The Sisters

These past couple nights have been awfully sad, both because my mom is gone and also because of other things that really have no business in my life as extra burdens. I will not elaborate on these types of things because I promised myself when I started writing that I would not rake anyone over the coals for the public to read, even if they deserve it. All I will say is that the Cleveland house I was staying in is no longer an option for my anymore, which breaks my heart even more than before. It was my get-away, a place where I felt like an adult, where I felt like I could escape the reality of my house and the sad memories that lurk around every corner. But this chapter closed this morning.

Last night, my boyfriend and I packed up the entire house by ourselves and filled boxes with my belongings. This morning we could barely see out of his back window as we drove home, but I am pleased that it is over and did not have to be drawn out any longer than necessary. We also dropped off more donations to Hope Lodge, and my heart hurt to know that my mom wasn't waiting for me inside like she should be at this time. Right now, if all had gone well, she would be recuperating in her little room at the Lodge, and I would have been so excited to walk through those doors. I am now completed with my internship for school, and the free days through the week would have been amazing to spend them with my mom, after having to give up so much time with her for either school, my rotations, or her hospitalization. Those times are over. Another chapter closed.

I looked at Adrian as I got out of the car and said, "I wish we were visiting mom," as my eyes filled with tears. We unloaded his car with several boxes and two bags filled with napkins, paper towels, canned goods, and cleaning supplies. One of the bags had a small envelope of donations from mom's funeral, since we asked for money for Hope Lodge in lieu of flowers. It was nice to be able to selflessly hand these items over, but I couldn't help but feel that I wasn't there for that purpose. I looked into the kitchen and noticed a few women, all with no hair, sitting at a table talking. This is similar to the first image I ever had of Hope Lodge, the first time I visited the facility to give my mom the low-down. Three women sitting at a kitchen table talking and laughing. I think they were playing a board game of some kind. She asked me what it was like. I told her all about the spacious rooms and the back patio with the fish pond and flowers and library. I told her about the women sitting at the table. "And you'll make tons of friends there. There were these women, none of them had hair and they were playing a game together. Won't that be fun? And you'll get to know more people in your situation that understand exactly what you're going through." I told her I was really excited for her to be able to have some friends that understood, since none of us could. I just wanted her to be happy there. I think she would have really liked it.

She was so worried about the holidays and being able to enjoy Thanksgiving and Christmas away from her family. We all had a plan to take the holidays to her and to cook for the entire facility sometime around Christmas day. She didn't understand that we were more worried about her not being with us. But like I said, that chapter is closed.
On Black Friday, while everyone was out shopping for bargains and pushing through holiday traffic, my aunts and I put flowers on all the graves of the people we loved and missed. Aunt Polly's favorite bird was the cardinal, and we found a grave pillow with white ribbon and cardinals on it. My grandpa, who died before I could meet him, also of cancer, got a grave pillow with a pheasant in a nest. We picked out this really great one for my grandma with sparkly, silvery spirals among the green pine branches. My mom is buried in a mausoleum, so we got her this fake flower arrangement we could leave near her niche. It was from her sisters and I. It had 3 red roses for Aunt Becky, Aunt Janny, and Aunt Rita, and one white rose for me. It had a gold ribbon around the bottom of it, and she would have really liked it because it was simple and pretty and meaningful.What I would really like to focus on, rather than the sad moments during the past few days of my life, is the amazing night we all spent together that Friday night. I can guarantee you that you have never seen another group of people like my family. After delivering the flowers and grave pillows, we decided to have a girls night at Aunt Janny's house. Just that morning, she was crying. "I have never been so sad in all my life. I just can't believe it. This isn't how it's supposed to be," she said as we sat in her bed watching a movie. I felt so bad for her. Sometimes I think I feel worse for my mom's sisters than I do for myself. We arrived at Aunt Rita's shop where we picked up the flowers and she was showing us the arrangement she created for mom's niche. Even before she began to speak she choked up and barely was able to speak the words, "Three red roses for us and one white one for Julie." Aunt Becky and Aunt Janny started to cry also, and then one of the ladies working in the shop cried just from watching them. I stood there and watched them, straight-faced and quiet. I can't believe the devastation this has caused throughout all of our lives, especially theirs. On the way to the cemetery they cried as they discussed plans for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. Aunt Janny mentioned that she'd like a year off, and most of us agree that one year off to heal would be better than trying to suffer through the chaos and cheer with a forced holiday spirit. Aunt Janny sighed and said, "I don't know." Aunt Rita nodded and said, "You just feel so hurt, right down to your soul." She cried a lot. But she hit the bulls eye. Hurt. Right down to your soul. That's exactly it.

Despite that morning and the hurt and sorrow we all felt as we placed the grave pillows and flowers at each one of our loved ones' resting places, we rebounded in such a way that thinking about it now still makes me smile. We went to K-Mart and bought almost $50 worth of candy and board games. We went back to Aunt Janny's house and heated up Thanksgiving left overs, drank cranberry wine, and played board games all night. Two of my closest friends came over and we laughed and ate and played until almost one in the morning. I laughed so hard I had a headache. The next morning my abs were sore, but I felt renewed to go running in the cold air. Nothing warms your soul more than a night filled with laughter and friends.

Sometimes, I am in awe of my family. They don't realize just how special they are, I think. I can't tell you how many times I have been told how lucky I am to have such a family, and I most definitely know how blessed I am. There are many things these days that I am unsure of, but my pride and love of my family is something that I do not doubt for a second. Instead of wallowing and crying and laying in bed in the dark all day, after losing two sisters from cancer in seven months, they come together, and although there are tears, there are also laughs and smiles. In fact, these far outweigh the amount of tears that are shed. I know they are sad, and I can't imagine how it must feel to watch a sister die, let alone two. I do not have a sister. I only know what it feels like to lose two of the most important people in my life side-by-side, both from cancer. My heart hurts for myself, of course, but it does not compare sometimes to the hurt I feel for them. Five sisters down to three. In one year. As I watched them laugh and joke and giggle and smile that night, I felt as though they had something special tying them together that most people will never be lucky enough to understand. It is amazing the strength that people possess within them without even knowing fully its extent. They are amazing.

For me, this only strengthens my feelings for Aunt Polly being alone in Heaven and how one of them had to go with her. I can't imagine being separated from such a group of sisters, from the women you grew up with and the women you relied on your entire life. Through school, boyfriends, broken hearts, weddings, children, divorce, holiday after holiday, death of their parents, cancer, chemotherapy...They had a bond that went far beyond that of sisterhood. I will never understand where they got their strength from, but one thing I am sure of is that I possess that unclear, sometimes confusing strength as well. I am very thankful for it and now understand that without it, I would not have been able to deliver Aunt Polly's eulogy the way I needed to or stand in front of the congregation during mom's funeral and say what I wanted to say. I never cried, I never choked up, I never stopped talking. I did what I needed to and in the way I wanted to, only focusing on my love for them and what I owed them for all they did for me. I will never be able to repay them, and simply speaking at their funerals will never be able to return my gratitude. All I know is that after I sat down, after saying what I needed to say, I didn't understand how I got through it, but I did. I always watched the two of them, and I was so in awe of how unbelievably strong they were, and I am slowly learning now that I have some of that strength too. The saying "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger" comes to mind. I am stronger than I ever imagined. Just like they were. I thought I was going to die right alongside my mom, but I didn't. I am realizing the strength I possess, and I am so thankful to have such a wonderful trait from them.

Everyone calls them "The Sisters." Whenever we would go on vacation together, we called it a "Sisters' Trip." Whenever one of us had a very close friend over during a sisters' get-together, that friend was called an "Honorary Sister." Even though I am their niece, rather than their sister, I have been so honored to be considered a part of The Sisters over the years. Some of my fondest memories have been spent with them, and I will never be able to say in words just how thankful I am to have had them in my life. I will never forget our Sisters' Trip to Disney World as a last hoorah with Aunt Polly. Little did we know that it was also our last hoorah with my mom too. Aunt Polly's favorite character was Jiminy Cricket, and she really wanted to meet him since she knew it was her last time in Disney. Our very first day there, we walked through the gates of Magic Kingdom and Jiminy Cricket stood just around the corner. I never saw a look on anyone's face like the looks on my aunts' faces that day. It will be etched in my mind forever. We stood in line to meet him, and when we finally got there, he gave Aunt Polly a big hug, and she was dressed from head to toe in Jiminy Cricket things. She cried, and she yelled, "Oh Jiminy! I'm your biggest fan!" We all cried. We knew how special it was, more so than just any other trip to Disney World.

There are places we have claimed as our own that will no longer hold the same meaning now that The Sisters have been separated. Amish Country, the First Ladies Tea Room, Berlin Lake, and Disney World are just a few of these places. They no longer hold the magic they did when we were all together. I guess now, as the newly arranged Sisters, we will just have to find new places to conquer. New places to make memories and new places to heal all of our hearts.

One thing I am sure of is that "Game Night" will be our newest Sisters tradition, because it was the first time we realized that we will all be ok.

