Newest Lessons

I have now been navigating this earth in the absence of my parents for what will be a year and a half in 2 days. I was going to say I've been parentless, but that's simply not the case. Because to be -less is to be without, and both of you have continued to make your presence evident in so many aspects of my life.

It's a never ending learning curve, and each day brings the opportunity for new revelations and realizations.

I will never stop missing either of you. Moments will still take my breath away and make me want to call you and tell you about them. I'll still remember little things about you and they will always sting, but they'll also always make me thankful that I got to know you so well that I couldn't possibly remember every facet about you all at once. They'll still come trickling back slowly, hitting me from out of nowhere in the strangest of moments and sometimes in the most unexpected of ways.

I've learned that you had the most profound and everlasting effect on people. Others still talk about you and they still miss you just as much as I do. And I love talking about you with them, because it keeps your memory and your spirit and the essence of who you were alive. Even people who never had a chance to meet you feel like they knew you. It's how I know I'm doing my part to tell people about you, always. Even if it's 409 times and even if they get sick of hearing how much someone reminds me of dad. 

I've learned that if I just look closely enough and open my eyes to it, you keep sending me people who are catalysts of your never ending, never fading love for me and Nelson. Some of them have been here since before either of us were even a thought in your mind, some show back up just when we need them, and some are new to the book. Some of them are covered in fur, and some have literally lazered all of their fur off......

I've learned that some things will just never be the same without you in them. Holidays, birthdays, etc....but it doesn't mean I should rob myself of finding a new sense of enjoyment in them. Even if I have to search a little harder for those moments, I know they'll be there because you wouldn't have it any other way.

I've learned that it's the day after an anticipated "difficult" one that hits me the hardest. Once I think I'm in the clear is usually when the wave takes me down. But I'm always relieved once I can let it out and allow myself to feel it, because the build-up can be exhausting. The lessons I learned about myself and about allowing myself to feel the uncomfortable moments that are often filled with sadness are something I will forever cherish from the support group I attended.

I hope I never stop learning new things about myself in this journey that you both made possible by bringing me into this world and loving me through my first 28-30 years in it. 

I love you and I miss you both. 

PS- thanks for the sign I asked you to send me. I hope I make you proud in this next chapter.

Half Birthdays

Some people don't believe in or have never even heard of celebrating half birthdays. Thanks to the two of you, my half birthdays even came complete with a small gift, usually in the form of a Disney VHS tape or a book.

But twenty seven years ago, you both gave me a half birthday gift that, at the time, my four (and a half) year old brain could not fully comprehend the importance of.

I don't remember much about his entry into the world, only that he was about as big as me, slightly cross-eyed, and didn't smell great.

Up until that day, twenty seven years ago exactly, I was your only child. An awkward four (and a half) year old, indeed, and not one for conversation according to the faux fam. In fact, up until I was about ten, many were under the impression that perhaps I was mute and one of my grandmothers was under the impression that I hated her.

Me and my half birthday gift would spend the next twenty seven years getting into our fair share of trouble together. With the help of my childhood friends, I would convince him we had been abducted by aliens and that he was really adopted, born to a nice Japanese family (How ironic that he's spending today in Tokyo, a place he always dreamt of visiting. You're welcome for the inspiration.) I would push him down a hill on rollerblades and throw one hairbrush directly toward his face, at which point mom would make me walk to dad's house for the first and only time in my life. Together, we would go through some of the most formative events of our young lives: A move from Pittsburgh to State College, your divorce, mom's remarriage, and dad's stroke.

As we grew into teenagers and young adults, our bond grew stronger and I started to proudly accept and appreciate the fact that the half birthday gift you had given me about fifteen years prior was suddenly not just my brother, but also my best friend. It was around fifteen that he really started to find his groove, and I now realize that he had officially inherited some of my favorite qualities from you both: A sense of humor but also humility, intelligence, and a great big loyal heart. My half birthday gift would eventually spend his high school and college years traveling to new and exciting countries, such as Haiti, New Zealand, Brazil and France, and go on to study abroad in Ghana, while I relocated to the sunshine state. We'd get into numerous fights, but at the end of the day, we've still always (mostly) loved being together.

