The battle for happiness

I was recently in a discussion in which it was insinuated that I am not happy, which may be true to a certain extent. I thought about what it would take to make me "happy" and what I would really need, if I had the perfect opportunity and all the money in the world to attempt this and finding the ultimate happiness in my life.

I think it's important here to make sure it's very clear that I am happy to have the things in my life and couldn't be more appreciative of a strong, wonderful family and my husband who is also my best friend. I have amazing friends who have done wonders for me that I'm sure most of them don't even fully understand, and I am so blessed to have a job that I enjoy and that I am 100% committed to. These things make me happy, and to think about them brings a smile to my face.

The type of "happiness" I'm talking about is a deeper kind, the kind you feel when all is right with the world and you can think of nothing else in the world you could possible wish for.

Truth be told, I'm not so sure that many people have this kind of happiness in their lives. A true and utter contentment for the way things are with no desire to replace or change them--if we could all be so lucky.

I remember a while ago, my mom and I were getting in her car to go somewhere, and just out of nowhere I told her how happy I was with my friends and school and that I really felt great. "Good," she said, "a lot of people are not that fortunate."

When my mom was going through chemo, she looked at me one day, again this was out of nowhere, and said, "I am such a lucky girl. I have so many people that love me. It's unfortunate it takes something like this to realize it, but I am such a lucky girl." It amazed me how content she was with the world...no hair, a PICC line hanging out of her arm, chemo rushing through her veins. And she felt lucky.

Back to thinking about what would make me really, genuinely happy is this: buying a one-way plane ticket to somewhere, maybe Paris, probably Paris, and going without a time line of any sort. No one would know, and it would be just me by myself. I have come to realize over the last two years without my mom how so much about me has changed and how very different I have become. While there are traits I have developed that I do like about myself now like my will to stand up for myself and the "fire" I have inside me to be myself without putting on a front to others, there are things that have taken a backseat in my life that I miss dearly.

I have hardly any patience for anything, at least compared to what I used to. I have the hardest time making up my mind with huge decisions like taking a new job. My courage is at an all-time low. My self-esteem is, at times, even lower.

I have never felt so much myself and so much least like myself, if that makes any sense. All I want is to be myself and "rediscover" these traits about me that I have lost and figure out how to incorporate the new traits I have found along the way. I feel as though the only way I can achieve this is to find solitude and break myself down and build myself back up. The right way. By myself, so that I do not lean on anyone else for this type of achievement except myself.

With being surrounded by so many supportive, loving people, it may be hard for some to understand why I would want my solitude at a time of such loss and confusion. For this reason: The other answer to what would make me happy is having my mom back in my life. I never have fully realized until just recently how much I depended on my mom for so much: my courage, my self-esteem, my self-worth, my patience. My happiness.

On days like today, there is so much I miss about my mom and so many things I love about her, even her flaws, that I can barely even focus enough to put them all down on paper. I have become angry without her. I have become cynical and untrusting of others. I lose my patience quickly and sometimes it is not for any logical reason. Some days I wake up not wanting to get out of bed or go got work or even talk with anyone, and for no other reason than the simple fact that I don't feel like it.

At the same time, I have grown to become so appreciative of things I have. It takes almost nothing anymore to make me smile. I am easily pleased. I laugh more now than I ever have. I look at the sky and try to figure out which shade of blue it is that day. I love the sound of rain and I don't let anything come in the way, when I am home to enjoy it, to sit down and just simply listen to it hit the window. I can remember nothing but good things about my mom and even the things that drove me crazy like her humming off-key to music on the radio now brings a smile to my face.

I wish so much for one more daytrip to amish country, to visit our favorite stores and shop and laugh and enjoy the day together. I want so badly for it to be a crisp fall Saturday, to wake up in my bedroom next to my parents' room and to jump out of bed excitedly, knowing we were going on a roadtrip together, just her and I. I would love to hear her humming along with the oldies on the radio, off-key and all, while we were traveling to our destination.

Because anything is better than what I have now. She is gone, and I am left with only memories.

I feel as though the one person who would support me more than anyone else in my life to go on a journey, by myself, with a one-way ticket in my hand, is my mom. This is how I picture it: Her picking me up at my house with my suitcase. Her taking me to the airport, the whole time wishing me nothing but luck and good thoughts to "getting better." Her parking the car and actually walking me into the airport, right up to the security line. Her asking me if I have everything I need, as any other mom would do. I would roll my eyes, like any kid would do, and reassure her that I am fine and that I have everything I need. I can see us hugging, knowing how badly we would miss each other but each of us hoping that I would return a better version of myself.

I know she wishes that for me now, even though she is gone. I want so badly to be better for her and for myself and for those around me that love me and miss me. If I can find a way to blend these two very separate versions of me into a form I am happy, truly 100% happy with, I will have won the battle.

Cancer. Round Four.