My sign from Heaven, finally

I think I have received the sign I was looking for, finally. From a couple posts back, I had mentioned that I really wanted a sign that my mom was ok in Heaven. I think I got it two nights ago.

Thanksgiving night, I had a dream about her again, my second one since she died. It started with her in her hospital bed in ICU right after she passed away, a very horrifying picture that I still can't believe I ever saw. Her eyes were only partly closed, her mouth was wide open with blood dried in the cracks of her lips. I laid my head on her chest to listen for a heart beat, to feel her lungs fill with air. Nothing. I placed her arms around me as I laid on her chest, so she and I could embrace one last time. The only thing that comforted me was the weight of her arms from all the edema, because it actually felt like she was hugging me back, but in reality, of course, we all know differently. This is where my dream began, in the room with her, rising from her chest and preparing to say my very final goodbye to her before I left the ICU unit. You know how in dreams you just understand what's going on, even if it's not actually said? Well, I knew that I was going to be given another chance to save her life, and all of the sudden, I was back to Monday, the day before I came up to the hospital to see her and find out she had an infection. I knew it was Monday, and I knew she had this awful infection that was the reason for her death, so I went to the hospital and begged every nurse I could find to put her on antibiotics. I kept saying, "She's really sick. She has an infection, I know it. It's the only way we can save her." And no one would listen to me. And Tuesday came, and I relived everything that had happened since I set foot in her bone marrow transplant room, all the way until Thursday morning when she died in ICU. I was so broken by this, feeling these emotions in my dream. Like I had failed, like I had let her down. I'm sure this paralleled well with my life the last 6 months, hoping and praying that there was something I could do to help, to change the situation in some way. But I couldn't. I couldn't do anything. None of us could. I understand that now.

I woke up from my dream, completely horrified and upset that I couldn't just have an enjoyable dream about my mom, that it had to be so mortifying, like digging the knife in the wound deeper and deeper. I got up, washed my face and brushed my teeth, and I as I looked at myself in the mirror, everything became very clear to me. I stopped what I was doing and stood there, almost in a trance. It occurred to me: This was my sign. My dream was my sign. She's ok. There was nothing any of us could have done no matter how many chances we were given. It wasn't a game show-there were no do-overs. That was it. It happened the way it was supposed to. And she was ok.

Later that day, I told Aunt Janny about my dream. I told her that it meant that there was nothing we could do to fix it. I could see her eyes fill with tears, and she said, "Sometimes I just think that things happen the way they are supposed to." I agreed, and although that reason is often hard to understand or to discover. Sometimes it just is what it is. I nodded my head and said, "There's no way Aunt Polly could be alone. She wouldn't have been able to stand being away from you guys. She had you all for so long, and she never liked to be alone, ever." Aunt Janny nodded, knowing that Aunt Polly loved to be surrounded by company, right until her dying breath. Even during the last days of her life, when she would wake up and gain consciousness, she would look around the room to see who was with her. It was true. Aunt Polly needed a sister. She chose my mom.

Maybe she already knew long before any of us ever did who was going to be her companion in Heaven.

45 of my biggest fears

My friend and I went to the mall today just for something to do and we went to Victoria's Secret. I literally do not understand what happened but I completely broke down in the store, and it was absolutely mortifying. I have not been to the mall in months and months, and oftentimes, my mom and I would go on a Saturday just to walk around and look at stuff. We didn't really need to be doing anything in particular, we just liked to be together and out and about visiting with each other and away from the house. I really liked these days with her and long before she died, while she was going through chemo, I missed these days the most. Because, sadly, our Saturdays together turned into sitting in the hospital or laying in bed watching Top Chef marathons at home. Today especially, my heart ached as soon as I walked into the store and I missed her so much that I felt like I might die right there among the lace and bows. I am not sure if feeling this way after almost two months is ok. I know that I will be sad forever, but in a different sort of way. It will always linger around my heart, but I really thought this overwhelming, on-the-surface-for-everyone-to-see kind of sadness would have lessened by now. I am sometimes afraid that it will never go away.

I am afraid of tons of things. Last night, a friend and I were talking about things we were afraid of, and for some reason...maybe because of the insomnia...I decided to make a list of things that scare me.

I am afraid of...
1. not being viewed as a good person or a good friend
2. my mom being disappointed in me that I am still so sad
3. the government caring more about money than our safety (especially after I watched the movie Food Inc.)
4. waking up one morning and all of my teeth have fallen out ( I was told by my dentist that this type of fear, especially in dreams, relates to growing up and becoming independent)
5. accidentally breaking my marble candle holder that holds my mom's ashes
6. being smashed by a semi-truck on the highway
7. not being able to see my mom again in Heaven
8. God being mad at me for worrying about and doubting the chance to see her again in Heaven
9. being eaten alive by a bear (or other large, wild beastly thing)
10. blimps (I was recently made fun of for this but I must say: it's a huge balloon with a basket attached to it...I question its control, safety, and flammability)
11. my mom being mad at me for getting another tattoo
12. one of my friends dying from trying to eat those 911 wings
13. not being able to ever work in the Cleveland Clinic Wellness Department
14. not being able to meet Ellen Degeneres just to tell her she makes me smile
15. reliving images from the last 3 days of my mom's life
16. being diagnosed with cancer
17. another of my family members or friends being diagnosed with cancer
18. not getting to eat any of the food from Top Chef
19. knowing that my mom was fully aware of what was happening to her
20. losing the magic on special days like graduation and my wedding because she won't be there
21. my children not knowing how amazingly wonderful and brave and beautiful their grandma Gail was
22. my mom and Aunt Polly not knowing how much I truly loved them and just exactly how much they meant to me
23. being wrongly accused of something (as stupid as a misunderstood character flaw to something as serious as a murder)
24. being separated by my family in some way
25. any of the events from that movie 2012 (I worry about this one a lot)
26. not being a good dietitian and not being useful to anyone
27. finding a bug in my food and realizing I have eaten part of it
28. my shyness being confused for snobiness
29. being bitten by a black widow or brown recluse spider
30. watching someone else die (I'm on numero quatro)
31. having to make the decision to turn off someone's life support (...again)
32. my toenails or fingernails falling off
33. forgetting my mom's face and her beautiful, gentle smile
34. losing my desire to take care of my body
35. getting my shoelaces stuck in my bike pedals and falling over
36. forgetting the sound of my Aunt Polly's laugh and the picture I have in my head of her dancing to Michael Jackson records while we were Spring-cleaning her house
37. being force-fed runny oatmeal
38. hurting someone's feelings
39. never finding a cure for cancer
40. forgetting the words to "Eleanor" by The Turtles (My aunts and mom and I used to sing this together when it would come on the radio as loud as we could)
41. not being able to help someone in my lifetime
42. getting my pant leg stuck in an escalator
43. plummeting to my death in an airplane while trying to visit Croatia, Italy, England, Wales, Poland, and Germany (or ever)
44. being underestimated before being allowed a chance at something
45. regretting the decision to not join the Army

Obviously, I am afraid of a lot of things, some of them stupid but some of them serious, like disappointing my mom or not living up to a promise. I worry about these things more than I should, but this is a trait I got honestly, as my mom and all of my Aunts are worriers without a doubt. The last thing I added to my list of fears was "letting these things stand in my way of living, especially in the memory of those in my life who are living no longer." I don't want to be stopped from doing something because I worry about it too much, especially because not only would my mom and Aunt Polly not let anything stop them from doing something but also because they would be disappointed if I did. One thing is for certain: I will never give up on something simply because I am afraid. This is not how they lived their lives, and I will not allow myself a missed opportunity to enjoy my life. Their time was cut too short on Earth. Who knows how much longer I will live. I could be hit by a bus tomorrow, or I could die peacefully in my sleep when I am 100. Who knows. What I do know, though, is that I do not want to be 99 years and 364 days old worrying about what I didn't do with my time.

Half-ass Hugs

I am a people-watcher. In fact, if people-watching could be a sport, I would have taken the gold years ago. I don't know what it is but I just think people are so fascinating, especially when they are just themselves without having to worry about impressing someone or trying to be something they're not. Tonight I went to my favorite coffee house for "open mic night" where people can play music and sing just for fun. I am sure you've been to places like this before and most of the time, the music is just mediocre but every once in a while you'll get a really great person to listen to, and luckily tonight, almost everyone was wonderful and I was so happy to be out of my house, out of school, spending time with my best friend, and just listening to some good music. This may not be thrilling to some, but for others, it makes for a perfect night.

Because it is so close to Thanksgiving break, the place was packed with college kids reuniting with friends and returning to their favorite Tuesday-night spot. I had so much fun watching everyone! I hope this doesn't make me creepy. I don't mean it in that way, I'm just fascinated by people and psychology and interaction, and because I tend to notice little things that often go unnoticed, maybe I enjoy people-watching a little more the average "novice." That's a little people-watching-champion sarcasm for you...

One thing I noticed all through the room tonight was the half-ass hug. I hate the half-ass hug, because I think it proclaims its title so well. You know that hug where people only put one arm lightly around you and arch their neck and angle their head in such a way that you feel as though you are dirty or somehow completely and utterly unhuggable? Where your bodies don't even touch and their other arm just hangs like a limp chicken at their side? Why do people do this? I don't know. What's wrong with just actually hugging someone? I feel that hugs like this scream "I guess I like you, but I don't like you enough to hug you like I actually mean it!" I'm sure this is in part due to my mom's influence.

