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.