The time between my posts is getting longer and longer, which at times I think is a good thing but then again, maybe not. Good because this blog has been my form of therapy for the past two years and it's good to need it less and less, but bad because I don't often let things escape like I used to. If my therapist Cynthia were reading this, she would be rolling her eyes and saying, "Yes! You never let it out!" This is her biggest gripe with me, unfortunately, and after two long years of therapy and a $25 co-pay with every visit, not much progress has been made in that department.

However, it comes out every once in a while. When it does, it is usually cynical and dripping with sarcasm. Yikes!

I suppose I've been bottling some things up out of respect for and the wishes of my aunt Janny. Not many people know, and I have not been able to freely talk about the fact that she has cancer.

Just a little sidenote: My mom had 4 sisters, 3 from the same dad and 1 is a half-sister with a different dad but they loved each other as though that was never an issue. The 4 sisters with the same dad, the Lightbody side of the family, have now all been diagnosed with cancer.

My aunt Janny has bladder cancer. She had to be unusual and couldn't just have breast cancer like everyone else. For those of you who have read my previous posts, you know that my aunt Janny is the one who "took over" for my mom after she died. I had a hard time getting close to people after that and resisted it because I was afraid I would lose whoever I would get close to. For some reason, it was always in the back of my head that this may someday happen to my aunt Janny.

And now she has cancer too. I'm not saying I'm going to lose her to this or that everyone I love gets cancer and that it's my fault. But a little part of me wonders if it's my fault, if you want the honest truth.

She had surgery yesterday to remove her bladder. When faced with the decision to keep her bladder and have chemo or remove her bladder altogether while still facing a possible chemo treatment later, she almost didn't hesitate in deciding to go through with the major surgery. At the doctors office that afternoon she said, "Your mom and aunt Polly couldn't remove their cancer, but I can." And that she did.

She is now in the ICU after having experienced a nearly five-hour surgery with tubes and machines all hooked up to her. She is awake and talking but uncomfortable, of course.

I am currently battling a terrible virus that has prevented me from going to work all week, so I have stayed away from my aunt Janny and it is killing me. My family has been giving me updates so I feel better about the whole thing. It's very hard to be away from her.

So, to my surprise, my phone rang tonight and it was the hospital's number. My stomach sank into my feet--I know that number too well. My mom was in the hospital so often that I had it saved in my phone under "mom." I instantly recognized it and quickly had to remind myself not to panic. The raspy, tired voice of my aunt Janny was on the other end of the phone call, and it was so reminiscent of my mom's sick, fighting voice that it was actually frightening. I barely talked and I let her do most of the talking, mostly because I knew I would cry if I opened my mouth. I hung up the phone with her and was taken back to that place. That place I do not like to go.

At home, by myself, my parents at the hospital. My mom getting chemo while I'm at school or work, not knowing how it's going and waiting for a phone call. Finally, the phone would ring, and it would be her. That same voice. My same worry. Today took me back to that place.

It really shook me.

I remember my last phone call from my mom. I was sick, and I wasn't allowed to visit her because she was only two weeks out of her transplant and I could jeopardize everything if I passed on my germs. But I didn't have to because the hospital and their own, home-grown germs did that for me and took her away.

I am not ok with watching another one of my family members suffer like that and have to endure things that most other people can't even imagine. I'm not sure what this is that is happening to our family but I want it to stop. When this all started, back when my mom was diagnosed and my aunt Polly was still living, I tried to put on a brave face and fake a positive smile through my day. I actually got compliments on how upbeat I was..."Your family must really appreciate your positive outlook." Right.

I find it hard to fake that sort of thing anymore. After my mom died, I continued to put on a smile for everyone and all that got me was a nervous breakdown and therapy. So I stopped and tried to let myself be upset and sad if I needed to be. I feel myself reverting back to that person, that quiet, angry person that keeps things in. I don't want to fake a smile if I don't have to and I don't want to be cheerful all the time because that's not how I feel.

Truth be told, I am angry. I am very angry. I can't believe another one of my family members has to deal with this, another one of my mom's sisters. Cancer. Again. When will it all just stop? The only good thing coming out of this is that I am not distracted by school anymore, and I can help my aunt Janny the best way I know how. I may not have a cute little smile on my face but at least I can snuggle and watch movies and cook and clean. Just like I did for my mom.

My aunt Janny has seen the best and the utter worst of me--she knows when I'm faking and she doesn't like it. I'm happy I will get to be myself with her. Maybe we will all come out better on the other side.

My second and last visit

For only the second time since my mom died, I visited her grave. I live nearby the cemetery where she is buried and drive by it almost every day, but I never stop. I'm too scared.

My visit wasn't planned. I decided to head to the grocery store, and the entrance to the cemetery is on the way. I instinctively pulled in without even thinking about it and immediately felt anxious. "Am I really doing this?" I asked myself. My car drove right to the mausoleum and before I knew it, I was sitting outside the entrance. My throat had a lump in it and I choked back tears. I took the keys out of the ignition and realized my hands were shaking and it was hard to swallow. I didn't want to go in but something was telling me I had to. I got out of my car, opened the double glass doors and stepped in. I walked down the short hallway and around the corner to where she is buried. I saw the gold letters spelling "Gail" and stopped mid-step.