When I was in sixth grade, one of my favorite teachers got married. She was everyone's favorite teacher, and she was kind enough to invite her students to the ceremony. My mom and I were sitting behind a row of girls from my school, and as they greeted her and gave her a hug, each one of them only gave her a half-ass hug. I didn't notice, to be honest, but my mom leaned over and whispered to me, "Make sure you hug her with both arms and thank her for inviting you..." I thought this was silly, she was always such a Miss Manners, but when I noticed that none of the girls were actually hugging her, I realized how it looked and how I wanted to make sure that my teacher knew I was really happy for her and happy to be there. Sometimes, I don't think people realize what a small thing like a hug can say. And when you don't give a hug like you actually mean it, it says an awful lot. I guess if you aren't going to hug someone like you mean it, then don't even bother.

Kind of like in the movie Bambi when Thumper's mom says, "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all..."

My mom used to say this to me all the time. I find so many things around me that remind me of her and how much I loved her, how much I still love her now, maybe even more so than I did yesterday and the day before that. I have not hugged her in 72 days. She died on the earliest possibly day we were allowed to take her to Hope Lodge, day 15, although she would have needed 24-hour care. She has been in Heaven for 47 days, and today, she would have been 62 days old if everything had gone correctly with her transplant. It is weird to think that by now, she could have been staying in Hope Lodge and recovering for nearly two months, anticipating Christmas and more importantly, anticipating her return home sometime in January. Today, she would have been 59 years and 44 days old. Today, I am 24 years and 19 days old. She was far too young to die, and I am far too young to be here without her. I feel like I am just a little girl without her.

I'm sure that I will never be able to watch Bambi again.

One thing that brightened my night, despite a room full of half-ass hugs, was seeing one of the girls whose father just died of colon cancer. I do not know her well, I know her older sister better, but before she left, she waved to me and my friend and said, "Bye! Love you guys!" I literally have only talked to this girl maybe once or twice in my life, but her saying what she did somehow didn't surprise me. She is such a lover, and she came from a family of lovers who taught their children well.

I think it is absolutely remarkable that a girl who has just watched her father take his last breath because of an evil, take-no-prisoners disease like cancer can embrace love and people the way she does. I find it amazing that after such a terribly heart-breaking event that she still has such a capacity to love, when most people can't even care enough to give someone a full hug. I would love to see the world filled with more people like her.

Give someone a genuine hug today. Please. It speaks much more than words can ever say.

The choice between Better and Worse

Yesterday, almost every hour, I picked up the phone to call my mom. I kept thinking to myself, "I haven't talked to my mom in so long!" When she was alive, we talked several times a day if we weren't together, if she was at work, or when she was at the Cleveland Clinic. Every couple of hours I would call her if she hadn't called me, and our conversations always felt like we hadn't talked all day because even in the short amount of time that passed, we had so many things to tell each other. She was my best friend.

Sometimes, even though I still live at home, I have a huge family and a boyfriend and I have so many friends and classmates, I feel really lonely. I feel like I'm by myself and have no one to talk to. This feeling was intensified yesterday every time I wanted to call my mom. I cried when I was in my car by myself driving to Cleveland last night because I had so many things to talk about and share but no one, I felt, to share them with. I am so surprised that although you can talk about the same things with people as you would with your mom, it doesn't feel the same at all. The other person I would have called if I couldn't talk to my mom would have been my Aunt Polly. I keep a lot of things to myself these days. Sometimes, I feel like am going to explode, but I just end up crying instead.

Recently, I have been job searching. I had no idea how hard it was, because I have always been lucky enough to acquire a job so easily. But now that I am ready to graduate and ready to find a "career," rather than just a job, there are a lot of decisions to be made and you have to know how to play "the game," which I am not good at, apparently. I worry about how much money I should ask for, ideas of where to apply to, how to "sell myself" to potential employers. I know that there are many people in my life that I could bounce these questions off of, but my mom is the only one I want advice from. She is the only one I have ever gone to.

I am not good at adjusting.

I know this sounds really sad but I am not sad. I am just missing her in a normal fashion, I suppose. I think that maybe that really deep, heart-breaking ache in my body is finally gone, so I can now move on to simply just missing her. Before, my bones ached so bad from missing her. I was sick to my stomach and my brain felt fuzzy all the time. Now, I find things in my life, like job searching, that will never be easy without her, but my body does not feel near as broken and distraught as it did. I guess this is something to be happy about.

Just re-reading that, I do think it is a little sad that I have to find things in my life like "not feeling near as broken and distraught" to be happy about. I just can't feel miserable anymore, I won't let it continue. I am allowing myself to be sad but not miserable.

The funny thing is about being miserable is that there is nothing else except being miserable. There are many things, emotions, thoughts, whatever, that you can experience simultaneously in your average day, but when you are miserable, a really true kind of miserable, that is all your brain and your body know. Nothing but miserable.

Down Miserable Road, there are only two ways to go. It forks off into Better and Worse. When you find yourself on this path, the only person that can choose which direction to take is you. No one else can help you, no one else can decide for you. Down Worse Boulevard lies a pitch-black outlook, one full of hopelessness and Earth-shattering loss. The streets are boarded up with no sign of life and terrible, life-ruining temptations lurk around every corner. The plus-side to Worse Boulevard is that it offers, if you are strong enough, a chance to turn around and head the the other way. You can dust yourself off, point yourself in the opposite direction, and high-tale it out of that neighborhood. While the journey back to the fork in Miserable Road is a little more challenging, it is utterly and completely worth it.

Down Better Avenue lies your life, the one you created for yourself long before this terrible tragedy occurred. It is what you have made of it, what you have made for yourself and it offers the opportunity to continue from where you left off. Walking down Better Avenue feels lighter and less resistant. Even the air is fresher here. At the horizon where Better Avenue extends as far as the eye can see, the sun is rising and the light of a new day enters into view.

I am here. I am on Better Avenue. It is filled with jobs galore, running paths, bowls of carrot salad and pans of lasagna, reminders of my mom and Aunt Polly, flowers, a drive-in theater with Meg Ryan movies, the smell of Pumpkin Spice, and speakers blaring Stan Getz, Electric Touch, Aretha Franklin, and The Beatles. Apple and orange trees line the sidewalks that lead to old, beautiful farm houses. The sun is shining, a slight breeze is whistling by, and hope lies at the end of the street. Sometimes, among all the distractions, it can be hard to find, but eventually, as you let yourself enjoy the surroundings and allow the love and care from your angels flow through you, hope finally makes its way into your vision.

I am not at the end of the street yet, but I have chosen to take Better Avenue and see where it leads. I am enjoying the view, and my heart is lighter already.

A sign

Last night, I finally had a dream about my mom. Finally. I have been waiting for so long, and it was very welcomed.

All last evening, I re-read my Facebook updates and blog posts, mostly to face my demons, so to speak. I wanted to look at the big picture, the entire picture that began with my Aunt Polly and led into my mom. While it was difficult to relive so many of these thoughts and memories and all the devastation that came with them, I now am more fully aware of what my family has gone through and also what I have gone through myself. Although I do not feel like clicking my heels or singing a song, I do feel happy with conquering some of my fears of facing her death head on and building a more solid foundation of reality that is now my life. I do not like that she is gone, but that is part of the reason why I am still as miserable as I am. She is gone. No one can change it or fix it, but I can at least move further down the road towards recovery. I thought the challenge of re-reading everything really helped.

Reading about her for hours upon hours is, I'm sure, what prompted my dream last night. My brain was filled with her. It missed her and it continued that image long into the night.

We were on vacation, my parents and Adrian and I. We were staying in a log cabin on the water with a huge wrap-around porch that turned into a dock. Dad was gone scuba diving, and I'm not sure where Adrian was but I knew he wasn't in the house. My mom and I were together and alone, just the two of us. She was wearing her long, white, lacy nightgown with her skinny little body underneath from chemo. She had no hair and still had her PICC line in her arm with a bandage around it. While she looked like this, I knew in my dream that she no longer had cancer. I'm not sure why we were there, if it was a celebratory get-away or a short vacation before her last chemo...I don't know. I like in dreams how you don't understand the dynamics or why exactly the events are happening, but you somehow know the emotions and feelings and reasons for all of them. She didn't have cancer, we were enjoying our new time together, and I was so amazingly happy to be with her I actually felt calm, for the first time in a long time. I also like how dreams can impose these emotions until you wake up. I still felt calm and happy and serene to be with her again.

This feeling, however, melted away as I realized I was laying in my bed, in my empty house, in my reality that no longer contains her. But it somehow wasn't as crushing, that realization that she's gone. The contentment I felt lingering from the dream lessened the blow, I think.

