I don't know that I've ever met a more self-sacrificing person than my aunt, Debbie. I hold such dear memories of this woman...and I know she'd do just about anything in her power to make my life easier. I hope she knows the reverse is true as well.

During my youth, we took family vacations to Northern Wisconsin (ie "Up North"...have to be considerate of the non Wisconsinites), I was an early bird. My father and brother were out fishing, and the women slept...except Debbie. I would sneak over from my family's cabin to hers, where she was always sure to stock up on orange juice for the week for just such occasions. I loved my orange juice. It would be just her and me...with our respective coffee and juice, inhaling the early summer air and watching the dust motes flutter in the orange early morning sun. Soft voices and silly giggles...it was our private time, and nobody could touch it.

And when the news with Mom's Cancer got bad, really bad, Debbie told me. "If it were me, I'd wanna know," she'd say. Mom always worked so hard at soothing everybody that she often made things appear lighter than they were. I remember her returning home after one scan, duly breaking down with the spread of this hideous disease, and then adding lightness and reassurance to her voice as she notified her mother, sisters. She made it seem blasé, being ill, and nobody knew it better than me. Debbie kept me plugged in from 1,200 miles away, and I will always respect her for having the guts and inner fortitude to deliver such rotten tidings.

In 2003, a group of us sat in the hospital waiting room while Mom had surgery. It was a very long day, and at the conclusion, after we spent the totality of the twelve hours dry-eyed and calm, when the surgeon came to tell us that they were able to remove every visible tumor—good news—we stood up, all of us. I looked to my glassy-eyed aunt and hugged her. The way she hugged me back spoke of the power of the moment, and I was lost in her tears and couldn't tell you for sure when my own began. My aunt has more spirit than most people will ever possess.

So it is on this day that I wish to the woman—who buys me grapes every Thursday when she shops just because she knows they're my favorite, lets bananas rot, never lets me drink a glass of wine alone, and always lets me sneak up with a hug—a very happy birthday. The world celebrates in your loveliness today, dear aunt.

I went to my grandmother's condo on Sunday, for the ritual corned beef and cabbage Irish celebration that my fully Norwegian family holds every year. I drove there alone—which was highly symbolic, as I've felt so alone at all my family gatherings since Mom left—and prepared for the waterworks. I'm ill with tears, and March 19, 2004 was the morning that I got the surprise call that my grandfather died. Reading through that dusty post gives me chills. Life is so cyclic. Dad knew his father would pass quickly, even when the doctors said there was still time. I wrote, and forgive me for being redundant with this after posting the link, "The bonds we form with our parents can be so tight that the echoes of logic ricochet off of our ears, never penetrating."

Much the same, after Mom's last scan, when we were advised of her tumors stabilizing, a big thumbs up in her treatment...I mentioned "Weeks....we were expecting them to give us mere weeks. The suffering has been evident." I remember my shock at the opposite being true. I remember my disbelief that she was getting better. I remember never fully accepting this verdict...and my momma was dead in less than a month's time. Yeah, it is definitely chilling to feel your world has an orchestration that you cannot interrupt whether by will or by science. It is what it is.



These ideas cloak my thoughts, and the survivor's guilt has now become rampant. Why wasn't I tagged instead of Mom? Look what she DID with her life, look who she TOUCHED...she lived life, and I feel like most days I'm just trying to survive mine. What am I meant to do? Who am I meant to touch? I close my eyes and see her face, and I wake with tears. I get so many pats on the back for the time I dedicated to Mom during her illness...but I feel wrong accepting them. I would have gladly sacrificed the rest of my life to caring for her if I had been called for. It was an honor, it was spiritual, and it was love. I live for love.

But now I struggle for my purpose.

It was with this mentality that I drove stag to my first family gathering. It turned my stomach, the thought of it, quite a lot, and I was fashionably late. My father and uncle were on lawn chairs in the driveway, soaking in the beautiful March sunshine. I exited my vehicle shakily, smiling convincingly. Dad had an inkling, though. I made my way to the front door and he called, "Do you want somebody to go in with you?" I shook my head...I need to get used to being alone. It isn't going away any time soon.

I entered my grandmother's home and found an abbreviated gathering of family, some of them having had prior engagements. They were in the process of clearing the table—I told you I was late—but looked generally pleased to see me. It's the first time they've REALLY seen me since the funeral...and I was less of Laura that day, and more of a sniffling idiot. They ceased all of their well-ordered task and took seats at the table, serving me two heaping plates of summery salads. I was more than a little tickled to see that my meat-loving family has accepted my love of things meatless.

My aunts, my cousin, and my grandmother kept things light. We laughed, and it wasn't forced. It was natural. The glee of a sunny early Spring day...loved ones, memories, and continuance. My father and uncle returned indoors...the recollections of the day were offered in fondness, and I did not know pain.

Everybody filtered home, and I stayed back to speak with my aunt Rose and grandmother. Grandma hugged me hard, a rib feels a little bruised on my left side, and mumbled, "I feel so bad for you, you lost your mother so young." My grandma lost her mother during my lifetime, and she still remembers the pain. I found a little bit of my mother cascading forth as I eased their worries. That was Mom; it didn't matter what she was feeling or where she was headed, she left us all showered in reassurance and joy. It was her gift to all who knew her. She was a master at fronting her fear with acceptance.