I felt nothing.

All the anxiety and nerves I felt just seconds before melted away. I didn't feel sad, angry, scared, happy, sick, nothing. It was almost as if I was a shell standing there, completely hollow. I walked over to the bench in front of her grave and sat down indian-style. The mausoleum was so quiet it actually scared me, and I felt like the sounds of my breath were too loud. I took a deep breath and held it for a short while to take in how quiet, how dead it was in there. It was amazing to realize how many people I was surrounded by and not one of them breathing, thinking, living. Only me. And I felt as though I was disturbing the peace.

I don't think I lasted more than three minutes in there.

Walking back to my car, I decided I didn't need to do that again. I have come so far, and I still have a long way to go. Putting myself in a situation where I may take two steps back isn't worth it to me and I'm sure my mom would agree. Looking back on it now, I shouldn't have even stopped. I guess I felt like I had something to prove to myself, like I'm "over it" or something. I'm not. And I don't need to go to that place to be able to think about my mom.

She is not there. Her ashes are. But she is not. Our memories are not there either. In fact, they are everywhere but there.

There is not one place I have been where I haven't thought about my mom, and I feel as if she is all around me. The littlest things make me think of her, and almost all of them are goofy, inside jokes. Others are daily, every-day ordinary things that most people would never think of--at least not until the person they share them with is gone.

One thing that really stands out to me is coming home from Kent on the weekends. While most kids were ready to go out and get completely hammered, I couldn't wait to get away from studying, tests, pressure and go home to visit my mom. On Friday after work, I would head home. She usually was asleep on the couch by the time I got home so I went out with my friends. But Saturday morning was ours.

I hated getting up early then, but I would set my alarm for 7 so we could head to the farmer's market as soon as it opened. We would walk around really slow, take a good look at everything, and talk about everything that happened that week away at school. I would buy some produce and fresh pasta to take back home, and she would buy me a small bouquet of flowers to keep in my room. On Sunday afternoon when I would get ready to head back to Kent, she would sit on my bed while I packed my bags. I'm embarrassed to say there were many times when I would hug here goodbye and she would start crying. And then I would start too!

We just really loved each other. I'm not sure how else to put it. We just did.

Another memory that really stands out in my mind is the day we went to the Cleveland Clinic to meet with the doctor who was going to do her bone marrow transplant. I felt sick all day, and I was in dress clothes because I was interviewing for an internship position with the Intestinal Rehabilitation and Transplant Program so I could be closer to mom during her treatments up in Cleveland. I was not convinced a transplant was the right thing to do, although it was her only chance. I had heard so many terrible things about it that I wasn't ready to let her go early when I knew we could take her home and enjoy her time while she still had it. But eventually we knew the cancer would come back and it would end the same way. So we went to see what they had to say. While she was getting some testing done before her consultation, I went to my interview. I made it back a couple minutes before the meeting started, and she just looked at me with big eyes, eyebrows raised. "So?" she asked.

"I got it," I said. "I already filled out all of the paperwork." I wasn't sure how I felt about all of this.

I saw her cute little lip tremble. "Don't do it, Mom!" I joked. She started to cry, which usually killed me even on a good day, but go ahead and add a bald head with the emotions of that day, and it was all over. Good Lord. I knew she was proud of me, and I was very happy to have the opportunity to be closer to her and still continue my education while she went through her transplant. Everything seemed to be working out the way it needed to.

But we all know how it turned out.

Regardless, I am happy I have that day etched on my brain. That single day got me through my Masters, writing my thesis, and finishing my internship. I'm glad I was able to give back to her all the strength and faith she had in me by having this diploma in my hand. Finishing school was by far the biggest accomplishment she got me through, because not a day went by I didn't consider quitting so I could lay in bed all day and just stop. Stop everything.

Looking back on it, I'm not sure exactly how I made it through all the bullshit. But I did. I really owed it to her to get through it safely.

That cold, quiet mausoleum could never hold the raw love I have for her. It is far too big to fit inside those walls filled with strangers' ashes. Our memories are too expansive and cover too much ground. She is not there, and I could never imagine trying to force all the great things about her into that place.

I love my mom way too much to go there again.

I'm sorry it's only me

I can't remember who I was talking to about losing my mom, but they had lost their mom as well, and they said something that really stuck with me (although, unfortunately, I can't even remember who said it) : "No matter how many people you have in your life, you always feel lonely without your mom."

This is completely true.

I've been saying it for a while now, how lonely I feel even though I am lucky enough to have many friends, a wonderful husband, and a large family. I still am very sad for my aunts, who had to lose two sisters within six months of each other, and it is incredible how small our "sisters" circle now feels. What once was six is now only four, and it feels monumentally different. Aunt Janny misses my mom a lot, since they had so much in common. Of course she misses Aunt Polly too, but my mom and her were really close. Kind of like me and my mom.