As I read through my blog posts, I realized how sad yet hopeful most of them sound. I remember worrying that she might die, that she might miss my wedding and other important events in my life. I wrote about that so many times and they were all filled with so many worries of loss and death, long before it ever occurred. I am sorry at how scared I was and how afraid I was for her life and for my heart, and I often focused on that rather than trying to stay positive. I think my realistic view can be mistaken as a negative view. Cancer kills people. Bone marrow transplants kill people. My mom had cancer. My mom was having a bone marrow transplant. I knew the reality, and I felt no other emotion but fear at the time.

It obviously was a valid concern, seeing as she is no longer in this world for that very reason.

Sometimes, I am afraid that all of my worrying and fretting and anger caused her to die. Almost like a self-fulfilling prophecy. I don't know if you know what this is, but it is when you think about something happening long and hard enough that it actually does occur. I hope that I am not the reason that she is gone, that my "reality" (not "negativity") took her from me, and I wonder if the outcome would be any different if I would have been overwhelmingly positive about the whole thing. Sometimes I am afraid this is all my fault.

However, I understand that this type of thinking is what gets people into trouble, and oddly enough, I am more likely to attribute her death to my realistic, rather than positive, point of view rather than the fact that I was one of the people involved in the decision to pull her life support. If there is anything to feel guilty about, I suppose this is it. But I do not for one second feel guilty about this--not at all. Living with machines and medicine is not living--not at all.

I have been told that after a loved one's death, dreams are a way for them to let you know that they are ok. In fact, I have heard of accounts where the person in Heaven actually goes as far enough to say "I'm ok" in the dream. When I was discussing this with someone, I said, "I hope I have a dream like that!" All I have wondered since she passed away is if she is ok in Heaven, if she likes it, if she's with Aunt Polly, and if she has settled in and finally getting used to the idea that she is gone. I would imagine that this process is similar to the process on Earth and the one I am currently facing, attempting to understand and continue my new life without her.

Also, I think it is odd that my view of her, either just day-dreaming or actually dreaming of her, is bald and thin from chemo, rather than healthy and glowing with a full head of hair. To be completely honest, I liked my mom without hair just as much as I liked her with it! I guess I tend to picture her this way because it is what I saw of her for the last several very important months of my life. I thought she was simply precious and her little bald head was part of the reason my heart melted every time I looked at her. I hope this is not a bad thing that I picture her like this. I just adored her in every form she took. Bald or not, thin or not, healthy or not. I just adored her.

She didn't say anything like "I'm ok" in my dream. In fact, she didn't say anything to me that I particularly remember, except I do remember that we were talking. Mostly just about things in life, just as if she was back with me on the couch, talking and living together as if we never stopped. I think because I want this so badly, more than I want to know that she is ok, is why I had this type of dream rather than one where she is reassuring me. I am going to take this as a sign that while I want my mom back in my life and for it to continue on as it always had, this is no longer the case and I must now focus on the fact that she is in Heaven instead. No more wishful thinking. Just reality. She is gone. She is in Heaven. Is she ok? I would give anything to have a sign.

You know how I described the breast cancer rubber ducky that lights up in several of my previous posts? There have been so many times where I have looked at it and said to the sky, "Are you alright? Will you light up my duck so I know that you're alright?" This is embarrassing to admit, but I have done this on several occasions.

But it doesn't light up. She really liked her little duck and thought it was so cute, she kept it along the ledge of her bathtub while she was sick. I thought, since it lit up the morning of mom's transplant, which I am convinced was Aunt Polly, that she might try to do the same. I took it as a sign that Aunt Polly was watching over mom that day and that things were going to be just fine. And they were. That was one of the smoothest days we ever had in the hospital.

I hope that she understands that I need a sign, and I hope she sends one soon. I suppose I thought that since Aunt Polly knew how to send me (and my Aunt Becky) one through the light- up ducky that she would just show mom how to do it too. I just glanced over at it again--nothing. Oh well. I also just re-read this post and how ridiculous it sounds that I'm putting all of my thought and concern into a light-up rubber duck. I hope this doesn't make me crazy, and I hope something comes soon, whatever it is.

The wrong angle

Today I received a note from a long-lost high school friend expressing her sympathy for my mom. I thought notes like this were done and over with, seeing as it has been almost a month and a half since she died. So I was a little surprised when I read it and realized its subject.

She mentioned that she had heard of my mom's passing from another long-lost mutual friend from high school. My heart dropped. This wasn't a life-altering fact or anything like that, but just the simple fact to know that I have become "that" girl that people now talk about, that was a little bothersome.

Since high school, whenever someone would catch hold of terrible news about one of our classmates, it would spread like wildfire and before too long, everyone knew about it. "Hey, did you know so-and-so's mom died?"; "I can't believe so-and-so got into a car accident!" Things like that, and I was one of those people. Not out of spite or to gossip--I genuinely was heartbroken for these people and often wished the news to be false, especially when hearing of someone's mom passing away. I would think to myself, "I just can't imagine what I would do if that was me. That poor thing." Now, unfortunately, I know.

Oddly enough, this subject comes up quite a bit when you work in a hospital. My friends and I, after hearing of a death or an ill mother, we would all fret about losing our own. We all were very close with our moms. My one friend would always say, "If anything happens to my mom, you all can just take me to 5B!" 5B was the psych ward. We would always laugh and agree, "Yeah, me too." And then we would go back to normal, go back to thinking about our own lives and how wonderful they were to have our mothers in them, while someone on one of the floors above us was mourning the loss of their own.

Now obviously I realize that I have made my mom's death somewhat of a spectacle, placing news updates and notes on Facebook about her health from time to time. I also did the same with aunt Polly. Our family is huge and we have numerous friends, cousins, and co-workers on the network that were curious as to both of their statuses. So I played news reporter and wrote weekly, sometimes daily notes updating everyone. The three that stand out the most, of course, are the one that announced aunt Polly's death, the one that announced mom's diagnosis, and the one that announced her death. What I'm trying to say is, I know none of this stuff has been private, and I truly believe it shouldn't be. Reality isn't always necessarily a bad thing, and many people have no idea what it is like to live in someone else's shoes for a day. So, am I surprised that so many people know about my mom's death? No. But part of the reason I have made it public is to avoid discussion and gossip. However, the biggest reason I did this was to enrich and enlighten people, to show that to be thankful for what they have, and to demonstrate my love for my mom in a way that sheds light on their own relationships. This blog did not start out with that thought, it was to release my feelings and energy to keep from going crazy. But after numerous emails and messages and comments on how it was helping others in their lives, I decided maybe it was the right thing to continue.

I have to admit, though, that I do not write with a sense of purpose, or even for someone to read it. I know that people actually do read it, which is still a shock to me, but I like to know that my thoughts have touched them in some way. I have been told that my posts have helped process a loss nearly two years prior; I have been told that my posts are the exact reflection of someone mourning the loss of her father from the past year; I have been told that my posts have changed a mother-daughter relationship for the better. Who would not be pleased about this?

I guess my point is that while I do not write for anyone else but myself, I am happy to know that it is helping others in some small way. But, just so you know, I will not change my view on why I write my blog, and I hope to therefore maintain its integrity and purpose. I enjoy its release and its reality, and I can't help but view it as a small ray of sunshine within these dark clouds having over me.

I must admit that recently I have been having some trouble continuing to process my life. My beautiful mother is now my angel, and I would give anything to have her here with me instead, but I know that she is no longer suffering and I must be selfless and accept that she is in a better place. This is a difficult concept, especially on your birthday. Especially when you're applying for jobs. Especially when you're rounding the corner to graduation. I have to say that I have been throwing myself quite a pitty party lately, and I almost feel more sad and lost now than I did when she first died. I think it needed time to really settle in, and it has most certainly done that.

So, as a sad girl with no mother and no job and what feels like no hope, I have begun to question what I am supposed to be doing with my life. I am about to earn a Master's in an area that has set me up to work in a hospital. My stomach churns at the thought of working with patients again, which does not leave me with many options. While I am highly qualified to be doing several things, the fact that I am a new graduate doesn't look appealing to many employers, and I have already had the door slammed in my face more than once despite the fact that I have only been searching for a little over two weeks.

What in the world am I supposed to be doing with myself, then?

I really have no idea, but this doesn't mean I will stop looking. Someone will want me, someone will want me to help them in the way that I know how. And I'm good at it. And most importantly, I love it like you wouldn't believe. But in the meantime, I am being encouraged by several people to continue to write. My best friend told me that I was "born to tell stories." I don't know if this is true, but with so many things in my life lacking, writing really has brought a sense of accomplishment and fulfillment that, when I started all of this, I never dreamed I would find. More importantly, writing has helped me heal, more so than medicine and doctors and counselors. I would love to help people through their loss and through their struggles, and helping to encourage better and stronger relationships wouldn't hurt either, I suppose. While I will not write with this in mind, I myself am encouraged by the fact that I am starting to help even a handful of people, which is what I've always said my "career goal" was. Maybe I was just looking at it from the wrong angle.

