hopefully a better person because of all the curveballs life has thrown my way.

I often told people the reason you and I remained so close and didn't have the struggles and issues that so many teenage girls and their moms dealt with was because we didn't live together. Looking back on it now, I'm sorry for breaking your heart. When you gave me the choice of living situations, I chose dad and I never looked back and I never changed it. The last time I lived with you, I was 12 year old. You dropped me off or walked me home every night, and you left to go to your own home. I know that must have hurt, but I also know that was you just showing me yet another kind of love: the kind that puts those you love before yourself, regardless of how much it kills you.

Because of you and dad, I know how to love Stormi in more ways than one. I know how to love her as my better half and absolute love of my life. But I also know how to love her as my best friend. I know how to love her as the mother of our fur children (screw all of you who are judging me right now!) and I'll know how to love her as the mother of our future human children some day (I'm gonna be such a great dad-mom!)..and I know how to love her as just the incredible human being that she is. 

I hope I'll always choose love over anything else; the way you and dad did together, the way you always did, and the way dad continues to do for us now. Thank you for marching to the beat of your own drummer and for doing things your own way, regardless of how others reacted to it. If a handbook were ever written on how to be gracefully and lovingly divorced, there is no doubt in my mind that you and dad would be the authors. 

Happy 61st

Today, you would have been 61 years young. 61 sounds so old, and nothing about you was old. I had a hard time keeping up with you most days, and with each passing year, you proved more and more to people that age is truly just a number.

Birthdays are kind of a sick joke when the person whose birth and years of life you're celebrating are no longer on this earth. And in another way, they're beautiful. Because they celebrate the beginning of something so damn incredible and someone who touched so many lives in what seems now like a fleeting moment in time.

Neal and I speak often about how lucky we were to have you here with us for so long. While every second is immersed in one way or another with feelings of missing you, and while sometimes we have to remind ourselves that we can't just pick up the phone and tell you how much we love you or what's going on in our lives, we are mostly able to find the silver lining in the storm clouds of losing the very person who gave us our own birthdays. 

We are so lucky that we were raised by you and by dad. We are so lucky we have enough wonderful memories with you to drown out the sadness that came with your 59th and final year here. We are so lucky that you instilled in us the notion that attitude is everything, and to always find and recognize the blessings and people we are so lucky to have. We are so lucky you brought us into an extended family who shares so many of these memories and can reminisce with us and remember you as you were at your healthiest. We are so lucky to be a part of you, and to carry on your legacy for the rest of our lives. 

I will never forget the lessons you taught me, whether it was learning to tie my shoes, drive a car or leave this world with a grateful heart. You spent 59 years here teaching us as much as you could, and you've spent the last 2 years up there sending us love and more lessons through the people you've sent our way.

I hope your second birthday up there is as special as you were to all of us. I hope you get to eat an abundance of M&Ms (2 at a time) and speedwalk through the clouds, more than likely naked. I hope you get to show off your token dance move and sport that beautiful smile that shows off your dimple. I hope you get buttered noodles and popcorn to eat (tweat tweat!), and maybe some marshmallow peeps leftover from Easter, but only if they're stale enough.

Most importantly, and in your very own words that you used to repeat to me every day for your last year, I hope you always remember and never forget how much I love you; how much we all love you, and how much you are missed.

Happy 61st Birthday, mommy.

I think we dream so we don’t have to be apart for so long. If we’re in each other’s dreams, we can be together all the time.

Because I sometimes posess the energy level of a 90 year old, I occasionally find myself in bed almost before the sun goes down.

The last few weeks have been even worse than normal, because the high pollen count is kicking my ass. 

My little hurricane, on the other hand, still usually has the energy of a kid, or at least an adult who isn't about to turn 30 (yikes!) with the exception of days after consuming her mom's rum runners. 

A few days ago, after being asleep for quite some time and basically looking like sleeping beauty with a Kleenex in each nostril, the aforementioned baby hurricane came home and tried to gently wake me from my slumber. Barely conscious and with my eyes still half closed, I muttered quietly "hi momma."

I only vaguely remembered this upon waking up the next morning, until Stormi reminded me and told me I also tapped her face several times, as if to see if my momma was really there, or possibly to try and make her forget that I had just referred to her as such. 

This is not the first time I've woken up from vivid dreams of you still being with me. I've mentioned before that I never feel like it's been over a year since I saw you last or spoke to you last, and I know you must visit me often when I am fast asleep. 

I remember my 12th grade English class, when our teacher spoke to 2 of my classmates who had just lost a parent and had bravely written their senior speeches about the experience. After standing up in front of our class and sharing such a private and emotional experience, our teacher asked them if either of them had dreamt of their parents yet. Neither of them had, and he told them the experience of doing so was going to give them more peace than they could ever imagine, as he, too, had suffered the loss of a parent at an early age. 