I didn't realize how much I admired the qualities he got from you both until seven years after they became apparent, when we were faced with our most life-altering, earth-shattering obstacle we had ever faced to date: we became the two kids of a courageous and hilarious mom fighting brain cancer. Had I not had that gift beside me, I'm not sure what would have become of me. The kid I had spent years fighting with but also loving had suddenly grown into a man who was facing the reality of losing his precious mom. But besides that, he had also become my rock and my strength. I knew that no matter how bad things were going to get, we had each other. Ironically, the story was fresh in my mind about the time when I was around two or three and mom took a pulse survey to find out whether or not she should have a second child. And really, who could blame her? You can't beat perfection, so that bar was set pretty high. (Oh good, you're still reading!) It was my cousin Dana's answer that stood out most in mom's mind and was ultimately the deciding factor in giving me my half birthday present. An only child herself, Dana had explained that despite its benefits, that downfall was that when that only child loses their parents, they're left without any family. And so the rest, as they say, is history.

The face of my half birthday present at the foot of mom's hospital bed the day that priest came to deliver her last rites was something that is permanently etched in my mind forever. Less than two years later, I can still perfectly hear his shaky voice on the other end of the phone when I called to tell him dad was in the hospital and I was getting on a plane and flying home. He wouldn't make it in time, but I still remember his head nodding in affirmation when he stepped out of the airport and saw the looks on my face and on Aunt Mardie's.

Together, we had met with doctors, asked the difficult questions, and went from being taken care of by our parents to being your caretakers. I can still tell you the exact cocktail of pills mom needed every day, the dosage, and the number of times each needed to be administered. I still remember conversations about Power of Attorney for both of you. I can still remember the 73% mortality rate that was dropped on me when I asked about the risk factors of dad's surgery as what would be a failed last ditch effort to save his life because I just wanted to keep him there long enough for Neal to say goodbye. I can still remember giving the doctors permission to let him go when I realized enough was enough and I didn't want him to have to fight anymore.

Since then, I've watched my half birthday gift still figure out how to continue living an adventurous life while keeping the memory of you both in the forefront of his mind. At twenty seven, he's dealt with two funeral directors and two lawyers, delivered incredible speeches from the bottom of his heart at both of your memorial services, and cleaned up and sold our childhood home.

My half birthday present and I have been dealt our fair share of obstacles along this path we call life. We may never understand why it was us, but I don't think there's ever been a single second when we've questioned the combined strength of both of us or our survival skills when we're together. I can't think of anyone better to have shared the gift of being your children with, and the pain will always be worth it in exchange for getting the dance.

Happy Birthday to Nealson and Happy Half Birthday to me.

Missing You

Three years ago at this time, I was three days away from being a motherless daughter.

I know everyone will remind me she will always be my mom and I'll never be motherless because she is always with me, and I don't disagree. But the fact is, there are some things you just miss when a person's body and physical presence are no longer with us.

I miss your hugs. The way you'd hold on extra tight for just a little bit longer after I moved to Florida and we didn't see each other every day, or when something happened that made you painfully aware how lucky you were to be in that moment, hugging your healthy, happy child, knowing that others were not so lucky. 

I miss the way your winter coat and scarf held onto the scent of your makeup mixed with your perfume.

I miss the way your blue eyes would light up when I'd tell you stories about my life, my friends, or my job. I miss the way I could hear the pride and excitement in your voice over the phone when I'd tell you about a new adventure I was about to embark on or a new area I'd be moving to at work. You were always so convinced of my ability to improve things and make an impact, no matter where I went. Even when I wasn't even convinced myself.

I miss the way you'd close your eyes and stick out your tongue when Neal and I would team up and playfully make fun of you for some of the ridiculous things you said and did. Still, you could never keep the smirk off your face, because there was nothing you loved more than seeing Neal and me together, laughing and enjoying being brother and sister. 

I miss the way you'd march in place or kick your legs up in the air while we were watching TV because you could never just sit still. You never wanted to stop moving that body of yours, and that's probably why it remained so healthy until you got dealt a crappy hand of cards and some bad luck. 

I miss the way you looked on a water ski. Gliding gracefully across the water with that peaceful look on your face, taking in your surroundings and probably thanking God for another day. You may not have spent much time in church or participating in organized religion, but I never once doubted your belief in God or your trust in knowing that whatever happened to you was part of a bigger plan. Your openness about that and your fearlessness helped me know that you weren't scared for your own fate when you were staring death in the face. You were scared for us, but never for yourself. Neal once looked at me and said "I don't care if she doesn't remember my name or who I am, I just don't want her to be scared." And I don't believe you ever were, and I'm so very thankful for that.