I just won the Nobel Peace Prize

I cannot pinpoint exactly why I am so bothered today, or even why I have been so bothered for the past several days. But I am. I think even more so now than when my mom actually died. But not in the same way as the first initial shock and sadness, now it's a hollow emptiness leaving me feel somewhat down-trodden and often times quiet and hopeless. I go through this roller coaster of good and bad, and the hills of the roller coaster seem to be more and more extreme. Among failed job attempts, still being stuck in school, the realization that I can no longer touch my mom or talk to her, and now being so rocked and heartbroken at the news of another cancer death in the community or spotlight, I am often left feeling terribly sad for myself and for our world. I dyed my hair the darkest brown, without actually taking the plunge into black. I call it "a reflection of my mood." This is somewhat emo and melancholy, but nevertheless is how I feel, and I am embracing it. A little dose of reality never hurt anyone, I suppose. Reality sucks, sometimes.

This morning I read an article that Stefanie Spielman, the wife of an amazing Ohio State All American football player Chris Spielman, who is also an alumni of my high school, reached a point in her fight against breast cancer where she is now "terminal." My heart sank to my stomach. I don't even know this woman.

Last night, I attended the calling hours for the father of my friend, who passed away from colon cancer at only age 49. They were held in the same funeral home as my mom's, in the same room. How odd to be on the other end of things, just only a month after I was standing in the same spot. The place was packed, because he was the county engineer. My friends and I went to pay our respects and to support our friend, and we waited in a pretty long line. I am glad they have so much love and support during this time. The family was incredibly close and so loving, with the two parents and five children, three girls and two boys. I couldn't help but feel terribly sad for them, the youngest was very young still, too young to lose a parent. My heart was so broken for them, and it reminded me of how heartbroken I still was for myself.

I went through the receiving line, introducing myself and expressing my sympathy, and when I got to the children, I just completely lost it. The look in the boys' eyes tore at my heart, and as I told them about my mom passing and that I would do anything to help them, I began to cry, and then I felt even worse for crying in front of them when I was supposed to be offering them support. I reached out to my friend and cried and cried and although we don't know each other well, I told her to let me know if she needed anything at all, any of the family. I know I can't do much, but I can sit with them and drink tea and cry and listen, which sometimes is more helpful and comforting than formal grief groups and things of that nature. They are, after all, now members of this awful club, that leave us empty but connected in a way that no one else understands. Watching someone die of cancer, knowing that a disease is taking over their entire body and killing them piece by piece, slowly and miserably, watching helplessly until they take their last breath...that is truly an experience that separates us from others. I would do anything for them, just as others reached out to me.

When my friends and I regrouped (we all were crying by the time we hit the end of the line, his wife), we got in my car and drove to one of the best wallow-and-eat-your-feelings restaurants in our area. It's in the downtown area, a burger restaurant that's been there since the 1950s. The burgers are amazing and only a couple bucks, like a good burger should be. The best milkshakes, the best fries. We couldn't wait! The boy that cleaned off the booth didn't even wipe up the bench seats, which were covered in grease and crumbs...so I grabbed a few napkins and leaned over to wipe up the bench. I, unknowingly, leaned out my leg to balance myself and brushed one of the waitresses. I felt so terrible, I reached out my arm behind her to steady her, if she needed it, and said, "Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry. Are you alright?!" She looked up at me and just glared, didn't respond, didn't talk, nothing, and looked away. I just stood there, and I'm surprised with the mood I was in last night that I didn't just unload on her. I lightly brushed her, apologized, felt terrible, asked if she was alright....what else could I have done? And all she could do was just glare at me? I, for the life of me, will never understand why people in the service industry do not know how to offer service. Long story short, I felt like a huge, stupid jerk, and of course she was then our waitress. I have to admit, her attitude towards us put a damper on my night. "Are you guys ready to order yet?" she asked in such a snobby tone, and I just wanted to shed some light on the situation and give her a dose of reality.

"Listen, I understand that you are stressed and trying to wait on all of these tables by yourself because I noticed the other girl that's 'helping' isn't actually doing anything, but what you need to understand is you're not the only one who's having a bad night. My mom just died of an infection from a bone marrow transplant, not even the actual cancer itself. I can't find a job. I've been in school for six years and am so done with it. My friends and I just stood in line for a half an hour to see our friend who just lost her father to cancer as well. And all we wanted was to come and eat until we felt sick and wallow in all of the terrible feelings we've been dealing with for the past month, and unfortunately my leg brushed against yours as I was attempting to clean up the table that your bus boy couldn't manage and you didn't even have the courtesy or decency to respond to my apology. If you're that miserable in your job that you can't even treat someone with respect and the courtesy they deserve, then get out, because plenty of people would kill to even have a job like this. You have no idea what other people are going through, and I guarantee you that I would trade a dead mother for your 'rough' night at work."

But I didn't. I ordered my food without even looking at her, so afraid that she was going to spit in it before she placed it in front of me. But then I saw her go behind the soda fountain and rip someone apart, and all of the sudden realized that a girl that feels the need to belittle people during a oh-so-tough-night-at-work-rampage really isn't worth my worry or time. Not in the least bit. I immediately calmed down and enjoyed my night with my friends. I can't even believe I let myself get so upset over such a person with no common courtesy for anyone else.

This lesson is hard to learn, to not let others bring you even lower than you already are. With all the struggles and tears and anger in my life, it is completely useless to let a girl who obviously is the only one in the world having a bad night make me angry. What a waste of my time. But I have slowly been learning this lesson over the past month, who matters in my life and who doesn't, who is worth my time to get angry over and who isn't. Unfortunately, at such a critical time for me, I have had to deal with these types of decisions, which I think is completely cruel and selfish to inflict this type of conflict on someone, or onto a family, that just lost someone so dear. While it is often heartbreaking to realize the true colors of people and to understand that they are all that mattered to themselves in the end, it is enlightening and something we must take in stride in order to protect ourselves and move on. There are a few people that are no longer in my life, and after some reflection and realization, that is now OK with me. It wasn't always, but it is now. I hope they come out on the other side as solid with their decisions as I am.

In my car after the calling hours, on our way to dinner, my best friend, who still was crying in the back seat, said something so profound to me and my other friend. "You know what's so weird is that you look at other people in their cars, laughing and talking and acting as if nothing is wrong, but really, they have no idea what other people are going through right at this very moment." Really, it's not like these people are doing anything wrong by not knowing what others are going through, that's not what she meant, but just that it is so weird that we were all sad and crying in my car for a family that just lost the love of their lives, while the people in the car next to us had no idea. People just go on with their lives, unknowingly, and are completely unaware of the hurt and sadness someone else is feeling. Oddly enough, the next person you see at the grocery store or at the gas station or sitting next to you at a red light could be that broken person. And here's my question: Why do people behave like the girl at the restaurant, like the only one on Earth struggling to have a good night? If we all recognized that people are broken, or struggling to overcome a loss, or that they just need a little TLC, would we still treat each other like the waitress did?

My thought is, probably not. If we all considered other people before ourselves and treated each other with a little common decency and respect, would anyone treat others poorly? Here's my idea: Take yourself back to the lowest point in your life, when you felt so terribly sad and distraught and all you wanted was for people to simply just be nice because your heart couldn't possibly take any more. It doesn't matter what it is. Some of us know what it feels like to watch our mother take her last breath. Some of us only know how difficult it is to write a Master's thesis. Whatever it may be, remember that low point, that struggle. Would you want to be treated terribly? No. I think if we all just impose ourselves into other people's situations and try to better understand them and their struggles, we would all be nice to one another. I really don't think this is a hard concept or too much to ask of anyone, because really, if you wouldn't want to be treated like that, you shouldn't treat others like that either. Plain and simple. And voila, we're all nicer to each other=world peace=I just won the Nobel Peace Prize.

I know it's not that simple. But really, I don't understand why it's not that simple.

If anyone actually reads this, I guess my message for today is: Before you treat someone poorly because you are having a bad day, try to consider them and if they're having a bad day too. You never know what other people are struggling with, and if I may so bold as to say, an I-just-lost-my-mother-and-just-went-to-calling-hours-for-someone's-father bad night is much more severe than an I'm-a-waitress-and-I'm-having-a-rough-night-at-work bad night. Think before you speak, remember how terrible you've felt before, and treat others with courtesy. It's not challenging, or even something that requires too much thought. Just. Be. Nice.

My mom and my aunt Polly were really nice. They didn't even seem to have to think about it. So, apparently, it can be done. Let's all give it a try. Can you imagine how much more amazing our world would be?

The Warmth of the Sunshine

Today we laid my mom to rest, placing her ashes in her “niche,” if you’ll remember from my last post. Today is also Veteran’s Day.

Veteran’s Day represents the 11th day of the 11th month, November 11th, 1918, the end of World War I. As the country paid tribute to the veterans who fought for our many freedoms in battle, my family and I paid tribute to a veteran in a battle of a different sort.

To outsiders looking in, cancer is a battle they do not understand, although they can imagine its challenges. For those of us who have to watch its devastation and torment as it plagues our loved ones, our friends, our mothers, we truly understand the battle. With that being said, we only know the battle as a caretaker, a husband, a daughter, and we must watch them suffer as we stand helpless in the corner. We must accept their disease and move on from our anger, we must be behind them every step of the way, we must be supportive of their breakdowns and meltdowns, and we must kiss them on the forehead and say our very last goodbyes when they lose their battle and continue on to Heaven. This last part, of course, is the hardest job we face as concerned friends, worried family members, and devastated daughters.