My Aunt Janny is the "baby" of the sisters. My mom used to tell me that she always wanted to be a mom, and when my mom would get her work paychecks, she would buy my Aunt Janny outfits like she was her own baby. My Aunt Janny really misses her, and I'm very sorry that she doesn't have her anymore.

We went out on a date together last night. We went to one of our favorite places, where the owner knows us both. She looked at me last night and asked, "I always see you with your aunts. Where's your mom or dad?" I explained that my mom had passed away from leukemia, and that my aunts and I are very close because our group is now significantly smaller since two of us are gone. The woman said, "Well, you all have to stick together."

My Aunt Janny and I talked about this more in the car after dinner. She talked about how much she missed her sisters and now that my mom is gone, she feels like she has no one to spend time with. Her and my mom had many plans for when they both retired.

My Aunt Janny is retired now.

I was trying very hard not to cry, and even though I am still sad for myself, I just don't think they will ever understand just how sad I am for them. I don't have any sisters, and I can't imagine how sad their hearts are to not have their full circle anymore.

"I'm sorry it's only me, " I said. I know she doesn't feel as though I am second best, but I feel as though I am second best. I am not their age. I don't understand what they understand. I do not have to deal with what they deal with.

She said she feels lonely. Me too.

I wonder sometimes if this void will ever be filled for any of us. My guess is no.

I've noticed I go through ups and downs with missing my mom. It's always in the back of my mind, but some days are harder to deal with than others. My patient at work really triggered something and I have been having a hard time. Although I am starting to come around again.

Luckily, my "rough patches" are much easier to deal with these days and do not last as long or hurt nearly as much.

When I really miss my mom, I hardly ever think about our memories, as many people have suggested for me. This makes me too sad that I can't go back with her. Instead, I think about what my mom and Aunt Polly are doing together in Heaven.

My mom and Aunt Polly really liked the movie Grease, so a lot of the time, I picture them sitting in a 1950s diner sharing a really big vanilla milkshake with a cherry on top. My mom would let my Aunt Polly take the cherry. Elvis is playing on the jukebox and they have poodle skirts on. I don't picture them younger, I picture them as I knew them. Both with hair, both healthy and cancer-free. I can see them talking with all of their friends, who look like the kids in Grease and American Graffiti. (If you haven't seen American Graffiti, I highly recommend it! A non-musical with Ron Howard and Harrison Ford!)

Even though I feel extremely lonely without them, I am glad they have each other and that they are having fun. I know they are together. I just know it.

Gone for good

It has been so long since I've written anything. I read back through some of my most recent posts and am happy to report that a lot has changed since then. I have a new job which happens to be in the same field that I love but only 15 minutes down the road from my house. The patients I work with are not as high-acuity which I thought would be a bad thing but really has been a blessing.

My heart needed to heal more than I realized, and I feel as though I'm making the last several strides to get there. While I will never fully be "healed," my journey is no longer an uphill battle and I'm thankful for that.

It's funny how your brain and heart takes time to relax from your struggles...and WHAM! Just when you start to get comfortable, something rattles your cage to remind you you're not finished grieving.

Without sharing too many details, I have been in the middle of a situation in which I believe a family is giving up on a loved one rather than providing her with the proper means to be able to rehabilitate further. Just when I thought we had finally agreed on a plan to provide her with enough strength to participate in rehab, they decided to cancel it and initiate hospice care instead.

Much to my surprise, this crushed me. I truly am shocked at how I am reacting to this decision, because I knew in the back of my mind this may be the route they chose for their loved one. However, as a healthcare professional who knows personally the boundary of "too far gone" versus someone who has the potential to improve, I felt as though we could make some progress with her. I really believed in her and I was prepared to fight for her. Unfortunately, it seems as though I was the only one.

It is very crushing to be stopped in your tracks when you feel as though you're doing the right thing for someone. All I can think about is my mom.

You learn quickly working in the long-term care industry that many of these people do not have advocates. Knowing this, I do everything in my power to care for them and be aggressive in my care when it is appropriate.

Today, it was appropriate.

Realizing the intense sadness I felt for my patient when I realized I would have to put a stop to my treatment, I tried to examine what in the world caused me to feel this way. Plain and simple: I do not have a mom to stand up for anymore. And all I can do now is stand up for other people's moms. Sad. But true. The thought of my mom laying in bed without anyone to help her makes me sick, so instead of playing the whole "woe is me" card, I have decided to use this in my profession to the best of my capabilities. Unfortunately, a wrench can easily get thrown in your plans when the family decides to call the whole thing off.

Looking back on everything that has happened, I know now why I work in this field and why I care so much for my patients. It is all thanks to my mom, and although she has been gone for over a year and a half, she continues to work on me in different ways. I can't explain how immensely happy I am that we gave her a fighting chance, and although she went down, she went down with a good, hard fight. She wouldn't have had it any other way. If I am ever in her position, I hope to be half as strong and put up at least half the battle as she did.

My opinion of choosing to end her suffering has not wavered, and today only strengthened the choices we made to help her along the way. We pushed it just far enough to try and get her through her infection, but in the end, we had enough sense and love to let her leave the world with dignity and knowing she did a job well done.