I miss the feeling of my hand in yours. We spent a lot of time holding hands when you were sick. I remember gripping yours so tightly when the neurologist came in to deliver what would be devastating news that day in August. I remember holding it when we'd walk, and when I'd lay with you. But especially during those last few days. I remember studying them because I wanted to remember everything about you. You always hated your stubby fingers, but those hands guided me and Neal through childhood and then right into adulthood, which we were thrown into head-first when you got sick. 

I miss the sing-songy way you'd call me by my nickname you had for me, Noella Bella. So much emphasis on the Ls; nobody's said it with the same tone as you, but it still makes my heart happy when other people keep that nickname alive, because it pays homage to you. 

I miss the way you'd tickle my back and my arm for hours, and it'd always put you to sleep until I'd flail around purposely to jog you awake. I can't even imagine the hours you put in to back tickling and playing with my hair, but it had to be at least a quarter of my life up until I moved to Florida. 

I miss the way you'd turn to me, randomly, and say "I love you so much, my girl." I swear, it was as if you always knew your time would be cut short and you wanted to make sure I never doubted your love for me. 

Most of all, I miss being your daughter. I miss belonging to you and knowing no matter what kind of day I was having, I could call you and you'd remind me how much you love me; how far I'd come, how proud you were of the woman I'd become, and what I had to offer this world. 

I love you, to the moon and back.

A Letter to Myself, from Myself

I've been thinking a lot about how much I've learned over the course of losing both of my parents. I've also been thinking about how much I wish someone would have written me a letter with words of wisdom for survival. So I decided to write a letter to myself, from myself.

Dear me, two years, ten months and twenty one days ago:

First off, you are VERY pretty.

You're also a sarcastic asshole, and you use that sarcasm as a wall to keep people from getting in. To convince people you're still the same old you, even though everyone knows you could not possibly be the same person you were before this. You should let people know the new, broken, still pretty awesome you. You should let yourself be vulnerable with them, because they worry about you more when you DON'T let them in (turns out, they know you better than you think.) But also, you should never feel bad for your good moments. You should never feel like people are judging you or think less of you for figuring out how to move forward and find things to smile about. Stop thinking it could be taken to mean you love the person or people you've lost any less. Because those people with whom you're still learning to let your guard down will be the ones who will save you when you get knocked back down again.

You should know that what multiple people told you when it first happened were right; it's around the two month mark that things start to get more difficult. It's about that point that other people unintentionally begin to move on with their own lives. It's not that they forget, it's just that you ALWAYS remember, and it's after about two months that the reality really starts to set in. Every second is permeated by thoughts of your loss, whether happy, sad, or none of the above. Even when you aren't consciously aware that it hurts, other sources of pain will remind you, and they will hurt more because the wound is already open and exposed.

There will be moments that you see coming from a mile away, and there will be others that will blindside you and bring you to your knees when you're happily chugging along throughout your day. Do not beat yourself up for either kind. They will both move you forward if you allow them to. Learn from yourself and learn to stop avoiding those moments. All it will ever do is delay the inevitable fall.

Be consciously aware of how you treat those around you and do not punish them for not having the same experiences as you. Even two people who have lived through very similar losses will deal with them completely differently; it's what makes us human.

Allow yourself to be angry with your situation, but do not allow yourself to be angry with people. Let your losses be a lesson that you never know when your time will be up, and the same goes for everyone else. Do not leave things unsaid, but also do not leave them unsettled. Remember how lucky you were to have your two most important and profound relationships end on beautiful terms, where the most important messages and emotions were exchanged and felt for both parties.

Let your losses also be a reminder of the importance of being fiercly independent and being enough for your own survival. Do not allow yourself to build your life around another life, because our time here is fleeting. But also do not allow that reality to keep you from falling in love or from making new friends, because relationships are your most valuable posessions.

Forgive people for not knowing how to be there for you and for sometimes saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. Recognize that sometimes, anything someone says will be the wrong thing. Remember how frustrating it is to be on the other side; to know that nothing you say can or will fix it.

Be there for other people, the way others were there for you. Let them teach you things they don't even know they're teaching you. Be honest and raw with them about your feelings, the way others were with you.

Remember to take it one day at a time, and when that's too overwhelming, one minute at a time. Take comfort in knowing that there will eventually be more good minutes than bad, but the bad ones will never stop appearing from time to time, no matter how long it's been.