And all of these things are absolutely not in any way to be compared to what the victim of cancer goes through.

I, every day, grow even more proud to be her daughter and more inspired to be as strong as she was.

The service today was very short but very beautiful. Her niche is inside a mausoleum, and as we sat inside, facing a glass wall, we were able to enjoy the beautiful Fall day and it helped to set a comforting tone for the ceremony. Father Tom, who also presided over her funeral, discussed mom’s battle with leukemia and paralleled it to a veteran’s battle at war. The two are completely different but are nevertheless both challenges none of us ever want to face. To conclude the ceremony, Father Tom read the poem on mom’s memory card from her memorial service.

“I’m Free”
Don’t grieve for me, for now I’m free
I am following the path God laid for me.
I took His hand when I heard Him call,
I turned my back and left it all.
I could not stay another day
to laugh, to love, to work or play.
Tasks left undone must stay that way.
I found that peace at the close of the day.
If my parting has left a void,
Then fill it with remembered joy.
A friendship shared, a laugh, a kiss
Ah, these things I, too, will miss.
Be not burdened with time of sorrow,
I wish for you the sunshine of tomorrow.
My life’s been full, I savored much.
Good friends, good times,
a loved one touched.
Perhaps my time seems all too brief
Don’t lengthen it now with undue grief.
Lift up your heart and share with me.
God wanted me now; He set me free.

-Author Unknown

I really love this verse. It actually makes me feel comforted, although she is gone. I miss her so much I feel aches through my body and there are days where I feel so lost in my life, but the lines “If my parting has left a void, then fill it with remembered joy. A friendship shared, a laugh, a kiss, ah, these things I, too, will miss” renew me and remind me that we will just have to go on with our lives and miss each other until we are able to see one another again. I do not want my life to end anytime soon, but I have to say that I cannot wait to see her face again. Oh my gosh, her face! She was so beautiful.

After Father Tom’s quick ceremony, we placed mom’s ashes in her niche. We put several things in with her. She loved her sparkly ballcaps, and her favorite and the one she wore most often was the white one. We laid it on top of her urn. When she was first diagnosed, I found out which color ribbon represented leukemia (orange), and I made two bracelets for mom and I and a keychain for my dad. Mom’s bracelet had a silver, flat piece among the beads that said “hope” with a ribbon charm hanging from it. I put that in with her ashes, as well as a picture I painted her last year for Mother’s Day. It is a picture of an angel hugging a girl, and it is supposed to represent her and I together. I like to paint angels, and I painted different kinds for all of my aunts, but this one was special for my mom. The angel had her hair color and she wore the same necklace and wedding ring, which I painted in gold. This morning, as I looked at the painting, I got out a permanent marker and wrote on the wooden backing against the canvas “Mom—I loved you more than you will ever know. You are my hero and my angel.”

I always considered her to be so special to my heart and to be so sweet, just like an angel. And now, she really is my angel.Today started out to be quite challenging, for different personal reasons involving job searching and just the simple anticipation of the ceremony today, among other things. I felt oddly calm and comforted afterwards. Tonight, before I sat down to write this, I again was bombarded with the stress and anger and fear and worry that are currently plaguing my life these days. I re-read the passage after I typed it into this post.

“Be not burdened with time of sorrow, I wish for you the sunshine of tomorrow.”

There will be tomorrows, unfortunately, that will no longer contain my mom. But there will also be sunshine. Recently, even among the chilly, Fall days, whenever I feel the sunshine against my skin, I think of my mom. This line really struck me, and I no longer feel the same way about it. Now, I will remember that the sunshine is a message from Heaven, from my mom, to continue on with my tomorrows. She would do anything to get me through this without her, and what better gift is there than the warmth of the sunshine?

Why I am who I am

This morning, my friend's dad passed away from colon cancer. Oddly enough, it felt as though my mom died all over again. I saw her update on Facebook. I took my computer in the bathroom, sat on the floor, cried for about 20 minutes, and then sent her a message of how sorry I was for her and her family. She, and her four siblings, are now the newest members of the "club." My heart is broken for her, and actually, for myself still. He was only 49. I will never understand why these things happen.

I am told that in Heaven, you finally understand all the things you've always wondered. This question, of course, would be the first thing I would like to be enlightened on. I would also like to know why it takes certain people and not others. Why do people that rape and murder rot to death in prison for years and good, wholesome, loving people like my mom and aunt Polly and my friend's dad die so early from a miserable disease? Cancer knows no age, no boundaries, no gender, no nothing. It just takes and takes. It never gives. I will never understand why. My heart is so sad for her, and also for everyone in this terrible club.

Tomorrow afternoon we are finally laying my mom to rest. Her urn has been on our mantle, above our fireplace, just sitting there watching over us like an angel. She will be placed in her "niche," as they call it. That's kind of a cute name for a little whole you stick an urn in for all of eternity. "Time to go in your niche, momma." It almost makes it sound fun, or even comforting. A niche. Alright.

Today I was thinking about bravery, and what it means to be given such a title. When I used to think of bravery, I thought of soldiers during war, being brave and defending our country. Over the past several months, my idea of bravery has changed drastically. I think of my aunt Polly and my mom.

My aunt Polly was so brave. She faced death, literally, and still managed to continue living her life to the fullest every single day. I cannot imagine being told that your time on Earth is limited to only a few months. In January of this year, she was placed on hospice. Her chemo stopped working, and they predicted she would not make it to her 56th birthday, March 18th. She made it to April 24th. From January, she knew that each month could be her last. Before too long, each day was potentially her last. She wrote letters to her friends. She also wrote them to her brothers and sisters. She picked out things of hers with sentimental value for us, and she wrapped them and kept them in her guest bedroom closet. She planned her funeral. Can you imagine that? She planned her own funeral. She and I spent many evenings at her kitchen table discussing music to be played, pictures to be shown, the mood she wanted to be felt at that occasion. We looked through boxes of old pictures and laughed hysterically. She talked and reminisced and I wrote what she said without her noticing. Later on, as I put together the pictures into a "slide show eulogy," I used her quotes to narrate the pictures. One day, she showed me a letter. She said, "Do you think you could read this at the funeral? I don't want to put any pressure on you or anything, but do you think you could do it?" I looked at the heading of the paper. It started with, "My dear family..." It was a letter to her brothers and sisters, and as it went through and described her love for them and how they changed her for the better, she addressed each one individually and thanked them for all they did. I have never read anything like this letter. I promised her I would read it, and I also made a promise to myself that I would read this letter and look at each brother and sister as I read it, to make it as personal and as meaningful as I possibly could. On Thursday, April 30th, I did just that. I had to do it for her, and somehow I found the strength. My mom said it was aunt Polly—she was helping me that night. Besides facing death head on, she also agreed to be featured in a photo story. This is where a person takes pictures of you and tries to tell a story with them. She agreed to be featured, and she was so gracious about it, and she did it with so much dignity. I can’t image allowing someone so personally into your life, and the whole time you know the exact purpose for the project. I can’t fathom that. I can’t image that type of bravery, that exploitation of such a terrible, personal thing like dying. When this person asked her if she could take the pictures, aunt Polly shrugged her shoulders and said, “What the hell’s the difference? I’ll be dead!” And then she laughed. Can you imagine having that type of outlook? That type of attitude towards your own mortality, something as private as the end of your life? I cannot. If this isn’t bravery, I do not know what is.

My mom was brave on a completely different side of dying. In the back of her head she knew that dying was a potential, but she never let it take control of her. She faced all of her treatments with such a positive attitude, always comforting everyone else and trying to reassure them that everything would turn out alright. As the transplant grew closer, she was horrified, and while she acted this way at home, she was so gracious and so accepting of other people’s prayers and kind words. She would always thank them with a big smile, all the while worrying and internalizing her fears. I can’t grasp the idea of being told you have cancer, of being told you will die within a month without treatment, of being told all of the frightening side effects of chemotherapy, the very drug that could save your life. Nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, mouth sores, life-threatening infections, weight loss, skin rashes, stroke, heart attack, cancer. Yes, a side-effect of chemotherapy is cancer, just to add injury to insult. She accepted all of these things and walked into the hospital with her head held high to be admitted for treatment. Five times. And if that wasn’t enough, she walked into the Cleveland Clinic, knowing what lie ahead for her with the bone marrow transplant. All of the same side-effects, only intensified. How could you walk through the doors knowing they were going to completely eradicate your immune system to a non-existent status? To brave through the risk of having another person’s bone marrow pumped into your veins while your body is completely defenseless with no means to protect itself? With the knowledge that she could either go into remission and live for several more years or possibly lose her life within just a few weeks? She never flinched. She walked in, took the chemo, took the bone marrow, and that night, sat in her bed like nothing ever even happened. She laughed, she ate, she told funny stories. Besides her little bald head, there was no inclination of what her body was going through. She was so brave, and she faced every threat to her life with such grace and inspiration from the love of her family. She wanted to live so much, she wanted to put cancer behind her, she wanted so many more years with her family. With me. I knew she worried about missing the big things that are coming up in my life. Graduation. Getting married. Welcoming children into the world. She worried, but she never let any of it stop her from trying to live. I would be so frightened to know that a chemical is in my body that kills both the good and the bad cells, that makes my hair fall out, that puts my body at risk every time it is injected. I would be so devastated to hear the word “leukemia,” to know that I have no choice but to have the treatment. Or the outcome would be the same. I can’t imagine being so trapped, with no choices, no control over the situation. I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy. She was so brave. I am so proud of her. I often wonder if I could do what she did. Face all the things she faced. Endure all the things she endured. I’m not sure that I could. Or that many people could. But she did. Twice. She was stronger than she ever knew, which makes her bravery all the more amazing. She never knew the things she could do, the things she could face and conquer. She called herself a “big chicken,” which is hardly the case. Five bone marrow biopsies. Five chemo treatments. A bone marrow transplant. The threat of losing her battle. I can’t even imagine that kind of fear and facing that kind of challenge in my life.