Not a day goes by that I don't think about her smile or the way she used to look at me when one of our favorite songs would come on the radio in the car. I miss our shopping trips, our matinee movies, our drives to Amish country, and our Saturday mornings laying in bed watching the Food Network. I miss the smells in our kitchen, the annoyance of her hair dryer at 5:30 in the morning, and the sound of her high heels walking down the isles of the grocery store. I miss seeing her black Coach purse sitting in our kitchen, her reading glasses sitting on the night stand, and little cards or small, goofy surprises waiting for me on my bed when I got home from school.

I loved knowing that an any moment, I could call her on the phone, even if it was the sixth time we would talk that day. I miss her voice so much it is physically painful and to look at pictures of her doesn't nearly do her pretty face justice. I want to touch her and smell her hairspray and her perfume.

I want to lay on her chest in the ICU, even though she was already gone, because that was the last moment I would ever get to feel her again. I would take that moment rather than nothing at all, like now. There are so many monumental things I miss about her and so many little quirks of hers that I crave.

I hope that my patient's children who have made this decision for her care have enjoyed enough of the things I have enjoyed about my mom because when they're gone, they're gone for good.

Don't bury me yet

A new resident has recently been admitted at work. He is an older man who went to the hospital for what he thought was pneumonia and ended up with stage four lung cancer that is inoperable and the doctors, because of his prognosis and age, are choosing not to treat it. It has already spread to his adrenal glands. So now he is at our facility facing death.

The first day I met him, I did my day-to-day work duties and made sure I knew his nutritional background. But, nearly an hour later, I knew where he worked, how he met his wife, why he liked his job so much, and his worries about his diagnosis. I sat indian-style on the floor of his room and listened while he talked openly about his life, and I really enjoyed it.

He and his wife have been married for 63 years. He is very scared.

Today we had a family meeting with his wife. It's a routine meeting so the families can meet the team members at the facility who will be caring for their loved ones. She listened very quietly and was very polite while all of us talked about her husband's care, but she only had one question and none of us could answer it. How much longer will he live?

She is very, very scared.

We tried in several different ways to describe the tumor and his prognosis and bringing in hospice services, but we could not answer her directly and she was very frustrated.

I could see her starting to panic and I wanted to yell, "No one knows! Only God knows!"

Finally, she was answered with the statement that went something like "Take it day-to-day. That's all you can do. We don't know how long he will be here. Treat each day like it's the last." She seemed to be pleased with that, and although she kept a smile on her face, you could see her heart breaking on the inside and her world come crashing down.

My heart really hurts for her tonight. Having been through this situation several times, I can put myself easily in her shoes, knowing how hard it is to not know what will happen in one week, in one month. I remember watching my grandma decline during her battle with lymphoma and reading the book hospice provided our family about death and its stages. I learned so much and I was happy to have that understanding of the process...until my aunt Polly was placed on hospice. I hated knowing how her body was deteriorating and being able to understand each stage of death as she proceeded to the next, until she reached the last.

My mom, of course, was not placed on hospice but rather, we played a guessing game with her. Each chemo treatment was so intense and built on the last that I often feared being told we would have to put her on hospice, but that day never came. Instead, we got the news of an infection, then of liver failure, then of pneumonia, then of kidney failure, then the ICU, then the vent, and then the last line I'll never forget: "Her heartbeat and pulse are artificial and being controlled by medicine. Eventually, that medicine will max out and her heart will stop. You can choose to let this happen naturally, probably in several hours, or you can choose to end it now. Either way, she won't be here tomorrow."

Our guessing game came to an abrupt end, and we no longer were left to wonder what would happen in a week, in a month. It was over. We decided then and there she did not need to suffer anymore and we let her go.

The second they unplugged her IV, her heart stopped, and it really was all over. It just didn't feel real, although I could see her heart monitor showing a flatline.

We played a six-month guessing game with her, and when it was finally over, I wished we hadn't. I lived with her, knowing in the back of my head that she might not live through it, but I treated each day like it might be the last I saw her. I felt like in some way I had cheated her, like maybe I needed to give her more credit and she could fight it.

I'm not sure if this can play into my resident's new life, waiting for death. My wish for him, and for his wife, is that they enjoy each other's company until the very end, and that when he is gone, she is able to find some peace with the end of his suffering. I hope that she does not sell him short and bury him before he is gone...something I am afraid I was guilty of with my mom.

She knew I worried about her and even said to me several times not to "bury" her yet. I felt bad that she saw that kind of worry in me, but I just couldn't be so strong for her that I didn't worry. I did. I hope she is not mad at me and does not feel like I counted her out too soon. I didn't mean to do that.

If this happens to me again, I'm not sure I would be any different. I worry, and I'm scared to lose people I love. All along, I worried that if I was "too positive" that I would be setting myself up for disappointment.

Truthfully, I'm not sure how this all fits into my resident's story. It just made me think of my mom and reminded me of how frightening and frustrating the "waiting game" is. Everything makes me think of her, and I miss her very much.