Talk about the people you've lost more than the actual loss itself. Preserve the memory of their life more than the memory of their death. But talk about the loss, too. Talk about the pain, and talk about it honestly, and make no apologies for it. The more you can talk about it, the less it can haunt or consume you in solitude. And the more you can give of your story to try to help others.

Find a grief support group and attend it religiously. Let yourself feel everything you've been avoiding, and try not to make fun of the horrible acting in the educational videos that go along with each meeting. Listen to the people sitting next to you and appreciate them for opening their hearts up to you.

Take pride in seeing the parts of you that have survived the wreckage, because they are truly who you are all the way to your core. Make an effort to laugh more than you cry, and know that in itself is a huge win.

Know that it gets easier to carry.

Buy a convertible, get a dog and let him or her remind you of the good hearts still left in this world, make new memories with new friends, and buy a kayak. Leave no stone unturned, no dolphin unfollowed, and live a life you'll be proud of when your own time comes.

Make them proud to watch over you.

"I Hate the World Today"

With all the horrible, horrible news stories taking over our television sets and mobile devices lately, I find myself being so very thankful that neither of your deaths had any other confusing emotion or feeling associated with it; the greatest of all being anger and hatred.

I'm thankful that cancer is a disease and not a person. I hate it...everything about it, everything it did to you, momma, and everything it continues to do to others. I hate it for how confused it made you, and for the way it made you almost unrecognizable. I hate it for the years of memories we might have had together, for the advice I will never get to receive, for the moments you were robbed of getting to witness and experience. I hate it for the way the word alone makes my heart sink. I hate it for some of the heartbreaks that go along with the disease we had to see: the loss of movement, the confusion, and that choking during the last few weeks. I hate it for the glazed over yellowish look it gave those bright blue eyes when the end was nearing, for the way it made you think you were ugly when you saw your own reflection in the mirror. I hate the fact that it made us have to put signs on the door going to each room, and it still didn't stop you from going into the garage when you had to pee or going toward the bathroom when it was time for bed. I hate the way I couldn't help but feel frustrated and angry and sad all at the same time, when you couldn't remember where your glasses were or that your tea had already been reheated 47 times. "Just zap it for 15 seconds." I hate that you ended every telephone conversation with "and promise me you'll take care of yourself, and that you'll always remember and never forget how much I love you." Because you knew words were all I'd have to cling to soon enough.  I hate that some of my favorite stories about you from that time were really, really sad stories when you really sit down and think about them. But it was dad who reminded me, "if we couldn't laugh about it, we would all go crazy."

And dad...in so many ways, cancer killed you, too. Because as much as you didn't always want to admit it, the day mom died, she took a huge part of you with her. The first words that came out of your mouth after she was gone that day were "I always loved your mother." You had spent more of your life with her than you had without her by the end, whether it was as your wife or as one of your best friends. But for years, you fought a different battle that most people knew little about, because you did so well at keeping it hidden, and at being hilariously brilliant so nobody ever really knew how much you suffered. I hate that you always thought it was bigger than you and that I don't know if you ever really thought you could overcome it, but you, my daddy-o, could do anything. I remember being so scared of losing you during every hospital visit that started my freshman year of college and occurred several times after that before the final stay. And again, I cursed and hated the circumstances. Hated the thing you thought you couldn't overcome, hated the mini strokes and all the other random things that plagued you and knocked you down when you were just trying to stand on your feet, for us.

But all those things that I hate that were associated with both of your losses are just that--things. Because growing up with you as our parents meant we did not hate people, because hate was too strong a word. We could hate things. We could hate circumstances. We could hate diseases. But we could not hate people. They were too important, too precious, too valuable. 

Diseases. Horrible diseases that took you both, but neither have left me thinking "what if? What if they had gone somewhere other than that club? What if they had chosen a different profession, what if they had been off that night? What if they had chosen a different seaside town where they could celebrate their independence, what if they had just left 15 minutes earlier?" 

I know how difficult it is to process grief when you're dealing with the loss itself, alone. I cannot imagine the added element of anger, and of blame, and of having to figure out how to forgive a person for ending the life of someone you loved so much.

I hope soon, that perspective can stop being brought to the surface, again and again. I hope the world you both brought us into stops negating what an important, precious and valuable gift human life really is. 

I hope it gets better.

