Steel City, I Love Thee

The other day, as I was driving through the tunnels and caught the most perfect view of the city of Pittsburgh, I realized that I've finally forgiven this city for breaking my heart.

It was here, at UPMC, that my world shattered like glass underneath me as we learned the results and the outlook of my mom's brain tumor biopsy. It was a sunny day in Pittsburgh as my mom wrapped her arms around me and my brother as we walked out of the Hilman cancer center and promised us that with whatever time she had left, she was going to make sure she told us and showed us over and over again how much she loved us. She apologized that day for what we had to go through, as only a mother would do after she was just diagnosed with terminal cancer.

It was her old neighborhood and the house she grew up in that my dad took her to see, shortly after her diagnosis, to remind her where she came from. She'd still have her moments where she couldn't remember what she'd just told us and we had to remind her to take her pills, but she was lucid enough to remember that house and tell us stories about living there. I didn't realize at the time that my dad probably did that just as much for us as he did for her.

It was that skyline that we'd see from the window as we got closer and closer to the hospital for every doctor's appointment. I remember thinking about how this city that was always home to me, no matter where I lived, was going to be so different after all was said and done. It was always going to be the place where I started to watch my mom fade away.

It was on her sister's front porch that we sat outside and I asked my mom if she remembered where I worked. She told me she was pretty sure I was a waitress. I laughed as my heart silently broke, realizing my own mom didn't remember such a huge part of my life. I told her I worked at SeaWorld, and her eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas, in awe of how "cool" that must be.

It was in North Park where we'd walk with her best friend Mary Ann, as they'd been doing for years before that, and they'd recount stories of their childhood. My mom remembered them and contributed to them less and less as the time went on, but she'd always go along with it. I still remember the last story time, on her brother's deck, when my mom was too weak to even respond. But she still mustered a smile and a head nod.

And it was in her brother's dining room that we set up a hospital bed for her, and would feed her and bathe her lay with her and talk to her, even when she was too tired to respond. It was in that room that we all said our goodbyes and thanked her for everything she was as she slipped away from us. I remember my aunt asking if it would be too difficult for us to be back in that room in their house after that. I often find Radar laying in there on the couch, and I just assume she's in there with him, petting him and thanking him for being my heart bandaid. It's my favorite room to sit in.

After we lost my mom, Neal and I tried to keep up the tradition we'd started of going to the Grand Concourse for dinner around Christmas time. It didn't last as long as I would have liked, since her diagnosis came two years after we decided it should be a tradition. We went as a group with some cousins, aunts and uncles and my dad, the year before we lost him. 

After losing my dad, I spent over a year away from Pennsylvania, and as much as I missed my family and talked about making a trip back up, avoiding coming back to all the difficult memories seemed easier than facing them head-on. So I put it off, and I put it off, and I put it off some more. I came back home for over a week around Christmas time with Radar, and was reminded how much I miss being here, surrounded by people I love so much. It started to sink in that the place that I may have been avoiding is the place that I can best find pieces of my parents in all their friends and family when I'm missing them more than usual.

The beginning of the summer had me more miserable and homesick than I've ever felt before, and I realized that my years spent avoiding taking time for myself in all the chaos of sickness and loss and funeral planning had finally caught up to me. I had made it a point to jump right back into work the second the dust settled, but in doing so, I never gave myself a chance to just absorb it all. I didn't let myself feel the sad moments in the difficult places because it seemed easier to just stay away from them.

At the beginning of the summer, I took a flying leap out of my comfort zone and left my job to figure out what it was that was missing from my life. I've spent a little over two months, on and off, in Pittsburgh, spending much needed time with family and friends. It has reminded me that THIS is home, and always will be, and my Pittsburgh roots were only strengthened by the life-altering events that have happened here. The moments and landmarks I thought would be so difficult to face are among my favorites, because I've conquered them in a sense. I've been reminded that the people in this city trump any and all demons that I ever thought resided here.

Thank you to the people who have helped me to fall back in love with the city of Pittsburgh. We'll probably be making it Facebook official soon. 

Fearless

"Are you scared?"

"No."

"Have you ever been scared?"

"No, not really."

I asked my mom these words about a month before she passed away. I laid down with her that night, next to her body that she had little control over by then and her face that went from being care-free and always smiling to a face that was beginning to look exhausted. Tired of fighting this disease that took over her brain and now her entire body. Tired of oncology appointments, tired of chemo, tired of it all. It was that night that I first uttered the words "When you get too tired, it's okay to let go. Neal and I will be okay. We'll miss you forever, but we'll get through it, I promise." She cracked a smile and softly said "thank you."