I found myself doing this at her visitation as well...when there are others to comfort, I am in my zone. It's when the world is at peace that I cry. I'm exhausted. I took up cooking sometime in 2002, you know. I got somewhat-okay at it, and advised to all who wanted to learn that the key was in being unafraid to fail. Well, that's the key to living, too. I've got to stop trying to be unafraid to fail in my purpose, whatever it will be. Easier said than done, naturally...but this has always been my problem, this reconciling my spirit to my philosophy.

I have a beautiful life, and I feel its glory and its pain so keenly...I hope to always nourish the energy it inspires. My biggest lesson from last Sunday, and forgive my rambling thought-process...it's taking the scenic way to the point (but now you understand why I get so many damn headaches!), life goes on...laughter goes on...love goes on. I'll go on.

At first, my stomach was a mess, my head ached constantly, and there were moments where I felt I could not breathe. I cried at the funeral. Then, after about three weeks, I was able to retain a little nutrition from my food...my hair stopped falling out, my skin stopped flaking, and I stopped losing my equilibrium. Last Sunday was one month since the day my mother died. One month...is that all it's been? The void seems to swallow more than just one month. Last Thursday, it hit me...really hit me...that she's gone. Seems silly, I know. Those early weeks were textbook examples of an anxiety-ridden human being.

You're small and in a pond, a still pond. You are buoyant and the water is peace. A passerby skips a stone and it passes just before you. You are pulled under by the current...remember, you're small. We're all small. You cannot possibly conceive how much that one skip affects the still, you can only survive the moment.

Much the same, it is not until this time has passed, the memories of my mother's last days of suffering fading, that I feel the absence in my life. I thought I felt it before, but it was nothing compared to this. I felt too much relief that her struggle had ended, then. I remember her as she was now, her contagious smile and her laughter...her melting eyes and her soft skin. I remember her lovely voice and her comforting hugs...I remember all of the things that made her precious to me, all of the things that I'll never have from anybody else, and I know now that my heart is still torn in two, and will never reseal perfectly again.




Thursday, at work, I had a productive morning. I took my lunch break and the dam crumbled. Seriously, just like that. No warning, nothing. I spent lunch crying in the bathroom and cursing my inability to get this under control. I brushed my teeth and chewed some gum and sucked it up to return to work for the afternoon. "Phew, glad that's over," I remarked to myself as I pulled from the parking lot at the end of the day. How naive, really, that I thought this a fleeting episode...oh it makes me blush.

I was fine Thursday night. I was fine working out Friday morning. I was fine opening my next account and beginning work...and then it hit again, that flooding emotion that I do not know how to swim against. I took deep breaths, I went to ask my boss if I could leave at noon, just in case I couldn't pull it together. I got to her office, started talking, and the tears had me stuttering before too long. "Just go now," she said soothingly around a hug. "I'll go over to your desk and wrap up your file, back up your computer. Just go."

I entered my empty house and let the tears fall. I stopped trying to breathe through the sobs and let them roll. I cried to nobody and everybody, I cried as though I was being fed to wolves inch by inch. I howled. I actually howled. The pain was indescribable...I took a half-dose of Tylenol PM—you know, the hard stuff—and let sleep take hold. I couldn't stand being awake.

Why now? Why after all these days of cool? Because, I'm missing her. Because I'm missing the woman she was in health. Because I'm forgetting the horrors of how she suffered there at the end. I'm missing the woman separated from the disease. I'm missing the one person who always understood me, and I'm missing the one person who always stuck up for me...whether or not I deserved it.

I asked her during her last weeks of lucidity about my relationship with Nick. She was so much more than a parent to me, you must understand. We counseled one another through life. We learned our alliance early, when my poor brother's young behavioral problems had me accepting death threats and violence as the norm. "Should I be starting a new relationship during such a time?" I questioned.

"Yes," she answered affirmatively. "I think you are going to need Nick very seriously very soon. Life is made to be lived." I felt like I was walking into the wind. Nevertheless, I followed my intuition and her advice...and I came to need Nick very seriously very soon after that. I needed him again on Friday. He took a half-day of vacation to help me work through my angst.

I remember so many little details now that I made myself forget almost instantly. I remember my mother grabbing my cheek and telling me that I was the love of her life. I remember her telling me to take care of her family because she trusted my strength above anybody's. I remember her telling me to keep living like nobody is watching and loving like I'll never get hurt. I remember her telling me that she admired me...and I remember her telling me that she'll never leave my side. They were hiccups in the days of her thrashing and mumbling...moments when she'd grow still and search your eyes in a way that you knew she knew where she was, to whom she spoke, knew what she had to say. The day before she went into a coma, she whispered to me, "Nick just might be worthy." Pretty impressive considering she barely knew him and kept thinking his name was Nate. The supernatural side of the dying is staggering.

She followed my voice, you know. She'd twist her body, half-conscious and pained as she was, straining closer to it. There were times Charlie was trying to administer pain medication, and the writhing was making things nearly impossible. I'd speak to her, and she'd turn toward me so that he could access her port. I'd hum to her, and she'd smile. I was writing her memoirs for her before she died. She was adamant that we do it. We didn't finish. Tentatively titled, "We Look for the Good," I think they'll be my personal record of her. Maybe this is why writing has been so difficult for me. My thoughts feel so scattered...my emotions too clashing. Bear with me...I will survive this. I think it's fitting that we didn't finish...there isn't an end to her story...she lives on.