Two Years Without Mom

Two years. I've often tried but always felt as though I cannot entirely convey the feeling in your soul when your mother has died.

It's true. A part of you dies as well.

An hour into tomorrow, February 22nd, will mark two years since my mom passed into the next life, as we sat by her side, hanging on to every last breath. Two years. I think about her constantly. But it's the hole buried deep within my heart that continues to remain empty that burns. Every second of silence or stillness and that physical burn within me is felt. The void never disappears.

And I've accepted that.

But it's hard never hearing "I love you!" It's hard never getting motherly advice, even when it's unsolicited. It's hard never getting a "mom hug" when I'm going through a rough time. Her voice is but a memory as are her hugs, her spaghetti, and all the little thoughtful gifts that came when you least expected them, reminding you that she cared. Always.

And without those things in life anymore, it changes.

I think we all grow up, knowing, as much as we don't like to admit or think about it... that our parents aren't always going to be with us. Some of us lose them younger in life and some of us even get the wonderful blessing of seeing our parents with their great-grandchildren. But life is so, so precious. I can't say this enough. And as dark and "hush hush" as it may be thought of by some, seeing your mother go from being full of life to struggling to take her final breath to laying there lifeless and cold in front of you... it wakes you up for the rest of your life.

So, wake up now. Stop living life unconsciously. Stop taking part in things like gossiping and lying and settling and waiting. Because one day, whether you want to believe it or not, you'll get the phone call or the prognosis as the doctor stands in front of your family that will alter your life forever. Tell your loved ones how much they mean to you, go to that family dinner, mend broken relationships.

When my mom left for the emergency room that night, I had no idea that she would never be coming back. I had no idea it'd be the last time I'd help her put her jacket on and see her walk out that door. No idea at all. Life happens faster than we can comprehend.

I can't bring her back. Nothing can. But I can live my life now fuller and truer than ever before. In honor of her. In honor of the greatest gift that she could have given me - the precious gift of life.

I love you, Mom.

The Truth About Christmas Without Mom

If you've lost your mother, you may hear a phrase every so often: "I know this time of year is tough for you." Right now, Christmastime is that time of the year. This will be the second Christmas without my mom and I must say, it's much more difficult than last year was.

My last Christmas picture with my mom. 2009 at my work Holiday Party.

Last year was the first Christmas without my mom alive. I had moved to San Diego and flew back to the East Coast for about a week to spend time with family for what I knew was going to be a tough holiday for us. Although the year of "firsts" is painful, the shock of her death, at least for me, was still very much a factor last year. There was a lot of numbness, as I will still undergoing the different stages of grief. The death of my mother was unexpected and came without much warning. I went from having an argument with my mom one day to sitting by her bedside in the hospital as she took her last breath several days later. We had no idea, none at all, that 2011 would or even could be our last Christmas with her.

So Christmas 2012 was all about it "being the first Christmas without Mom." The numbness still wearing off, coupled with the pressure of trying to make it a good Christmas despite the empty chair at our dinner table, meant the utter pain was not as evident. It was masked. We all tried extra hard to feel the love she created every Christmas.

But this year, this Christmas... I feel double the amount of pain as last year. I'm no longer numb. I could feel the deep, pulsating pain as it started creeping in around Thanksgiving. I could start to sense it in my other family members too. My parents' house went undecorated. The Christmas tree remained unlit. The Spirit of Christmas was nowhere to be found and every time "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year" found its way onto the radio, I found myself rolling my eyes.

I tried to feel the Magic. I tried to get excited thinking about candy canes and snowflakes and stockings hung up. But, well, there were no candy canes, snowflakes, or stockings this year. My mom was the Spirit of Christmas. She was the one to decorate the house so magically, to dress up the presents with perfect ribbons and bows and to get the family all excited for spending the holiday together. As much as I've tried to keep them going, I've seen the traditions fade away this year. I've felt the pain with every mention of "Christmas." It's a shame, but it's the truth and that's why I'm writing about it here today.

Because I know that there are other people out there, some which I know personally and some that are strangers who are feeling this same pain that I write about. They know deep down, aside from all of the fluff and positive talk that nothing will replace the void that is felt while looking at the empty chair at the table and seeing the bare spot under the tree where her presents once were placed.

Part of my heart will forever be hollow all year, but during this time especially. I know that one day, with my own children, my heart will be filled in a different way. But nothing, nothing at all, will ever erase the pain of not having my sweet mom on Christmas.