Today I'm laying in my backyard in a small inflatable boat filled with water (quite a topic transition, I know. Ps, did anyone else just realized it's spelled "segue" and not "segway"? Hence why I opted out of using the word completely.) It's the first time since I've lived in Florida that I have not had access to a pool. I forgot how relaxing it is to just be outside in the quiet while also not sweating to death. It's only 90 degrees, which means it will soon get a lot worse. Still, it's hot. As I was laying here trying not to die of heatstroke, a breeze swept across me and immediately, without even thinking about it, I hear my mom's voice saying "that breeze is heavenly." She used that word to describe many things; a cool breeze, the sun beating down on her face, and yes, let's be honest, probably while skinny dipping too. She used it to describe a smooth day out on the lake, when the water was smooth like glass and she could gracefully stay on her waterski until she just didn't feel like it anymore. She used it to describe the rare occasions when Neal or I would give her scalp massages or rub her back, and she used it when she tasted one of her favorite delicious foods...M&Ms, chocolate mousse, French Silk ice cream from Brusters, etc.

My mom always celebrated "mini miracles" in every day. Sunshine after days of dark clouds. A good find on the 3 dollar clearance rack that she'd later take back anyway. The duck that almost getting killed by a weasel but survived, even though she (?) didn't make it in the end. (RIP Stretch.) Getting to spend time with a good friend she hadn't seen in a while. Someone sharing one of their cigarettes with her on a Tuesday night, because everyone knew on Tuesday nights she'd go play darts and smoke one cigarette with her SoCo and lime.

She always described herself as "spiritual but not religious." Our nightly dinner prayer growing up was a line from her favorite Godspell song. "All good gifts around us...." We were raised Catholic, went to Mass a lot of Sundays, and both of us went through CCD (until Neal decided he wanted to be Presbyterian), but I think most of that was my dad's influence. I didn't go to communion for YEARS after my First Holy Communion in second grade because I didn't know which way the sign of the cross went. YEARS! She supported that. She didn't know it was because I was just a dumbass, but she didn't care. I didn't want to do it and she wasn't going to make me. She was also raised Catholic, but also often talked about what a contradiction it was to sit through Mass on a Sunday and then treat people like crap the rest of the week and think it's okay because of that one hour (an hour and a half with Father Bender, let's be honest) they spent in church every week. My mom chose to spend her entire week treating people well and being a good person. I never once doubted that she believed in God, because that was never a secret. But she found solace in that relationship when she was outside walking, not inside a church. 

My mom talked about death freely and openly as well. She always used to tell us "when I die, there are two things that I want you to do for me....I want to be cremated so you can scatter my ashes on Raystown lake, and I want you to make sure to get my gold tooth, because that could be worth something. It's pure gold." (For anyone wondering, yes we asked the people from the funeral home who came to the house after she passed if they could remove the gold tooth, yes they did look at us like we were crazy, and no the gold tooth was not extracted.) Neal told my dad, while we were talking about my mom's memorial service, "Listen, Phil. Since we're on the subject, we should probably ask what you want, too." My dad's response was "Oh, I don't care, I'll be dead anyway. Just cremate me, put me in a shoebox and set me out on a windy day." Pretty good summation of both of my parents, actually....my mom, frugal and always worried about saving money, and my dad, a complete smart ass.

I'm thankful that both of my parents believed there was something else beyond this. I'm glad my mom never made it a secret that she was at peace with whatever happened to her and I'm glad she spent her life with a constant awareness that tomorrow is never promised. And I'm thankful my dad always found comfort in religion, and that when I asked for a priest to come give him last rites, 4 priests showed up within 20 minutes of each other, which was comical in a very unfunny time.

Neal and I talked at one point early on in her illness about what would happen if my mom forgot who we were. We both agreed that we could deal with that, as long as she wasn't scared. 

We are so lucky to have the peace of mind that neither of our parents were afraid.

I'm sure my mom was delighted to be reunited with Stretch, and I'm sure they're frolicking through the meadows up there. And I'm sure my dad is there, rolling his eyes and trying to keep his distance, because he never did care much for birds.

The Kind of Friend I Want to Be

So first and foremost, I'm changing the voice of this blog back to the way it was in in the beginning, because now that my parents are both gone, I have more and more trouble writing TO them both and not leaving one of them of the conversation. Is that weird? That's weird, isn't it? Also, it's kind of depressing to write to people who are gone and probably don't even have internet access where they are now. Moving on....

"Thank you for the joy you have given me."