...And the greatest is love.

Dear mom and dad,

I find myself being relieved that you've been spared from having to see the world that Neal and I are growing up in, because you would be appalled at what it's becoming.

I have absolutely no idea what dad would have to say about this joke of a presidential candidacy alone, but I know for sure it would involve a lot of F words and probably a lot of classic lines we'd be referring to for years to come. 

The election is nothing, however, in comparison to how you would have felt about these mass tragedies. These situations that have impacted large quantities of people which force us all to stop in our tracks and come together as communities and remind us what is ultimately important and what is not.

I will never forget the looks on both of your faces when I got home from school on 9-11. It was in dad's driveway, and I was standing there watching your car pull in, waiting to hear what you'd have to say. You were both silent, mom looked sad and angry at the same time, and you both just grabbed us and hugged us before saying a single word. Because you didn't have words, and for the first time ever, you couldn't shield us from what was only the beginning of the horrors of this world as we would come to know them.

Mom was always the emotional parent while dad was the reasonable, level-headed parent. You balanced each other out. While mom showed us through both happy and sad tears how beautiful and devastating this life could be sometimes, dad usually had something wise or thought provoking to say about it. While mom's solution to heartbreak for Neal or myself would have likely been hugging us as she cried with us, I remember two very specific instances where dad's level-headed logic to our pain helped us to gain perspective that we would not likely have been able to see for ourselves. 

When one of us was having difficulty with the end of a relationship, dad's response was "you're not going to get over losing your mother in a day and you're not going to get over this in a day. It's going to take time." When one of us was dealing with toxic negativity, dad's response was "You could have a room full of 10 people, and even if 9 are positive, one negative person is going to bring down the rest of the group. You have to separate yourself from it." I wish I knew what words he would have for today. 

For selfish reasons, I still am curious to know what your take would be on the state of the world as it is, especially on this very day. Within just a year, Neal and I have both been in very close proximity to the location where two of these crazy mass shootings have occurred. I can't imagine how scared you would have been had we not picked up our phones right away or responded to your texts. I'm thankful you never had to experience even a second of wondering if your children were okay in a situation such as this, because I'm certain that second would have absolutely destroyed you. 

I will never understand people or their motives or why the world has become what it has. I will never understand these senseless acts of hatred and violence. But my heart tells me that while you'd both agree that the events of today and other recent tragedies have been horrific, you'd also both encourage me to see the good in people; in humanity. The people lined up for miles to donate blood, or the people who are finding other ways to make an impact. You'd see that line of people as proof that there is still good in this world, and you'd encourage us every day to be part of that good and not allow ourselves to be jaded by the bad. 

A friend of mine posted today, asking how she is supposed to explain to her five year old what is happening in our city today. She explained their plans for today were to unplug from all the tragedy on their televisions and phones and computers and to show their children that there is still love in this world, and it starts in their home. Neal and I are so lucky that we were raised under a similar roof. Because of the way you loved us throughout your lives as our parents, we will never be able to doubt that love exists in this world. And we will always go to sleep at night knowing that no matter how much hatred is out roaming the streets, we were only ever taught how to love people. 

Rubber Grapes and Potentially Cute Grandchildren

Dear mom,

Five years ago today, you lost your mom. While you and Grandma never shared the close bond you and I were lucky enough to have, I know losing her was difficult for you; perhaps more so than you even exposed to those around you. 

While she may not have been the warm and nurturing grandmother I was lucky to have in dad's mom for 4 and a half years, she was my grandmother and I loved her as such. She had a reputation in our family for placing more weight on looks than a person's character or other attributes, as evidenced by her infamous comment to my oldest cousin Carrie: "some day you'll be beautiful, just like me." (Spoiler alert for those wondering: Carrie DID turn out to be beautiful, despite the amount of time Joanne and I spend ragging on her for the unfortunate pair of specs she sported throughout her youth.) Dad later told me that she had a similar comment about me on the day I was born: "She'll probably be cute some day!" I can still hear him bursting into laughter over that comment. He also regularly told me I did myself no favors when I was little and asked you both, in front of Grandma, "Can we go to my real Grandma's now?" But perhaps the most well-known story of my childhood regarding my relationship with Grandma was the time when I was 6 and I pulled every single rubber grape she had on display in her living room off their vines. I can still remember it being oddly satisfying, and I'm not going to lie, I'd probably do it again. But alas, she never quite got over that, and she brought it up for years and years, despite the fact that I bought her replacement sets any time I came across them. 