She is missed.

I Breathe Deep for My Mom 2013

Soon after I found out about my mom's cancer (less than 48 hours before she died) I started following Lungevity on social media. Lungevity Foundation is dedicated to funding lung cancer research and supporting those affected by lung cancer. Lung cancer is by far the leading cause of cancer death among both men and women. Each year, more people die of lung cancer than of colon, breast, and prostate cancers combined. And in 2012, my mom was one of them.

While I was in San Diego, I had decided that I wanted to take part in the Lungevity Breathe Deep 5k. It ended up working out perfectly. Because of my recent move to the East Coast, I was happy that my family wanted to take part in Breathe Deep DC which took place on the National Mall on November 2nd.

It was a blustery, cold morning and this California Girl could barely handle it! Talk about a wake-up call! Luckily, my favorite weatherman Doug Kammerer made an appearance AND my niece was attached to my hip, literally, which added some extra warmth :)

You know you're cold when you will gladly carry your three-year-old niece during a leg of a 5k just so she can keep you warm/you can move a little faster ;) The sun finally started to peek through as we neared the Lincoln Memorial. I explained to my niece, Aubrey, that Mr. Lincoln lives there and she asked, "Well… can I go in and hug him?" :)

We each wore a sticker that day that said, "I breathe deep for________" and mine read, "My Mom :)" It was a wonderful experience to be there in our nation's capitol with many other people and families whose lives have been affected by this horrible cancer. To see survivors there. To see the pictures of those lost. To see the smiles and hope from coming together for a cause. It was a beautiful weekend.

I told Aubrey that "Grammie" was waiting for us at the finish line but that we couldn't see her, we just had to wave up to the sky. I know my mom was there, waiting for us, cheering us on.

Not just that day but everyday, I breathe deep for My Mom.

A Timeless Family Locket

Nearly one year ago, I was preparing to leave my hometown in the DC suburbs to move to San Diego. I spent one morning going through a bunch of my mom's belongings, to decide what I wanted to take with me. I found beautiful vintage jewelry she had worn back when she was my age, her bracelet from the hospital when she was born, and this...

A golden locket with pictures of my mom's beautiful mother and her handsome father. The two grandparents I never had the chance to meet. I often think about what they would have been like. I've always looked in awe at the few black and white pictures I've seen of them because, although they're family, they're so untouchable. All I'll know of them is those pictures. I'll never know the sound of their voices or how they hugged me.

My mom's mother passed away suddenly when my mom was only 13 but from the pictures I've seen, she was absolutely beautiful. Her smile was so radiant and contagious and reminds me so much of my mom's. I wonder about the dreams she had for her only daughter, my mom. I feel such a special connection to her. A desire to be just like what I imagine she would have been like. I know she was there to embrace my mom last February and I know they're up there now, sitting together, watching me and smiling.

This post was surprisingly very difficult for me to get through. I didn't think I'd be struck with such grief upon discussing the two grandparents that were gone before I was born. But they remind me of the loss of my mom. They remind me of how precious our time here on Earth is. How precious our time with our parents truly is. There are so many questions I wish I could ask my mom. There are so many moments I didn't get to share with her. I know how deeply the loss of her mom wrecked her and completely uprooted the rest of her life here. I know the peace she had as she passed into the next life, knowing she would finally be reunited with her own sweet mother. And that helps. To know that although we lost her, she gained her mom by her side again.

One day, I'll gain my mom by my side again. And I'll finally meet her mother and father, and I'll finally know their voices and feel how they hug me.

To Relive A Day With Her

When asked to choose a memory I'd want to relive, the only person I can think of reliving a moment with is my mom. I wouldn't even be picky about which memory, as long as it was with her.

It's weird. Now that she's gone, I miss her during the tiniest moments. Every. Single. Time I am in DSW or TJ Maxx, I lose it. Yep, there's Chelsea the girl with tears in her eyes trying on shoes in the middle of a DSW aisle. And the second I hear a girl in the TJ Maxx fitting room say, "Mom, what do you think about this?" yep, I tear up.

My mom and I didn't talk much about life, love, and the pursuit of happiness. We bonded through running errands together and dancing in the car. Going to Barnes & Noble, grabbing a Starbucks, and browsing the aisles for books was our thing.