As a senior in high school, I was lucky enough to have both you and dad, still healthy, as so many of my classmates did not. Graduating from that particular class with those people has shaped my outlook on this experience in ways I didn't even realize until I found myself faced with the concept of losing you.

In my mind and in the world as I know it, I am so lucky that I had you for 28 years. Because I knew people who were robbed of a parent at an early age, and although many of those people were simply acquaintances, in 2003 when I walked to the stage in the BJC and again in 2008 (screw you all who are good at math and coming to the realization that it took me a little more than 4 years to earn my bachelors degree--aka and ironically, Mr. BJC,) the idea and reality of how lucky I was to have you both watching me was extremely real to me. 

That experience was probably the same thing that allowed me to stand up in front of a hall full of people who loved you and attempt to pay tribute to all that you were  less than a week after you had to leave. Because I had witnessed two eighteen year old men (because losing a parent turns you into an adult, whether you're ready or not) stand up in front of their class and talk about their loss, I knew that my 28 years with you meant that I could do it, too. 

I never knew that as I watched you take your last breath, seemingly insignificant words that were spoken 10 years before would suddenly hold such meaning and provide so much comfort. But that day, I knew from my 12th grade English teacher that I'd see you again in my dreams.

Breezy and 75

Tonight is beautiful.

Mild, breezy and perfectly quiet to be sitting on a bench outside in our (well-lit) apartment complex, looking up at the sky and wondering where you are up there. The moon is bright and I can see more stars than usual. It feels just like a night years ago, when we would come to Florida to visit Grandma for spring break, and in later years, after I moved here and you could no longer stand another second of winter in Pennsylvania. We would walk along the marina most nights and end up at our favorite spot in Dunedin, right by the hotel we stayed in when Neal and I were little and the whole family was visiting; the same hotel Stormi and I stayed in for the one year anniversary of the day you had to leave. You'd tickle my back and we'd listen to the waves slapping the walls and look out at the water. We'd talk about what it was going to be like when you retired and moved to Florida. We'd talk about you moving into Grandma's condo because we loved that place so much. And sometimes, we didn't talk at all. Just being together, you and me, was enough. 

It never once dawned on me that the future would end up so drastically different than I had imagined it would be. I couldn't wait for you to be closer to me, and the idea of seeing you more than just a few times a year was so close I could taste it. But then somehow, everything changed. Within 2 years time, Grandma was gone and then you were gone. And that place with all those memories was no longer mine in any way...except for the memories. Those are mine forever. 

We were led to that same spot on a tipsy evening just a month after you left, when Tay, Morgan, Sara and Speakz were all in Clearwater. Somehow, the random cab driver, equipped with a stun gun, led us to Main Street in Dunedin. Of all the places he could have suggested when we asked him for a fun place to go, he dropped us off less than a mile from all those sweet memories of you. 

After quite a few beverages, I found myself straying from the group, walking right to our spot with tears in my eyes. I couldn't choke out the words to explain what that place meant to me or try to sum up all the memories that were flooding back to me at that very moment. All I could do was walk toward it, without you there with me for the first time ever. Taylor followed, probably because she remembered what happened last time I drunkenly approached a body of water, and stood by my side as I proceeded to completely melt down. I remember her asking me if I could feel you there, and I remember agreeing that I could. 

As more and more time goes by, I feel you with me in so many places, and I see you in so many people who have loved me through all of this.

But especially on nights like tonight. 

Growing family (wait no, not like that...)

Family has always been especially important to me. I'm relatively certain people can read it on my face when I speak of you or dad or Neal or our cousins and aunts and uncles. People make fun of me because of all the cousins that pop up in stories of my childhood and yesteryear. But truth be told, my cousins and other family members made up most of what I remember, in some form or another.

This past weekend, we were able to spend some time with Stormi's mom and dad and both of their families. 

I love them so much, and I'm certain you'd love them too. Actually, I'm pretty sure you handpicked not just the best person for me, but the best person with the best family (tied with ours) to boot. 

The pride her mom has for her and the way she beams at the incredible woman her daughter has become is something I'm no stranger to. You were so similar in your expression of love and the way you lived and put me and Neal at the very top of your list of life accomplishments. In many ways, it strengthens the bond between me and the baby hurricane, because we were both raised by very similar, hard working matriarchs with strong work ethics and a personality that everyone is drawn to. The relationships she has with not only Stormi but also Stormi's friends reminds me so much of you, too. She loves them, and she makes sure they know it. Not just because they are friends of her daughter, but for who they are as individuals. You loved our friends, and you loved just hanging out with them, whether it was on a boat on Raystown lake or sitting around your living room. It was so much more than just you wanting to know the people we were closest to; you cared about them so much. You invited them into your home and you showed them how lucky Neal and I were to be raised by such a cool mom, and how much you appreciated their places in our lives.