She was absolutely amazing. So was aunt Polly. I hope that I even have half of the courage and bravery that they possessed. Their spirits were so full, so beautiful. I am so lucky and so happy to have known them and to have been touched by them in so many special ways. They are the reason why I am who I am. Why I like the Beatles and the Turtles, why the song “Eleanor” makes me smile, why Mariachi music makes me laugh every time I hear it, and why I dedicate my free time to the American Cancer Society. They are the reason why I am so appreciative of my life, why I see beauty in small things like the turning leaves of Fall or a sunny day, why I want to enter into a career field helping others, and why I love my family to no end. They possessed so many qualities that I am thankful to have inside me also, and to even be half as brave as them would be the greatest gift they could have given me. I am so happy to be me, and so happy to have the life I have, despite all of the loss and tragedy that has occurred. While they are no longer in my life, I am left with all of the memories and love they have left behind. They were the two most influential people in my life, and to watch them both lose their lives within only months of each other, I will never understand why or how, but I do understand that I am me because of them. I do not understand why I am meant to be on this Earth without them, and why I am supposed to experience all of the major things in my life while they are gone. I will forever be thankful to have had them for even the short time I did.

Members of the Club

I haven’t written in a while because I get tired of writing the same thing, and if anyone actually reads this, I’m sure they are tired of reading the same thing, too. I’m OK with sharing my feelings and insights on the subject of my mom’s death, but I feel like repeating the same feelings and insights over and over is a little ridiculous. How can you really move on from such a thing if you focus on it at an almost constant rate?

For me, things come now more in spurts. Sadness. Loss. Things like that, they come in spurts here and there. Nothing looms over my shoulders anymore, but sometimes sad memories from the hospital or anger pop up every once in a while when I least expect them. “Boo! Gotchya!” They like to catch me off-guard, just when I start to feel a little normal again.

At my psychologist appointment tonight we talked about shock and how it doesn’t let us process things—how it blocks things, because your body doesn’t know what to do with the information. I wonder when this shock goes away? Tonight, as she asked me questions about my mom, all I could do was smile and say, “She was sooo cute.” She really was. She was absolutely adorable, in every way, shape and form. Just precious. I always felt bad for her that I was always messing with her, pinching her and lovingly patting her, mostly to make her laugh and giggle but also because she was so stinkin’ cute I could barely stay away from her. She’s the type, if you didn’t know her, that no matter how old she is, you would want to pinch her cheeks and make a stupid noise. “Boop!” And you wouldn’t even feel dumb for doing it. She was just that cute. I just adored her.

As I turned on my computer, a picture of her popped up on my desktop. A really sweet one of her: no hair, in her hospital gown, the day of the transplant, with a plastic, silver wand in one hand, flicking it towards me as if casting a spell, and her face is shaped with surprise, her eyebrows raised high and her mouth pinched to make an “o” sound. She was actually singing “Bibbity Bobbity Boo” from Cinderella. I just looked at it, feeling a small pang of loss, that rush of “wow, that really happened” hit me again, and I reached my hand out to touch her on the screen. “I miss your face,” I whispered to her as I ran my fingertip over her nose. I hope that doesn’t make me unhealthy, to want to just touch her again, even if it’s on my computer screen. Or that I talk to her sometimes, even though it’s just a picture and I know she won’t respond.

I also talk to my aunt Polly’s picture. Aunt Polly’s death was so different for me. I couldn’t even think about her let alone look at any pictures. It took me months before I could put her picture next to my bed. After mom died, I couldn’t stop looking at pictures or thinking about her. It’s still very hard to realize what has happened.

I look at aunt Polly’s picture next to my bed, and I think about her with my mom in Heaven. I point to her face and say, “You take good care of her.” I am sure that she is, and that they are happy up there, doing who-knows-what.

Sometimes, I feel like she is on vacation. My heart still feels that way, like she will be coming back any day now. There are different types of ways to miss someone. There is one, the way I miss aunt Polly, the way you miss someone when you know they are not coming back. Gone for good. There is another, the way you miss someone who has gone away for a while, a semester abroad or an extended vacation, and even though your heart aches, you are comforted in knowing you will see them soon. This is how I miss my mom. I miss her like she is on vacation—not the way I miss aunt Polly. I’m still surprised at how different their deaths were, and how different I feel about both of them.

The reason I really am writing this tonight is because a thought came to me as I remembered something that happened nearly two weeks ago: when you lose your mom, you are automatically in a club of sorts. It reads all over your face. It oozes from your pores. You reek of it. “I don’t have a mom anymore.” These types of people really do have a different look about them. Two weeks ago, a close family friend lost her mother. She would have been 89 last week. My boyfriend and I walked into the funeral home, and I caught my friend’s eye from across the room. She tilted her head, forced a smile (I definitely know this part well), and she left the receiving line and walked towards me with her arms out to hug. She said, “I was very lucky to have her so much longer.” Meaning, longer than I had my mom. While this woman is in her late fifties, she lost her mother, and that feeling is like nothing else. She was the newest member of the club.

Being a member of this club isn’t exciting in any way but it is exclusive. That feeling of loss is like nothing else, much different from losing other loved ones or friends. Losing your mother, your best friend, the beautiful woman who brought you into the world and would have died to do so—it’s a whole different ballgame. It leaves you un-whole, incomplete, torn apart and put back together without all the pieces. Sometimes, the look of shock and utter disbelief can be seen in their eyes. Dull and glazed, with a sadness behind them that is different from any other type of sadness…and that is what my friend’s eyes looked like as she reached out to hug me. She was definitely a member of the club. Her eyes said it all. I recognized them well, because my eyes look like that too. I see them everyday, and they are so foreign to me, I almost don’t even recognize myself in the mirror.

This club isn’t something people talk about, but it is unspoken and quietly understood by the people in it. You meet someone who knows how you feel, who thinks the same things you think, who understands what you understand. No one else on Earth can relate except the people in the club. “You lost your mom? So did I…” your eyes say to one another. “Don’t worry. You don’t have to say anything. I totally get it.”

I have been told by a couple people that these posts help them process worries and anger they too must face because of the death of a parent. Some of these people I knew of their loss, and others I knew nothing about. How odd that such a tragedy can bring us closer, even strangers with nothing in common. I am pleased to hear this, seeing as I write this blog to talk about feelings and tangles inside me for the sole purpose of releasing them to begin putting back the pieces. I never expected to reach out to anyone, nor did I try. I am happy they are healing now as well, and that my thoughts and similar struggles can be used in a positive light. They are in the club too, and while none of us actually want to be here, we are. We are in the club.

Instead of looking at this “club” as a bad thing, I am trying to view it as somewhat beneficial to me. I worried about my mom for months and months, worried about her health and happiness, worried if I would get to have her at my wedding, worried if she would live through her transplant. I was convinced that no matter what, I was alone in this and that no one else knew how I felt, to watch my mom suffer month after month of chemo and hospitalizations and illnesses. I couldn’t imagine anyone else in the world going through this like I was. My friends and people I was surrounded by insisted on complaining about schoolwork and being tired from homework. “Try being woken up by your mom screaming your name because she is too sick to move and you have to rush her to the ER…then tell me how tired you are,” I would think to myself. It never occurred to me that there were other people just like me, suffering and worrying just like I was. But there were. And now I know there are people out there who know what it feels like to be mother-less, even at such a young age.

This club may not be so bad after all. Even though it feels like it sometimes, I am not alone, and there are others out there like me. Members of the club. Members of this club are little ragged and not quite whole, but they are more appreciative, more understanding, more patient, and stronger in love and life than most others out there. This club may not be something to be desired, but after you join it, you emerge from the other side a completely different person, changed for the better.

Birthday Wishes from Heaven

It's amazing to me how fast things can sneak up on you without warning. I thought I was doing just fine, and all of the sudden--wham! Today is my birthday. I'm 24 years old. It hasn't even been a month since my mom died. I almost feel like it's not fair to have a birthday in less than a month of someone dying, especially when that someone is your mom. How unfair.