So, as much as I'd want to pick the first time we went to Disney World or our annual Virginia Beach vacation or that Christmas that I got my pink Barbie Corvette, I think I'd choose a day of errands with my mom. And then we'd come back home and [just to please her] we'd lie on the couch in the living room while she'd replay that day's episode of Oprah, Dr. Oz, or Dancing with the Stars for me because I "just had" to see it ;) Oh, Mom.

I swear I miss her more as time passes...

More Afraid Than I've Ever Been

Being afraid. When am I not afraid? I'm afraid of everything - thunderstorms, tornadoes, turbulence, spiders, loud noises. My fear of flying has slowly been conquered but the turbulence part will always give me white knuckles. Lately, I've been doing a lot of work on letting go of fear-based thoughts and limiting beliefs. In doing that, I've been made more aware of what exactly it is that I'm afraid of. I'm now better able to handle my fear and turn those thoughts around. However, there were some instances in life where fear completely consumed me and I'm about to tell you about the worst instance:

I stood in the hallway where there were a few couches and chairs because the dark, cramped up waiting room was too much to bear at that point. I texted my boss at work, keeping the office up-to-date. I saw countless tweets come through, strangers reaching out to me. I texted my best friends with updates. I sat down, stood up, leaned against the couch, and leaned on the shoulders of my family.

We all took turns. While some of us waited there at those couches, others went upstairs to visit. Then, my phone started to ring. It was my brother who was upstairs at the time while I waited. 

"We need you to come up here," he said.

"What's wrong?!" I asked in a panic.

"She keeps trying to tell us something but we don't know what she's saying and you're the only one who can understand her."

Before I could even hang up the phone in time, I rushed to the elevator, pushed the button, and ran into the room where I saw my brother, his fiancee, and my dad all distraught, in tears. I looked at my mom and back at my family, standing around her hospital bed. This wasn't good.

I took her hand as I knelt down close to her side.

"Mom? What are you trying to say?"

She was frustrated, exhausted, as she tried again to communicate with what little oxygen she had left.

She kept trying to tell us that my dad needed to go get something that was green. Something particular. Her words were muffled, twisted, and didn't make much sense.

It was at that moment that I started to see her go.

It was the first instance I could really see the life in her dissipate, rapidly.

With concerned eyes, I looked over at my brother who was at my mom's left side.

He looked at me, nodded, and said:

"It's time to say your goodbyes."

After that short moment that we shared, my mom said a few more things that I'll never forget. They were very spiritual moments for me. They were symbolic to me of her being ready to pass into the next life. I lost all control of my emotions. My heart sank deep into my chest and my knees buckled. It was happening. She was dying. Mere hours after receiving the prognosis.

Life stopped for me right there in those moments. Looking back, all I can see are flashes. I remember my mom telling us it was time to go. I remember walking back to the elevator with my brother and his fiancée. She wrapped her arms around me in the elevator as I cried the deepest cry my soul has felt. It was the moment of acceptance that my mom was really going to die soon. That I would soon be without a mother. That she was forever going to be gone from my life on Earth.

--

My mom lived for another twenty-four hours, enough time for her brother to fly in and for her best friends to visit to say their goodbyes. Enough time for her to tell me one last time,

"I love you."

One Picture Will Be The Last

I was talking on the phone with my dad the other day and I mentioned how, in my mind, my mom will always be the age she was when she died. I forget that she would have continued to age with each birthday, just as I have. I forget about the age I had just recently turned when I lost her. 

The time without my mom has passed so quickly yet it painfully creeps by day by day. I was looking at pictures earlier. There are so many pictures of the two of us; me and my mom. I go to each picture and try to think back to when it was taken, where we were, how old I was, what drama was going on in my life that seemed like it was the end of the world. And I would do anything to take another picture, she and I, here on Earth.

You don't realize when the last picture you take with a loved one will be. It scares the hell out of me and is something that deeply, deeply saddens me when I look back at the time while my mom was still alive. The last picture I took with my mom was over a year before she died. I didn't even get a picture with her on Thanksgiving or Christmas. I took pictures of her with my niece and nephew and dad but I didn't get one with her. And that breaks my heart more than I can explain.

Recently, I booked a flight home to visit my dad for his birthday in a few weeks. It will be my first time returning since Christmas. I will be getting back to San Diego from a work trip in Las Vegas and then hopping on a flight a few hours later to go to DC. My dad felt bad because he knew it'd be a lot on me because of the work trip and my anxiety with flying and he said I could wait until next month. But birthdays are birthdays. I missed my mom's last birthdays before she died because I was living in another state and I'm not willing to miss my dad's birthday this year. Life is short. Shorter than we truly realize until something tragic happens.