Stormi's family is such a special family, not unlike my own, and I feel so lucky to have been welcomed in by them. I never feel like an outsider, and they made the second holiday season without you so much more bearable. I know this would make you so happy and content, because while you've seen me moving forward and smiling and enjoying life, you've also seen me hunched over a few times, sobbing and gasping for breath behind closed doors. 

We ended our low key Sunday funday with dinner at her dad and step mom's, and we finally took over the piggy bank we got for her little brother Riley (he looks taller because he's 5 now, guys.) When Stormi explained that there were 2 parts to his belated birthday present and showed him the ziploc bag of coins, he sported his lady killer dimples and explained "oh thanks, but I would really rather have a toy instead." I adore her stepmom (Pennsylvania AND Polish roots, so that's a given) and her dad, but that little guy really does just melt my heart. I realized the other day while glancing at the ceramic transformers piggy bank we got for him why the idea came to me: your giant multicolored piggy bank. Pretty sure you used it to collect spare coins until you got sick, and it was such a staple and something I will always remember about you. Riley has discovered the joy of being able to pick out his own toys with money that has been gifted to him, so we thought a piggy bank would be a cool idea. His little face lit up when his big sis gave it to him, and he was very careful when carrying it, because "it's made of glass." When he finished putting his seemingly endless bag of coins into his new bank, he explained that he would get the money out through the belly button when someone needed it. When asked for further clarification, he told us he was referring to people who don't have money. Seriously? This kid is the greatest, and I'm so lucky to know his whole family. 

I know if you were still here, these stories would warm your heart. You were always thankful to the people who gave me a family a thousand miles away from the one I was born into, and they are no exception.  

“A friend is someone who knows the song in your heart and can sing it back to you when you have forgotten the words.”

Mary Ann had a heart attack just a few short months before we had any idea you were sick. You suspected something might be wrong when you didn't hear from her on your birthday, but life kept you busy as it so often did and you didn't think much of it until you heard from her a few weeks later, informing you of what had happened. I remember your voice cracking over the phone as you told me, "she actually died more than once on the operating table, but they were able to bring her back." I told you how happy I was that she was okay, and I told you that you had to make more of an effort to keep in touch with her. Neal and I insisted that we go visit her the next time we were both home (I don't think I had seen her in years at that point.)

You and Mary Ann had a special bond that only people who have known one another since childhood are lucky enough to posess. You had seen eachother through the best and worst of times, and in many ways, you were the only constant thing that could be depended on in each other's lives. I remember thinking "I don't know what mom would do if she ever lost Mary Ann." I thought it was just a scare and a reminder of how special that relationship was, and that some day, when you were both 90, you'd be sitting in your rocking chairs, reminiscing about the old times and that one close call. I didn't realize it would turn out so differently.  

It wasn't long before the tables turned, and Mary Ann was making regular visits to see you. As your memory faded, she'd sit out on the deck and tell stories about the good old days as she took over for you as my back tickler. Dad even told her at one point, "you must be really special, she usually saves that job for her mom." She'd crack jokes about how much she regretted growing her nails out, because I'd just sit in front of her, like I often did with you, and that always prompted the action without me having to say a word. The truth is, Mary Ann really IS special in a way other than the obvious when anyone talks to her. She is this really incredible piece of you that we still get to have, while learning to accept everything that we have lost...together. 

Mary Ann would ask you if you remembered her stories, and of course early on, you'd insist that you did. Time went on, and as you grew more and more tired, you responded less and less to those anecdotes and tales from your childhood and younger years. But I know, and I hope she does too, how special those memories always were to you. It dawned on me very early on how lucky Neal and I are to have Mary Ann; how special it is to have this person who lived through so many memories with you, and who can keep the stories going, even after you're gone...and how close we came to not being so lucky. My heart hurts for Mary Ann as I type these words, because as much as it warms our hearts to have her here to carry your memory on in such a special way, I can only imagine how broken her heart must feel when she tells us stories and no longer has her "buddy" by her side to fill in pieces she may have left out or to insert an inappropriate joke here and there. She recently celebrated her 60th birthday, and she didn't get that phone call from you, singing loudly and off-key. The dynamic of the relationship that you two shared was something so special and so rare, and probably very much created the foundation of so many friendships I'm lucky to have in my own life. 

I will always be sad that Stormi never got to know you. She didn't get to see that light in your eyes, or experience all your goofy Jazazzle-isms. (That just became a thing, by the way.) But I realized when she got to meet Mary Ann on our trip to the Burgh that to know her is really to know you. Your energy and those special stories and her love for you really shines through her when she talks about you. 

And even though it's not everything and it never will be, it holds its own weight. I get to have my own unique relationship with someone who was so close to you. I get these loving text messages from her,

asking me how her two favorite girls are doing and always telling me she loves me and to tell Stormi she loves her, too. How lucky am I? That's my mom's best friend, and in many ways, she is the voice of my mom...reminding me how much she loves me, and that finding happiness in this life is all she ever wanted for me.