I wish I was little again. Those mornings were so different from this morning. To be woken up by my mom, to have her say, "Wake up, birthday girrrllll," like I'm five again. I'd get up, get ready for school, there would be a birthday card on our kitchen table with a small present waiting for me. Even if it was 6 o'clock in the morning and it was before school, it was still special.

One specific birthday I remember was when I turned 10. I was in fourth grade, and I had one of those plastic lunch boxes. I opened it up, and on the inside of the lid was the number 10 spelled out in quarters. They were stuck there with a bunch of tape, and on top of my lunch was a birthday card. I remember even then, that young, realizing how special my mom was. And how much I loved her. When other kids that age worried about if their mom was going to embarrass them on the way to school, I sat contently with her, happy just to be near her before I left for the day.

This morning I woke up to a text message. "Happy birthday to you, Julia!" I forgot. "Oh yeah, my birthday..." My TV was still on from last night, the Golden Girls, an episode I've probably seen at least 10 times. I laid there and watched a little and then realized I still had to go to school today. When you lay in bed all day because your mom dies and then because you're really sick, you tend to forget there's actually stuff to do in the real world. So, I picked up my computer to check my email and make sure there weren't any assignments I missed. I had 25 emails, all from Facebook. All Happy Birthdays. I read each one, amazed at who decided to take time out of their day to say happy birthday to me. People I haven't heard from in years, people that were good friends with my mom that I had connected with over the last few months of status updates and picture-posts of her wearing a silly hat in her hospital bed. I hope I don't sound bitter or upset, I appreciate that they thought about me. But I worry that maybe they were trying to fill the void they knew I would feel today. I think even I underestimated the void and just how big it was going to be. In fact, I am positive about this. I had no idea how sad today would be, not even one tiny idea. I was caught completely off guard.

I try to picture how my morning would have been different if she wasn't sick. If she was home. If she was still here. All the different ways I could have been greeted with a birthday wish from my mom. I would have been excited about my birthday, excited to talk to her. I knew this was a happy day for her too. All she ever wanted was a baby. Anyone who knew her well enough to know that always reminded me, "You know, she waited and waited for you";"All she ever wanted was you";"She would have done anything to have you, she wanted you so bad."

The first thing I would do is pick up the phone and call her at work, before I even got out of bed. Before she would even say "hello," I can hear her radio in the background, she would take a deep breath, and sing a funny version of happy birthday to me in a type of salsa-esque rhythm. "Good morning, my 24-year-old girl!!!" And we would talk about what I'm going to do today and my plans for tonight, possibly a dinner with my family and a couple of my close friends. Just something simple, low-key, how I liked it. No presents, nothing, just the people I loved around me. That's all I've ever needed, and all I've ever liked to do on days like this.

How sad. To have that person that matters the most in your life now missing, especially to celebrate the day of your birth. Your birth, that they went through for you. That was probably more special to them than you'd ever actually realize until you went through it yourself. I do not know what it feels like to have children, to hope and pray for them, to finally hear the words, "You're pregnant." But I do know what it feels like to feel special and to feel loved, as a child, and to look over at your mom year after year and know how important this day is between the two of you. I do know what that feels like.

And it is gone.

I woke up this morning to nothing. No excitement. No phone calls to mom. No card waiting on the kitchen table. Nothing.

My aunt Rita called me this morning to try and wish me happy birthday. I say "try" because I heard her voice on the other end. That voice that says, "OK. I'm going to try to do this, but don't cry or I'll start to cry. And I really need to do this because your mom isn't here, and someone has to try to make up for what's missing. Happy birthday." She sang happy birthday to me, in a shaky, happy voice. I laughed and thanked her, also in a shaky, happy voice. She sounded sad when she said good-bye and hung up the phone. I knew. I'm sure she knew too.

I hate to sound ungrateful or unappreciative for the people I have in my life, but it's just not the same as having your mom. It's like all of the birthday messages and cards and voice mails just cancel each other out. All I really want this year is one from her. Just one more. What I wouldn't give for just one more.

I miss her so much today I feel like I can barely even breathe.

I hope that in Heaven, instead of missing your living daughter's birthday, you get to celebrate this day as one of the happiest of your life. I hope that she is sitting at a table with her eyes covered by my grandma's hands, standing behind her. All the lights are out, and my aunt Polly is carrying a small cake that has a stork carrying a baby girl on it, with a single candle burning against the dark. She puts it down in front of my mom, the flame casting dancing shadows against her face, and they both say, "OK, you can open your eyes now!" and my grandma pulls her hands away to let her see. She gasps in surprise, grasps her hands together and pulls them up to her heart as she tilts her head and smiles.

"Happy birthday, Julia," she whispers quietly to herself. "I love you."

The mist will clear soon

Today I had a day off of my internship, so I decided to take care of some business. Business that included death certificates and insurance policies. Too much business for me.

This was the first time I saw the death certificate. How eerie. To see her name in that black type, her full name, Gail Susanne Hahn, printed under "deceased." How surreal. You can see your hands grasping the paper. You can feel it between your fingers. You can see the official seal and the official signature. It’s all there. It’s all legit. But it just doesn’t feel real at all. I keep saying to myself, “Well, it had to happen sooner or later.” I just didn’t think it would be this soon.

All I really wanted to see was the reason for death. They labeled it as "septic shock" and in the secondary cause line they noted "leukemia." Cause of death: Septic shock as a consequence of leukemia. I hate that they said she had leukemia, since she was in remission. She needed to be in remission in order to get her bone marrow transplant. She worked so hard to be in remission, she endured five rounds of chemo, being stuck in the house or hospital day after day, c-diff, pneumonia, exhaustion, dehydration, weakness, a mild stroke. She was separated from her husband, her daughter, her sisters, her friends, her family. For months. She was in remission. She deserved at least that title, I think, after all of her hard work and dedication to keeping her life. I don't think it was fair that "leukemia" was her reason for death. It sort of feels like it erases the remission out of the picture completely. All of her hard work. For nothing. Not just because she died, but because she wasn’t even given the title she deserved. Cheated out of her deserving title, by her own death.

I am afraid, though, that all of her hard work really was for nothing, since she actually did die. I sat and wondered and worried for so long about all of this. Every time she was sick from chemo, every time she cried about being away from home, every time we checked her back into the hospital. “I hope all of this isn’t for nothing.” We all know that cancer causes death. We all know that leukemia is even more severe, in most cases. We all know that bone marrow transplants are dangerous and can also lead to death. All of these things. I like to think that I wasn’t being negative, that I was actually being realistic, yet hopeful. But I worried all the time. I know how much she would have given to be cancer-free. I watched her struggle for so long. And after all of her tears, all of her efforts, her brave faces, her “I’m fines”, I just can’t believe she’s gone. Still. I’m still completely jolted.

Every time something comes up about my mom that shocks me, I think to myself, “Jolted.” Just like that. I called my house the other day to talk to my dad and the voicemail picked up: my mom’s message. Jolted. I touched the wrong button on my cell phone and it brought up my mom’s speed dial, 8. I saw the word “mom” on my phone, a word that it hasn’t seen in a long time, from a number that hasn’t been pressed in a long time. Jolted. Every time I have to tell someone else she died. Jolted. I am starting to wonder if this will ever go away. If, before too long, it will be sad, and it will be understood, but it will no longer be jolting. I hope so. It really is such a shock to your system when you are reminded all over again that she is actually gone. I am told that things get easier with time. While I am still jolted, they are, in fact, getting a little easier with each and every day that passes.

My psychologist says that the most important thing is to “not let her die.” Meaning, I have to do things to keep her memory alive and to keep her alive in me. I am still running. I am running a second 5K on Sunday and a third on Thanksgiving morning. She was excited for me, seeing how much I enjoyed running and how driven I was to make it a hobby of mine. She told me she had no doubt that by next year I could run a half-marathon. We talked about getting a treadmill, so she could walk to build her strength in her legs and I could run while it was snowing outside. I dreamed about her watching me run across the finish line of the Akron Marathon next year. She will still be able to see me, just not in the way I wish she would. So I will keep running, for myself of course, but for her too.

I will continue to pursue my career goals of working in wellness and becoming a pioneer for the field, and for dietetics too. I really believe that wellness is where I belong and dietetics will help me get there, and she believed that too. She was so encouraging, and she believed in me and my career even when I didn’t believe in myself. I will definitely continue to work for this career and to work to touch lives through nutrition and wellness. She really believed I could, and I do too.

I am writing about her and aunt Polly in Heaven. I want to write about what I think they’re doing, what I hope they are enjoying together up there. It is surprising how much joy I find in writing about them, dreaming about them, and putting my thoughts together and onto paper. It is so uplifting and brings me so much hope, I think writing itself is actually working as a therapy for me and my heart. I will continue to write and continue to picture them together, playing and having fun in Heaven, focusing on fond memories and the love I have for both of them.

After all, when someone leaves us behind, what are we left with but the pictures and memories and love that remain? The jolting fades with the pain. The mist clears, and all that’s there is peace. People say they are praying for me and my family to “find peace.” I am resistant of people’s sadness and pity, but I would love to find peace in my life, especially after all of the loss and hurt I have watched over the last seven months. I am sure the mist will clear soon, and all I will be left with is love and peace.