Don't wait.

Visit your family. Take more than enough pictures. And keep your loved ones all around you. Even when you live far away. Find a way.

June 24th

June 24th.

It will always be my mom's birthday.

I could feel it quickly approaching this year - the second June 24th without her.

A day that used to be full of happiness and celebration.

Birthdays aren't the same anymore.

Especially not this one.

Not hers.

Because instead of presents, special dinners, and an ice cream cake,

we are only left now with memories.

Memories of her. Memories of us. Memories of all the birthdays we got to share with her.

But tonight, she won't be blowing out the candles and making a wish.

But today will always be her birthday.

I love you, Mom.

Sending lots of birthday hugs and wishes up there today!

--

The first June 24th without her.

The same picture was used because it just captures her spunk perfectly.

The Memories of Goodbye

It was a chilly Virginia day with the sun glistening through the clouds as we pulled up to the building in a pretty silver 3 series. I can still remember the effort it took to get out of the car that morning and the sound of the two doors as they slapped shut behind us. My heels clicked as I made my way into the building with my head tucked slightly downward toward my chest. I wasn't ready for this.

My eyes found the coat rack and I made my way over, trying not to be seen by others but it was too late. They all knew who I was as they looked at me with sad eyes. There were so many people here. I crept out of the hallway and back into the lobby where I was immediately greeted by the familiar faces of a good family friend, Tammie, and her sister. I remember the way Tammie's hug felt. It was one of the saddest, deepest hugs I had felt but somehow it brought me comfort all at the same time.

Seconds later, Brent, the director, approached me in his suit and walked me through what the remainder of the day looked like. With his trust in my approval, I was again calmed. We were moved into a side room and minutes started to pass as though they were seconds. The lobby emptied out, there was a deafening hush, and we were ushered out to the first two pews.

With my brother on one side of me and my dad on the other, I looked outward in front of me at my mom's rich, brown casket. The smell of lavender and pink flowers flooded the air. I stared into the picture at the front of the chapel of my mom's pretty blue eyes. I still couldn't believe this moment was existing. That it was happening.

There were tears. There was laughter. I remember the moment I went up to the podium. I looked out at the chapel and for the first time, I saw it. The entire chapel was full. With family members, with neighbors, with good family friends, with friends of mine, and with people who had never even met her but knew her through stories. My mom touched the lives of so many. And this was proof of it all.

The strength to speak in front of all these people about the loss of the greatest, most important figure in my life somehow found its way into my heart. But in that moment, it didn't feel as though she was gone. It felt like she was right there behind me, showing me the way. Showing me how to get up there and speak with courage. I didn't feel alone. It was the last time I really had her there with me. Physically. So close.

I have absolutely loved this opportunity and challenge to blog everyday in May. Thank you so much, Jenni! Now, I figured I'd try something new and ask YOU to ask me questions!
What do you want to know about me? Leave your questions in the comments below or email me at chelsea.lifeisasunset [at] gmail [dot] com. I'm thinking I'll have to vlog my answers ;) What do you say?

Four Words I'll Always Keep With Me

August 17, 2011. 6 days before I would leave Utah for the last time, saying goodbye to my home and the life I had created there. 6 months and 6 days before I'd say goodbye forever to the person who told me these four words I'll never forget:

"You are so strong."

It was written by my mom at the end of an email from a long chain that had been going on as she provided her support all the way from Virginia. She would email me to check up on me, wish me sweet dreams, and remind me of any last minute loose ends to tie up as I prepared for my trek back home to the East Coast.

But on that day in August 2011, I had no idea just how important those four words were going to be for me 6 months later and again today, as I live without my mom.

This past week, I felt anything but strong. I felt small, I felt hurt, I felt discouraged, confused, and taken for granted. But deep down, I knew that I've conquered so much more compared to what life's been handing me lately. And so, I asked myself, "What would Mom be telling me right now?"

She may not have told me often but those four words above are a constant reminder from her that I am strong. That I can conquer the detours and disasters and doubts and disappointments that get thrown my way. I can.

She's the Thing I Miss Most

How coincidental that today's prompt, "What do you miss most?" is on Mother's Day.

I miss her. My sweet mom.