Mary Ann's last words to my mom still pop into my head just about daily. They had a lifelong friendship that stood the test of time for these two incredible women who were both free spirited and also a little scandalous. They'd spend hours having breakfast together, which turned into lunch, and maybe sometimes even dinner...but it always ended with an order of Chocolate Mousse for my mom. Unsure of Mary Ann's dessert preferences, but I'm sure they each ordered their favorite, because, well...YOLO. My mom was the middle child and a rebel by trade. She didn't follow the rules even when she was younger, and that carried over into the perfect mom she became. "Clothing required" sign? Yeah, that's totally optional. Coed sleepovers for your daughter and a bunch of her teenage friends in your basement where you'd give them complete privacy? Totally okay. Claiming that all 12 players on your daughter's soccer team are your children so they can all see an R rated movie? Seems fine. When I was in preschool or Kindergarten, my teacher told her I was having trouble coloring inside the lines. (Is anyone really surprised about my lack of artistic talent since basically birth? Didn't think so. Please send requests if you'd like me to draw you a nice stick figure version of your family.) My mom talked to me about it after she gave the teacher a piece of her mind, and told me nobody could EVER make me color inside the lines. When I got older and she told me the story again, it was so much more than a bunch of purple crayon outside of the grapes that were outlined on the page to fill in. It was the motto for her life, and she wanted me and Neal to follow suit and be who we were and not who the world expected or pressured us to be. But I suspect the reason she was comfortable with who she was, even if it wasn't mainstream, was because she knew she always had her best friend next to her and I'd bet money on the fact that they always inspired and encouraged each other to be the person each of them wanted to be.

Mary Ann was a part of our life since I was born, and when she was with my mom around us, they were the same unapologetic trouble makers they were when Neal and I became adults. They didn't try to behave in front of us when we were young kids to shield us from stories of their younger days when they were (still) breaking the rules, they just were who they were, and along with my dad's lifelong friendships, it set the foundation for Neal and me to want to have the type of friendships both of our parents did.

When my mom got really bad toward the end of her battle with stupid F-ing brain cancer, Mary Ann sat with her on the back porch and recounted all of the memories she could think of from all the years they spent together. Sometimes it was me who asked for them. Because I wanted to hear those stories when they were both sitting next to each other, even if my mom could barely form sentences by that point and even though she was no longer able to provide her own memories to add to the stories. Mary Ann would tell a story and say "Remember that, Jul?" God, did they love each other in the most genuine of ways. If my mom were still healthy, she would have laughed her loud and perfect laugh that I probably got from her and said "I sure do, Mare!" And flashed that dimple on her left cheek as she smiled that smile that went all the way up to her sparkly blue eyes. Instead, she just shook her head yes with all the effort she could muster.

Mary Ann visited my mom often, even though each time broke her heart more and more. She and my dad became closer than ever, because I think she of all people knew how much he loved my mom and how special it was that he stepped up to take care of her, even after they had been divorced for 20 years. He always said, "I'd do anything for your mother except marry her again." And damn, did he prove that to be accurate. My dad and Mary Ann both kept brave faces on and tried to smile, probably for my mom and for me and Neal. But I know behind closed doors, they were both broken and struggling with seeing her transformation over the course of a year. By the end, it was even harder to see such a drastic change in speech and cognitive and physical ability in such a short time. But as hard as it was for Mary Ann to see, she came to visit her every chance she got. At one point, I asked her to scratch my back when we were sitting next to each other. My dad looked at her and said "wow, that's quite an honor. Usually her mom is the one that always scratched her back." She was in living room with all of us when the hospice nurse was called over because we were recognizing some of the signs she mentioned we would see and when we saw them, we were to call her immediately. I don't remember what time it was, but it was late and I remember all of us apologizing for calling her at that time. She showed up in beautiful leopard print clogs, a royal cinderella! She took one look at my mom, who hadn't woken up all day, and noticed her purple knees and said "I'm glad you called."

She didn't want to talk about my mom in front of her, so she pulled us all down into the living room. She told us if she were to guess, we were probably looking at about 48 hours, if that. We knew it was coming, but I remember feeling like I had just been throat punched and judging by the looks on everyone else's face, they all felt similarly. We were told to call anyone who needed a chance to say goodbye to her immediately. Mary Ann returned early the next morning, walked into the room my mom was in, leaned down to her bed and said quietly "Thank you for the joy you have given me." Mary Ann pulled up a chair next to Neal as he sat right next to her bed, wanting to spend every last second right beside her. He looked up at me and Aunt Lirda at one point and said "no matter how many times I tell her I love her, it will still never, ever be enough." Mary Ann hugged him and put her hand on his shoulder and then tried to help him through "I'll Love You Forever" as he read it to my mom. It was the book my mom always got him for any momentous occasion, and how much life emulated that book for them, with the boy saying the poem to his sick mother...one last time...at the end of the book.