Gunna Gunna's Special Day

I, like most people in Ohio, have a really bad case of the end-of-winter-blues. We have had so many terrible storms this winter and they have really impacted my mood and my anxiety, making it hard to sleep at night and instead, I stay up worrying about my commute to work the next morning.

And for good reason. An hour commute on a good day takes nearly three hours on a morning filled with freezing rain.

We just had another bad storm yesterday and I passed so many accidents and spin-outs on my way home from work, traveling only 20 miles per hour and praying I would make it home safe. This morning was an equally challenging commute, but I arrived at work safely, at seven a.m. I love getting to work early. My work environment is very hectic and I find myself, like many others, wishing there were two or three of me and that there were more hours in the day. At seven in the morning, the place is quiet and peaceful. I was able to complete several things while on the nursing units and then headed back to my office to make some coffee.

The sun was rising, and my view was trees, trees, and more trees covered in ice and snow. Each single, tiny branch was layered in a sheet of ice, perfectly placed as though someone painted it. The sun made it glittery and shiny in a way that made me stop what I was doing and just look. It was beautiful. And it made my whole day.

Sometimes I worry that I am still too down about my mom, and having been faced with so many more challenges after her death, I even wondered whether I would ever be back to normal again. Today I felt normal. I used to love the sun and the clouds and the blue sky, and I can't remember the last time I stopped what I was doing to take it all in.

Life is so tough sometimes, and with what my family has been through in the last two years, I worried that someone or something was actually out to get us. Being caught up in all that worry and fear and stress and anger can change a person, and I am afraid I was heading for that place. That place where you never come out the same.

I think I escaped it this morning. Even though I am on an anti-depressant, which I am sad to report I do not take like I should, I feel as though everything we need to heal ourselves is here on this Earth. No pills. No special diet shakes or workout videos. Nothing like that. Sunshine. And puffy clouds. And the smell of cinnamon and oranges. Or someone you love smiling. I think these are the things that heal broken hearts.

Prescriptions should read: Get up as early as possible, make yourself a cup of tea, and watch the sun rise once a week. Or everyday.

I am finding, also, that there are some very special people in my life who have helped me in ways I never thought possible. After being so low for so long, I realized that I could walk side by side with my husband through absolutely anything. And the pain and longing for my mom was something he also felt. And we share that now, after such a long time believing I was the only one. My best and closest friends have helped make me laugh when it actually hurt to smile. And life would have turned out so differently for me without my aunts there to help keep me sane and make me realize that even though my mom is gone my world does not have to stop.

But then there are those who just exist in our world, those who we see everyday, those who never cross our mind as someone who might make an impact. That someone for me is Gunna Gunna, as she is so famously titled in these posts.

I hate to call her Gunna Gunna because I feel like I'm making fun of her. Really, I would love to call her by her first name but want to keep her privacy. I see her everyday at work and she makes me smile and makes me laugh and I just love her to pieces. I swear there is no one more genuine and sincere as a person than Gunna.

Gunna loves jewelry. The gaudier, the better. Today, she flaunted a white and crystal ring. I made a big fuss over it, and we went through our daily routine: she grabs my work binder out of my hands and holds it in her arms folded across her chest, looks up at me as though she's saying, "Well, come on and push me!", and I push her in her wheelchair to the activities room. On our way there, we always pass a bulletin board I created for our "Biggest Loser" contest with a "before" and "after" picture of the winner who lost almost 40 pounds. Her name is Marcella and she is a physical therapist in our building. Gunna Gunna wanted to stop at the bulletin board. She pointed to Marcella and then pointed to her ring.

Marcella gave Gunna her new shiny ring. I said, "You are so lucky! Everyone loves you so much!" And she giggled and smiled and pointed to her hospital ID bracelet. Her birthday was printed below her name: tomorrow.

"Marcella got you a birthday present?!" I asked Gunna. She nodded, and I continued to tell her how special she was and that since it was her birthday I would bring in a birthday party hat so everyone would know. The hat is sitting on my passenger seat, waiting anxiously to be worn by someone who would really appreciate it.

"How old are you?" I asked her. Her brows furrowed and she scolded me like she was mad I asked her that, but then she looked around to make sure no one would hear her tell me her age. Another resident was coming down the hallway, and she leaned in really close to me. "It's ok, you can whisper it to me," I told her.

She leaned in even closer, put her hand up to her mouth and whispered, "Gunna gunna gunna gunna."

"That's not very old at all!" I said, and she laughed and laughed and patted me on my arm, and I dropped her off at the activities room to play Uno.

Gunna Gunna turns 80 tomorrow.

Thank you for saving me

Dear Mom,

Tonight, I got to meet Karyssa. This is not the first time, but it is the first time since she's been awake. You should see her, she is beautiful, just like the first time I ever saw her. Despite her injuries and what she went through that morning of the accident, she looked beautiful, and still does!

I was very nervous, and I wasn't exactly sure what to expect. Her mom and dad said she's very ornery and loves to joke around, and they were definitely right! She is so funny and sang goofy songs and acted like her old self, according to her parents.