The one who knew me.
The one who taught me.
The one who helped me.
The one who loved me.

I miss her.

I miss her soft hands.
I miss her sweet smile.
I miss her hugs when we'd sway back and forth.
I miss her doing my hair ever-so-perfectly when I was little.

I miss her.

I miss the sound of her voice.
I miss our dance parties in the car.
I miss accidentally always matching.
I miss our lunch dates, our shopping dates, our movie dates.

I miss her.

I miss her.

I miss her.

I miss all the little things about her.
And I also miss all the big things.
The lessons. The pictures. The laughter. The bond.

I miss my sweet mom.
I miss her deeply.
I miss her painfully.
I miss her unceasingly.
I miss her in a way I just can't seem to express.

I miss my mom.

To Feel My Hand In Hers Again

I have written before about the days that are harder than others. There are probably several posts about that. Losing your mother changes your life as I'm sure those of you who are sadly in my shoes know. Life is just never the same. There are the mornings, days, nights, seconds, weeks, and months that are just harder to get through than others and most times, there's no real explanation for them.

Certain things remind you of her. You just need a "mom hug." You miss spending time with her. You just need her.

Monday was another one of those days for me. I think part of it had to do with the tragedy during the Boston Marathon. The idea of suddenly losing a love one hits me deeply and thinking about the realities that were taking place for families affected by the bombings hit me deeply. Death in general just hits me deeply because I know how awfully tragic and aching that pain feels. It never leaves your soul.

I called my dad in tears after watching footage of Boston on Monday. He had a hard time focusing at work and decided he just needed to leave and go home. And then he texted me this:

I so badly miss visiting my mom at the cemetery at least once a week. It was my time to reflect, to spend with her, to just sit there and be.

It is so hard for me to explain to people why I enjoyed going to the cemetery to visit her grave. It was the only time I had here on Earth to still spend with her, even if it was just a symbol. It helped... but it never took away the pain. And now not being on the same coast as her grave means I don't have a solid place I can go to visit her. I have her memories. I have her pictures. And I had one recent video of the two of us together. The last video taken of us. At my wedding.

Monday night, I don't know what came over me, but I needed to see the two of us interacting. I watched the first minute of my wedding highlights over and over again. Just me and my mom as I got ready. Seeing the way she looked at me. The love in her eyes. And then there was one moment that hit me so hard.

I reached out for my mom's hand and she placed my hand in hers and smiled. That one moment means the world to me yet breaks my heart at the same time because I know, deep down, that my mom will never be able to look at me like that again. I'll never be able to reach out and feel her hands in mine. And I don't care what positive spin anyone tries to give me... not being able to hold her hand while I'm alive again is the most painful feeling I've ever felt.

Still, to this day, it doesn't feel real that she is really gone. It becomes so ingrained in you to have your loved ones around or at least just one phone call away. But once they're really gone - forever - it is the most unreal, gut-wrenching feeling to know nothing at all will ever bring them back. Not even for a second.

That split second pictured above means more to me than I can express. To have a couple minutes of footage of us interacting. To see the love in her eyes as if it were happening today. I would do anything to bring her back. To feel my hand in hers again...

The Day I Donated My Hair

February 22nd. It was a sad day. A day full of horrible memories of watching my mom take her last breath. Of making phone calls. Of meeting with the funeral director. I will never forget that day in 2012. But this February 22nd, I wanted to turn it around. I wanted to honor my mom and continue living onward and upward as I know she would force me to do with any other loss.

So, I had made plans to chop off my long locks and donate them in her name to someone who needed them much more than I did. To a woman somewhere suffering from that sick monster we call "cancer," undergoing rigorous treatments, hanging on desperately, and losing her healthy hair in the process.

In the end, I know we'd all choose our life over our hair. Unfortunately, my mom didn't have a choice this time around for either. But, in the cancer battle she fought when she was younger than I am, she lost her hair. And I'll never forget those stories of the treatment she had to undergo, as chemo was in its early stages at that point. My mom is a miracle. She is my hero. I honestly don't know how she did it.

But I guess she gave some of that bravery to me because I marched into the greatest salon ever, Salon Ink in Mission Hills that Friday morning and couldn't have been more excited for the big chop. It meant more to me than any other haircut before. This was for her. For everything she taught me. For everything she helped me stand for. For everything she inspires me to be. For all the love she filled my life with.

