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.