You and dad used to often tell me, "Your grandmother loves you as much as she knows how." But I really only ever saw things from my perspective, and I was always defensive of you and the way she'd make you feel. You never stopped trying to gain her acceptance, and I think you may have overlooked the fact that your answer was as simple and as honest as the one you had for me: she loved you as much as she knew how. But, seeing how much love you pumped into every second of your time with me and Neal until your last breath and knowing that loving us unconditionally was something that was deeply ingrained in everything you were as a mother, it makes sense that this answer was never quite good enough for you. I used to always tell people I wasn't sure how you turned out to be the kind of mom you did with an upbringing like the one you had with Grandma, though you always reassured me that Grandpa was the nurturing one and Grandma was the disciplinarian. I think you loved me and Neal the way you needed and wanted to be loved by Grandma, and I don't know that I ever properly thanked you for that. Because the love you showed us was perfect, even if you never got to experienced that kind of love yourself.

As for Grandma, I learned as I got older that her upbringing wasn't easy either. She didn't have the mother figure everyone deserves, and I believe you either become a good parent because of the example you had or in spite of the example you had. But it doesn't always work that way. I'm sure she recognized parts of her mother in herself that she probably wasn't proud of. I'm sure she just wanted to be the best for you, Uncle Lex, and Aunt Threse. But I just don't know that she had the tools or the resources or the capabilities to do that. 

I think I learned during her last few months that my frustration came more from how she treated you than the way she treated us. Looking back, I know she was sick in the end, and I know she was confused, and I know her anger probably wasn't coming from her heart like I thought it was at the time. But I also know where you were at that point in your life; that you were, as you often did, beating yourself up for not being good enough, and for lacking something. But you were perfect, just as you were, and I remember the exact moment when I was sitting in that car by the marina with you, and I decided enough was enough. Everyone had made comments over the later years about how she was tougher on you than anyone else, and as I sat in that car with you listening to you pour your heart out about how you truly believed you weren't good enough, I had reached my breaking point.

The last conversation I ever had with my last living grandparent went something like this: I placed my hand on her shoulder, looked her square in the eye, and said "Hey Grandma, you know how you talk about your mom and how much she used to beat you down emotionally and make you feel so small?" She nodded her head in affirmation. I said "Well, I see you doing the same thing to my mom and you need to knock it off." She looked at me and told me to go to Hell. I believe I told her I'd see her there, we got in the car, and we drove away. I never saw her again, but when you called me two months later to tell me that she had passed away, I remember saying "oh my God, the last thing I said to her was that I'd see her in Hell." You assured me that nobody had ever stuck up for you the way I did for you that day, that you were proud of me, and that Grandma knew I loved her and loved me in return but just hadn't been herself recently.

I do wish things would have ended differently. There was a period of time when Grandma and I respected and appreciated each other for exactly who we were, and when you were taken out of the equation, we actually got along quite well. I went to visit her several times in Dunedin, and I have fond memories of those visits. 

Despite your not-so-perfect relationship, you sent her off with a speech at her memorial that brought us all to tears and left me watching you in amazement and with such admiration. I remember thinking "I don't know how I'll ever find the strength to stand up like that after losing either of MY parents, but I have got to pay them the kind of respect she just did for Grandma." Unfortunately that opportunity came less than five years later for both of you, and I'm absolutely certain that the strength I somehow possessed to stand up in front of your closest friends and family and send you off with the tributes you both so deserved came straight from you. 

When you were first diagnosed, I actually spent a lot of time wondering if Grandma was stealing you from us to punish me for that last interaction we had. I know now that it's a ridiculous thought and in her right frame of mind, Grandma never ever would have wished pain or suffering on any of her family, and we all experienced both in some way or another. 

I hope she welcomed you home with open arms that day you left us (since I don't really believe she went to Hell.) I hope you've found a way to love each other up there just as you are, and not as you wished the other could be. And I hope there is an endless supply of rubber grapes, all perfectly placed on their plastic vines, without the fingerprints of a potentially cute six year old. 

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

Dear mom and dad,

Some things have changed since I last wrote to you both.

I started a new job at the beginning of March. New adventures with new people, new items to add to my resume, and the bonus being the opportunity to once again work with the best manager I've ever ever had the pleasure of working with. It's been a great change, a great challenge, and an exciting time.