Mary Ann gave the eulogy at the memorial and it was perfect. She stuck by us through all the difficult days that followed the day my mom finally let go and stopped fighting. She told us more stories about the trouble they got into together. And she opened my eyes to the fact that friendships like theirs are still something I will always strive for; that I'll always try to be the friend they were to each other, and that when my own time comes, someone will be standing next to me, thanking me for the joy I hopefully will have brought to them. Or at least for having an awesome dog....

When Words Don't Suffice

Yesterday was the one year anniversary of Nikki's baby girl leaving this world. I hate that no words made yesterday easier for their family and that this is a battle they've each had to deal with in their own way, just as everyone does with grief.

I think a lot about my friendship with Nikki and Amanda, two women who started out as co workers and who ended up becoming lifelong friends. 

I remember the day I found out that Nikki had lost her mom. I was ringing up an order for a woman who knew the family, and Nikki had walked past us and waved to the woman. As she walked away, the customer mentioned that Nikki had lost her mom and had done an amazing job looking after her younger siblings. I don't know that I've ever even shared this story with her, but I remember thinking how impossible it seemed that this incredibly strong girl, who was so confident and so much fun and full of life, had suffered such a huge loss at such a young age. I couldn't imagine, and just the thought of losing either of my parents made me sick to my stomach. When she was shopping for the perfect wedding dress, I remember mom mentioning how much it broke her heart to know her mom was missing from such a major life event. I think she even offered to go with her, which would have been weird, especially if she wasn't wearing waterproof mascara.

It's crazy to think this college friendship that formed over a lot of alcohol, long shifts and Nik's inability to say "no" when a guy asked her out on a date turned into one in which the three of us were bonded by loss; Nikki losing her mom, Amanda losing her dad a few years after graduating from Penn State, and me losing mom and then dad. 

How does that happen? How do we have exactly the people we need in our lives to see us through the toughest moments of our existence?

Neal and I have both been lucky enough to have friends that have seen us through hell and high water. I get chills when I think about Alyssa going to sit next to dad in the hospital and hold his hand and tell him we were on our way to him, just so he wasn't alone. He wasn't conscious, but I know he had to have felt her there. And Brux, meeting me at the hospital that day. The pained look on her face when I walked into the hospital after she sent a text that said something along the lines of "the doctors need to talk to you. They need you to make a decision, honey." And she sat in the waiting room with me after I gave them permission to operate, knowing there was an 80% mortality rate and there was a good chance they'd lose him on the operating table. Christy, Alyssa and Kate...one of Neal's other wonderful friends. Probably a million places they'd rather be than sitting in that cold room, but they did not budge. 

And the moment dad let go, when Neal hadn't gotten there yet, his two best friends since childhood were in that room. And Alyssa. And Kaitlyn. And they all sat with dad, after he was already gone, just in case Neal wanted the chance to see him and say goodbye. Those kinds of friends are the ones you can't even begin to thank. You can't even put it into words how much you love them. 

Just like mom's best friend Mary Ann said to us about her: "Sometimes, you love a person so much that there just aren't even words to describe it." On the day mom left, Mary Ann sat next to Neal with her hand on his back, all of us sobbing, as he read "I'll Love You Forever" to her, one last time. They sat there together, knowing it was almost the end. Neal looked up at Aunt Linda, somewhat echoing Mary Ann's sentiment, and said "I have told her I love her so many times, and it still will never be enough." Mom's earliest partner in crime sat next to her as she took her last breath, and my earliest partner in crime set next to me and watched her free spirited aunt, godmother, and big sister of her own mom, go. 

All these linked connections with all these humans, and as each of your lives played back to you as you each went, I'm certain those were the faces who were there for your happiest memories. Those are the people who made your life.

And how incredible that Neal and I inherited friends that are similar in importance and love and unwavering support as the ones you both had. Dad with the faux fam; mom with Mary Ann and Diane. People who would have done the same for you both, and probably did at one point or another, a generation before. People who continue to be there for us, to give us that connection to you both and to look out for us as we go through the rest of our lives without you.

So while I wish I could fix my favorite people on days when they feel especially broken, I know from experience that all I can do is just be there for them, however I can, as others have been there for me.