I was ecstatic! It felt so great to feel the weight lifted as I heard those snips. To sit there and  look at that hair of mine in a ponytail. To just sit there and hold it. I guess it symbolized something much deeper for me on that day.

However, don't be fooled. My hair looks nice and lovely in the picture above but the backside looked like someone just took scissors to it and chopped my hair off. Oh, wait... that really happened ;) So, my stylist got to work, I explained to her the meaning behind my donation, and I walked out those doors feeling like a new woman!

This is the shortest my hair has ever been and I couldn't be happier with it. It's fresh. It's meaningful. And to be honest, it made February 22nd so much easier to get through.

And just as a reference, here's how long my hair was before the big chop! 8+ inches longer.

Although February 22nd will always be the day my mom died, like I said, setting this goal to donate my hair gave me something positive to look forward to and took my mind off all the negative. I just hope she approves of the new look ;) My mom always liked me better as a blonde. Sorry, Mom. Had to stick with the "bronde." :)

[I donated my hair to Pantene Beautiful Lengths and highly encourage all of you to make the big chop one day too!]

Mom

The right words were hard to find today. As many of you know, on February 22, 2012 I lost my sweet mom to cancer after less than 48 hours of knowing she had it. Her death turned my world upside down and has changed the way I live my life everyday moving forward. Today, in honor of my mom, I am donating my hair to Pantene Beautiful Lengths so that a woman who is undergoing treatment for cancer can have a free wig if she so chooses.

I wish there was something I could have done to help my mom. To save her. To comfort her. But there are some moments in life that are completely out of our control. Losing her was one of them.

I recently went back and re-read a post from my old blog. It was posted on Mother's Day 2011, the final Mother's Day that my mom would be alive for, although none of us knew it at the time. The comment that follows my post is the one comment I received that day. The comment is from her; my sweet mom.

-- 

“Mama said there’ll be days like this | There’ll be days like this my mama said”

This is my second Mother’s Day apart from my mom; 2,000 miles away. Whether it’s Mother’s Day or any other day, I miss my mom. She’s conquered more in her life than anyone else I know – and that includes successfully raising me ; ) She’s my hero, my friend, my teacher, my coach, my mother and I don’t know where I’d be without her.

Moving far away, being on my own, and so far away from all my friends and family has truly put everything into perspective for me. Whether it’s decorating, cooking, cleaning, shopping, taking care of the cat, finances, you name it… I consistently think of the examples my mom has given me. She can do it all. It’s taken twenty-five years for me to realize I really should have always listened to my mom. She was always right in the end. But, I guess I’m supposed to make mistakes; to find out the hard way — that’s part of growing up I guess. I still don’t know it all. I call my mom every day practically. Whether it’s for advice, to tell her good news, to complain, to cry, to tell her something funny I saw online, or just to tell her I miss her, she’s a phone call away and you better believe I pick up that phone.

It’s changed a lot from when I was a teenager and hanging out with my parents or going shopping with my mom just wasn’t the cool thing to do. Now, the people I miss most in my life are my parents and I’d shout it from the rooftops. I miss going shopping with my mom and picking up a delicious sour cream & onion Auntie Anne’s pretzel and splitting a Mr. Pibb with her. Every detail. I miss it.

“You’ve given me everything that I will need

To make it through this crazy thing called life.

And I know you watched me grow up

And only want what’s best for me.”

My mom has been there for everything in my life. For all the hours she spent back and forth taking me to dance classes, and never missing a single performance, I’ll be forever grateful. From being the “room mom,” to checking the current weather in Utah, she’s always been present in my life. She’s never let me take the easy way out in life though. She’s shown me that doing the right thing, although not the easiest way, will make me feel better in the end and get me further in life. She’s shown me through the trials she’s encountered in her life what true strength is. I want her to know how much I miss her. More importantly, I want her to know what a lasting impression she’s had on my life and what an inspiration as a mother, wife, and woman she has been to me. I know she probably couldn’t tell from how I acted when I was seventeen or even twenty-one, and maybe she can’t feel it from 2,000 miles away, but she means the world to me. She’s my mom. She’s played the most important role anyone will ever play in my life. I love her so much.

I wish more than anything I was just a short drive away from her and that we could randomly decide to go to the mall together or the bookstore to hang out. The distance makes you realize never to take those things for granted. I hope one day soon I’m back home for good and can share those special mother/daughter moments with her because they are so precious and can’t be shared with anyone else. But for now, I want her to know I’m okay and I miss her.