Melinda approached her first, and Karyssa put out her arms to hug her and said how happy she was to meet her. Melinda told her what a miracle she is. I hung back a little because it was hard to hold it together, but I did a pretty good job. I didn't want to cry in front of her.

I went next. I hugged her, and I felt her kiss me on the cheek. What a sweetheart. She looked at her dad and said, "I get to meet the two women that saved me!" It was amazing. She held out her nails and showed them to us and proudly exclaimed that her mom did them for her. Her dad said, "I'll do them next time." Karyssa crinkled up her nose and said, "No way."

It is a complete and utter miracle to see her laughing and joking and giving her dad a rough time, thinking of how far she's come from laying on the sidewalk being given CPR to being announced brain-dead hours later.

She told me she was coming to my wedding, and that we were going to dance together. Can you believe it?

I have often wondered if you were there that day, helping me have the strength to stop and give CPR. I have questioned if you were there to take her away, or if you were there to keep her here on Earth....If you were her angel, just like you are mine. No matter what side you were on, thank you. Thank you for guiding me, and thank you for giving her the strength to fight for her life and to be with her family. I know you were somehow involved in this. In whatever way it was, thank you, thank you, thank you.

I felt you today stronger than I have in a long time. I was scared to go today and almost chickened-out, just too nervous to see her. I didn't know what kind of condition she would be in, and I am pleasantly surprised and believe in miracles because of her. She is so strong, and she is such a fighter, and she gives me the hope that I can be as strong as her to get through things without you. If I am even just half as strong as Karyssa is, I will be able to do this without you.

Even though I feel like some days I am OK and that I will make it, other days hurt just like the day you took your last breath. Did you bring Karyssa to me? Is this what was supposed to happen?

I believe it happened for a reason, and I am positive I needed to somehow be involved. She has brought so much faith to my heart and so much hope for my life, just seeing the strength and hope and determination she has. I am inspired by her, and I know you had something to do with it. Thanks mom.

Even in spirit, you know exactly what I need and when I need it. How do you do that? Even though you are gone, your love still lives on, stronger with each day we are apart. Thank you for saving me.

Is it really that bad?

Earlier today, I had a great conversation with my sister-in-law Mindy, who is a nurse in a facility very similar to the facility I work in. We were talking about the way in which we take care of our patients, and she asked me," Do you think you're more protective because of your mom?"

"Yes, definitely," I said. I know she is too, because my mom was important to her too, and I'm sure that the whole ordeal we went through has made us better care-takers.

Just now I was thinking about this conversation in my head and I thought, "Is it really that bad?" Her death was painful and one of the most difficult things I'll probably go through in my entire life, but I truly believe that knowing she made me a better person and a more sensitive and thoughtful caregiver would make her very proud. She would be very proud of Mindy too. We are better because of my mom, and I'm very thankful for that.

I work in what most would call a "nursing home" but really is so much more when you examine the type of patients we care for. Your standard "nursing home" patient rarely exists there, and rather, we cater to the just-off-the-vent, shot-in-the-head, massive-stroke-when-you're-fifty kind of crowd. Sometimes, it is very sad. Sometimes, I wish they were not suffering anymore. I used to feel bad about wanting them to go to Heaven, but now, looking back at the lessons my mom has taught me, and to understand that there is a great love that comes with releasing someone from their suffering, I don't feel bad anymore for hoping they are freed. I have patients that are in their forties and fifties that are living after a massive brain hemorrhage, and "living" really isn't an appropriate term to call what they're doing. More like "just existing." I don't think that's a life for anyone, not even for horrible people who deserve to suffer because they murder or rape or steal. I worry about my patients sometimes because they can't always stick up for themselves, and although you hate to admit it, you can occasionally see when someone is tired or having a bad day and they may slack on the care that needs provided. I hate that I see that sometimes, and I hate to admit it now. But it's true.

I am very proud to say that I do not let myself have days like this, and I know that I have my mom to thank for that. Whenever I'm having a bad day or a challenging time at work, I ask myself, "What if that was my mom laying there?" and I have no problem gently reminding anyone else either!

What's very scary to me is to think that my mom could have ended up like one of my patients, practically brain-dead and laying there in bed, drooling on herself without being able to eat, to speak, to cry out for help, and it makes me sick. Losing my mom was beyond heartbreaking, but when looking back on what could have happened to her and in what state she could have been left in, I can't help but think, "Is it really that bad?"

Yes, and no. She's gone, and for whatever reason, it had to happen that way. But....she left many things behind and even to this day, a year and three months later, I am still finding things from her and lessons that need to be learned. Even in her death she continues to teach me and nurture me and her job is never done, and I love how she reaches out to me so that I can reach out to someone else during my day. I hope she is proud of me, and I'm happy to still have her in my life whether I can see her or not. Today especially, I feel there is no greater gift than the gift of compassion, no matter how it finds its way to you.

What doesn't kill us...