The most profound change for me currently is that my relationship with my favorite weather condition has also changed from a romantic one to a friendship, with bumps along the way as I adjust to a new normal.

It's amazing how much more endeared we become to our parents as we take on experiences similar to those that have similarities to their own. Mom was no stranger to having to assess herself, recognize her own strengths and ensure she was okay on her own after the end of a relationship. I remember trying to provide moral support and advice for her during her lowest lows, when she was sad and questioning whether or not it was her fault and what she could have done differently. I remember throwing some of her own advice back her way, and reminding her that she needed to first be happy and content with herself.

Dad would have had no trouble relating to me if I could call him up and tell him my realization that the only promises that are guaranteed are those we make to ourselves. That sometimes, the things we thought were forever change directions. And sometimes (more times than not, really), these huge, life-altering events change us forever. Sometimes the people we used to know so well don't even recognize us anymore. Sometimes, we don't care enough to notice, because we're just trying to get through another day without falling apart.

Neither of you would bat an eye if I whined and told you how difficult it is to change directions for the future you had envisioned and thought you had perfectly planned out. Neither of you would have had any trouble reminding me that you were both living proof that sometimes people just weren't meant to stay together in romantic relationships forever, and that no matter the outcome, the journey was still worth it and it was still meant to be what it was. For you guys, the proof was in Neal's existence, as well as my own. For my relationship with Stormi, it's in the way she and her family supported me through losing dad.

But sometimes, we just have to trust that things will fall into place and work themselves out the way they're supposed to. Had you guys not ended your marriage, we wouldn't have this incredible other extended family who have offered their support and love through both of these great losses. And I wouldn't have a tangible example of how it's absolutely possible to remain the best of friends after a relationship ends. Because while we change, we usually still leave behind remnants of the people we used to be. There are usually still pieces of us that will always be connected to the pieces of other people. We just have to learn to adjust and to appreciate all that we were able to salvage.

If there's one thing I should have learned from losing two of the most important people on this planet to me, it's that people can be taken from us in an instant. So we'd damn well better be sure we can make it on our own, and that we find the things that make us happy and that make us come alive. Because while other people can be taken from this world in the blink of an eye, so can we. 

I want to leave this world like you did, momma. With no regrets, and just love for the people who made this journey all that it was. Because at the end of your days here, when faced with your own mortality, love was the most important thing in the world to you. And when all of us surrounded you in that room, I don't think it mattered how that love was given to you, or how it changed form over the years. All that mattered was that it surrounded you, and that you got to experience it.

The Gates (no relation to Bill)

For the last 7 and a half years, I have driven onto the same piece of property and walked in through the same set of security gates. To the naked eye and the outsider, they may just seem like small buildings with a security guard sitting behind a desk checking your bag and occasionally doing a full body security check, but inside those gates hold some of the most significant memories of my life.

I've grown up inside of those gates, and I've made friendships that I will keep and treasure for a lifetime. From a timid kid walking into an area she knew nothing about to the seasoned supervisor I will leave as, I would not be the person I am today without each and every one of the people I have encountered and worked alongside within those gates. 

I have been within those gates to see the company through some of its darkest days, and I've been there on some of its brightest days. 

I've traveled those back roads more times than I can count, and only once did I hit another vehicle on them (sorry about that, Ashley.)

My heart and world have been shattered inside those gates, and at other times, my heart has been so full that it's felt at times like it would burst.

I've cried behind back walls with other people who have shared a story similar to my own within those gates, and at other times, I've laughed so hard that I've cried.

I've gotten the two most devastating telephone calls of my life within those gates, and yet I've somehow been held up and glued back together by the people within those gates.

I've been inspired by people within those gates, and I've been disappointed by people within those gates.

I don't regret a single second I've spent within those gates.

Thank you to all the people who at any point along this road have become my family. Thank you for all you have taught me. Thank you for holding me together when you may not have even realized you were doing so. And thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for always responding to my sheep IMs.

On March 5th, I'll detach the battery from the radio that's been mine, and I'll log out from the computer access I've had for the past 7 years. I'll clock out, walk out of those gates, and nothing within them will belong to me anymore. But those memories with those incredible people for all those years...what I learned within those gates, all those kids I got to watch grow up (shout out to my Starke twins!) and the comfort those people gave me during really difficult times...all that is mine to keep forever.