“Mama I’m okay out here
I’ve seen how hard the world can be
My step is sure and I know my name
I’m strong just like you prayed I’d be
I’m strong just like you prayed I’d be”

I’m my mom’s only daughter and she’s my only mom. I just want to make her proud. I love you, Mom. Just know I feel this way everyday… not just today. I miss you and hope you’ve had a wonderful Mother’s Day. I’ve already told you how hard it’s been to get through this post without crying. Let’s just say my mascara is completely smeared right now… I guess that just shows how full my heart is : )

“A daughter is a mother’s gender partner, her closest ally in the family confederacy, an extension of her self.  And mothers are their daughters’ role model, their biological and emotional road map, the arbiter of all their relationships.”  -Victoria Secund

Those were the most beautiful words to read. I would not have missed any of those moments you mention. I loved always being there for you. And I still do.

You brought tears to my eyes, but love to my heart. I miss having you closer, also, and I am so very proud of the young woman you have grown to be.

Thank you little one.

--

I am amazed looking back at this post and its timing. The fact that I wrote all of this to my mom, thanking her, letting her know how vital of a role she's always played in my life, etc. And then, her comment. It was a very rare occasion that my mom would speak from her heart like that. So, to look back and know that we were both able to express these important things from 2,000 miles away, not knowing at the time that it'd be one of our last chances to... it means the world.

I miss my mom more than words will ever be able to express. Although today marks one year since she left this world, my mind, body, and soul are still in shock. Today will certainly be a tough day to get through - for me, my dad, my brothers, my close family, and our close family friends. My mom touched so many lives. She was one-of-a-kind.

She will forever be my inspiration and we will always be the Girls of Summer.

I Remember Her Strength

One year ago today, I wrote a post on The One Ache I've Feared to Feel. It was the day my family found out that my mom had incurable cancer. At the time, we were told she may have months to live, but not at all were we prepared for what was about to happen.

I remember I went in to work that morning. I sat at my desk. Numb to the world. What in the hell was I doing at a stupid office? An hour later, as soon as my boss arrived, I told him I was leaving and wasn't sure when I'd return. I drove the long I-66 corridor to the hospital and honestly, the next several hours are a blur.

I remember we had told the doctors we wanted to be in the room as a family when the results of my mom's biopsy were given. I think somewhere in there I tried to eat. I sat. I cried. I walked. I texted Katie, knowing I'd need her support. I read the overflow of love that poured in from this amazing blogging community as I sat and waited.

I remember how we took turns going up to visit my mom for short 10-minute visits. Suddenly, I turned around and saw my brother, who had been up visiting her, quickly walking toward me. "C'mon," he said, motioning for us to get up. "The doctor is up there. He blurted out the results before we could stop him." I'll never forget the look my brother gave me. I knew.

I remember the moment those words came out of the oncologist's lips. I was surrounded by my dad and two older brothers and looked ahead at my mom, exhausted and uncomfortable in her hospital bed. The room was rather dark and a heavy weight seemed to press down from above. Discussing the possible remaining length of your loved one's life... how are you supposed to listen to that?

I remember the way I felt in that moment. Devastated.

I remember the strength my mom had while receiving her diagnosis. As a 45-year cancer survivor of a completely different type of cancer, she had already come to terms with the fact that this horrible cancer would be what took her in the end. She barely even flinched. She nodded her head and that was it.

That was the day I knew my life was never going to be the same. I didn't know when. I didn't know what it was going to be like. I just knew life was going to change forever.

Now, every battle I face seems to be so much less compared to that one. And each time life throws something difficult my way, I think back to my mom's strength that day as she accepted what was to come next...

And in two days, on Friday, it will be a celebration in remembrance of her.

February

This is the month:

The month I lost my sweet mom.

The month I got my last advice from her.

The month I apologized to her for any stress I had caused [because we know there was a lot of that]

The month I thanked her for being the greatest mother I could have asked for.

The month I reminisced with her about when we'd go to the movies and order Mr. Pibb.

The month I put her coat on for her for the last time.

The month she walked out the door for the last time.

The month I hugged her for the last time.

The month I kissed her on the forehead for the last time.

The month I heard her say, "I love you!" for the last time.

The month I said goodbye.

This is the month:

The month I will donate my hair in honor of her.

The month I will start to write one of my books.

The month I will begin to be as strong as she was.