Sometimes I worry that I have seen a lot with only being 25 and that I have become too "hardened" to what goes on around me. And sometimes, on the other hand, I worry that I am too sensitive to people's problems and they weigh me down too much, because I have been there like they have. I have been following a story of a young girl, only six years old with neuroblastoma. She was in remission and just found out that she has cancer again. In fact, it's what she and her family got for Christmas. My heart hurts for them so terribly I can't even put in words really how it feels. And I don't even know them. I wonder if this is a problem that I feel this way, or if it's the way more people should feel? I'm not sure.

Life deals us such shit sometimes, and I think it's really interesting how people deal with it. Sometimes people have a hard time finding good in what they've been dealt, and I definitely have been there once or twice. But I later realized that trying to find good, no matter how hard that may be, is a lot more productive and a lot healthier. Even the darkest, most difficult cloud has a silver lining. It may be hard to spot, but it's there.

I think of this young girl and her family dealing with the thought of another tumor, more chemo, lost time spent in hospitals. But how much more they must appreciate Christmas. How much more they love their daughter. How special even the simplest thing must be to them. Because they don't know if they'll have it next year. Or maybe they'll have many more years. It's scary not to know these things, but when it's tested or put on the line, it's amazing how much more enjoyable things can be.

I can definitely relate to that. From the second I heard "leukemia," I questioned my remaining time with my mom. Often, it was on my mind how much longer I would have her, or if there was a possibility it might not end the way I feared. I already appreciated and loved my mom to an unexplainable amount, because we had already been tested with breast cancer, so naturally, our love was a lot stronger than it had been before. So the fact that my heart and my love for her grew even bigger, even stronger, was almost hard to deal with. Meaning, I cared for her so much, that I lived in a constant state of fear of losing her. Despite that, we enjoyed each others company, spent a lot of time together, made jokes, laughed, watched movies, and what seemed like everyday things turned into monumental events for us. A phone conversation is all of the sudden a chance to spill your heart out. Watching a movie becomes possibly one of the last times you'll snuggle in bed together.

I can't tell you how much I miss snuggling in bed together on a Saturday morning watching Paula Deen on the Food Network. That was our favorite. Or how much I miss listening to her hum along to the oldies on the radio. Or how much I miss calling her, hearing her voice, hugging her, knowing that at any moment of the day, she was a short car drive away. And now she is gone. And all of those things are lost and no longer anything to me but memories.

I think about this little 6-year old girl and wonder if she knows that her life is in jeopardy. Cancer is such a horrible thing for anyone to deal with, but it is completely sickening when a baby has to deal with it and maybe even worse for the parents to watch, helpless. But, on the other hand, cancer patients and their families are some of the most appreciative, most resilient people I know. When your life suddenly becomes limited or you can no longer function like yourself and the question of whether or not you ever will again is in the back of your mind, you start to process things a little differently.

My patients who are so sick they need tube feeding come to mind. Just imagine not being able to eat, to taste, anything ever again. A hole in your stomach with fluid being pumped through it to serve as your "meals." The joy of seeing this tube be removed, to see my patients eat again, to see them taste their food and feed themselves and enjoy it....there is nothing better. Because they know what it's like to wonder if they'll ever have that again. It truly is a blessing when they can.

Sometimes I think we need to be challenged in this way. I think about my family and how many times we have been challenged by cancer and all of our losses, about my friend Cheryl who will no longer have a sister because of cancer, and about the young parents of the little girl who will lose all of her pretty blond hair because of cancer. While we are all struggling and ask "Why is this happening?" we are learning to appreciate and to hold on to what we have left. While it's hard, some people are not lucky enough to have this kind of lesson.

I have been thinking a lot about Karyssa, the young girl from the motorcycle accident I witnessed. She is quite a miracle. After having no brain waves and being kept alive only for her organs, she is now out of her coma, eating, talking, answering questions, enjoying her family, and participating in therapy three times a day to regain her life. I can't imagine the heartache a mother would feel, tohave to hear that your sixteen year old daughter is brain dead...and to go from that to realizing she's alive and going to be ok. Can you imagine the appreciation that comes with that? I can't. But it's amazing. I got a Christmas card from her mom: "Thank you for helping Karyssa. This is our most meaningful holiday. Karyssa said one day she would love to meet you. Karyssa is doing very well." Wow. To read that, no matter how many times I already have, it gives me chills.

I am so happy for them that they have their daughter. I'm sure everything, no matter how small, seems like a miracle to them, and my heart is so glad for their miracles. They have been tested far more than a family should have to be tested.

We all should be so lucky to have this kind of appreciation for our families and our loved ones, and it shouldn't take something like cancer or nearly being brain dead to bring about this "new-found" appreciation. It shouldn't be "new-found" and it shouldn't come out the moment we are challenged. Why can't it just be there?

Although I am heartbroken to be without my mom and my life has drastically changed in her absence, I am blessed to have had this experience, to learn from it and to be a better friend, niece, wife, and healthcare provider. "What doesn't kill us makes us stronger" may really have some truth in it.