I Thought...

Dear Allison, I cannot help but talk with you directly this day, every day, actually, but right now it is what helps me move, manuever, make the climb that may feel like a mountain, but in reality, is only steps. Steps of healing, steps of coping, of managing, of following through with appointments and plans, of accomplishing the most mundane of tasks, that somehow feel monumental. Steps, Allison, it's all about the steps. I thought they may come a bit easier...

When my burdens are so heavy, which is really everyday, only intensified right now of course I turn to a loving God, you, His angels, His people, my sanctuary, my life, my loves. Why this intensity? I wonder if it has to do with the holidays, combined with your last weeks, almost days, now, that became more and more precious. I can promise you, sweetheart, that I do not sit and try to think what I, we, YOU, were doing this time, this day, this month, already five years long, long ago. I actually do what I believe will make you smile, what I KNOW will make you joyful, and that is to take those steps, to light the Christmas candle, to play the music, to decorate the trees. Yes, TREES! You would love it, and in many ways, I do it just for you, for Uncle Mike, but I do it for those who will visit, and for your sister, father, cousins, aunts and uncles, and grandparents. I do it because I know I am leaving a legacy. Oh, I know, I'm not supposed to think like that, but I do. I cannot help myself. That doesn't mean I think about the next life more than this one, I am just more aware than most that it is sooner than later, for me, for us, for everyone. And when it is my time, I want to preserve YOUR legacy, MY legacy, my parents and my grandparents. That's what the holiday is all about.

But may I say to you that it is so damn hard to do this without you, knowing you will not come through that door, and I don't care if it's been five minutes, five days, five YEARS, my soul hasn't changed. It aches for you. It takes every thing I have within to get to the store, to keep the lunch date, to hear the music in the stores, to look at the lights, to decorate. Last Sunday, when I put up your tree and decorated it, I have never felt so alone in my life. It took everything I had in me to make it a showcase of beauty, so easily done, once, now, painstaking and still raw, I know that tree exists, because you do not. At least not in the physical sense. And that is the brunt of my pain, fatigue, and soulful tears.

Thank you, dear daughter, for the Christmas gift of strength. Yes, I know you are not the source! You don't want that credit, and I can SO hear you say, "Jesus is the reason for the season"...and when I hear that, I smile. There was a time when I thought I had forgotten the sound of your voice, but it is back, and it is the sweetest song of all, to me, your mother. It is a gift, as is the reminder of your beautiful presence in that "last" Christmas. I cling to that, and I have never stopped thanking God for such a gift. Other things are coming "back", too, Allison. They show up, slowly, maybe for a short time, only to subside at another time, but they show up and make me realize you are helping me to heal. I can do things I never did before, but on the flip side, I cannot do some things I always did in the past! I follow my spirit and I let God guide my activity, my actions, my heart and my soul. I smile while I weep, and I hum along to tunes, while I see pictures in my mind's memory of a time past, when we were all so young and innocent, when Santa existed and toys were cheap, and traditions were cast and we sat in church together, singing out of tune, and going on our annual rides to look at lights. I don't see the lights like I used to, Allison, they all look the same, and I think that is because I see them through the tears that never leave.

Allison, I don't know what I thought, but this is not it...I thought I knew. I thought that someday my heart, mind, body and soul would respond differently. If truth be known, it IS different. I just don't often SEE it, for the ache of missing you prevails over all else. But you are reminding me of the so called "progress", the act of healing itself, the fact that I can actually load the Christmas CD's and play them while I work or cook, the fact that I can bake cookies and think of others, shop again, and wrap, and this year, perhaps send out a FEW cards with a photo of your father, sister and me. You remind me that I have walked down Allison Road and gained momentum and inner peace. You show me the pink sunrises and sunsets and your spirit reminds me that you are in the purest of all places. Your love reminds me through the song, My Wish, to accept God's grace and forgive my own shortcomings or mistakes. You remind me that I am always your mother, and death does not part us at all.

I thought I knew how to do this, by now I'd be seasoned or proficient or some kind of expert at grief, loss, and missing you beyond any dimension. I know now, that there is no time I will wake up and ARRIVE. I am where I am supposed to be, and for now, that's what I'll cling to.

My first of many Merry Christmas letters to you, my baby, my love.

Mom

Fragile Existence

There is a fragile existence to living life in grief, fragile indeed. I think of the delicate glass blown hummingbird I so cautiously move around when I am dusting, the carefully wrapped and packed ornaments that I handled yesterday as I attempted to place them on "her" tree, the wine glasses I will wash and place around the Christmas table, indeed, the fragile state of it all. In one instant or in one wrong move, all will shatter and crumble, giving way to nothingness. We are nothing, if not fragile. And grief makes it more so, or is it from knowing some things that others may not, is it our new found "wisdom" that helps us see just how fragile all of this is, all of us are, this day, this life, this mere existence.

Sure, we go about life, after deep, intense loss, as though things are as they once were. How can we not? We don't know any other way, plus, the world expects it, and after all, nothing has changed, externally, that is. We shop for food, we cook, clean, go to work, walk the dog, pay the bills, run the errands, shop for holidays, pack up the boxes, send them on their way, we do it all as before, but unlike ever before. We are fragile, now, an aura of protection around us, a bubble in some ways, a cloud, a halo of fog. We are doing the same things, but we are not the same. We are fragile.

I think I have awakened to the fact and reality that this fragile existence is my norm, now. Sure, by all accounts, I am ME, but take a closer look, beyond the new haircut or color of lipstick, deeper, look into my eyes, and you will find someone who continues to emerge, a metamorphosis caused by losing my child. Look deep and you will find something new each time we talk. I won't know myself some days, other days I will be so strong it will amaze you, it amazes me!! In the next minute, what once was "okay" to say or do with me, will hurt me, will aggravate me, will surge in me an emotion I am not familiar with feeling. Ask me about my day and I will want to sit down and tell you about other things than my day, I will want to tell you a story of Christmas past when Allison was with us, or share a memory of my daughters on Christmas morning, talk about a tradition my parents passed down, and talk even more about them, and how much I still miss them through every holiday and gathering, or I could talk about how I struggle to look past today, for the future is so uncertain, now that she is gone. Sure, I know the future is uncertain at any time, even when our loved ones are here, but I know something perhaps you don't know, and I want to talk about it. But you may not be ready to listen. So, I don't. I treat myself with the kindness I would show someone else, I take care, and own this fragile existence of living with grief. I have come to know that I am my greatest friend, soul mate, confidante. That does not mean I do not want your company, or your kind gestures, or the ornaments, the cards, and the prayers. I want it all, I desire it at times, and other times, I cannot bear it. I am fragile. I may shatter. I may not.

Emergency Appointment

At certain times, I find myself needing an emergency appointment. I'm not sure with whom, or why, or what needs "fixing", or mending, besides my heart, but nevertheless, I wish I could call 911 and get some assistance. But I cannot. They don't have the resources to "fix" this, the pain, the agony of loss, the physical symptoms that come with grief, the almost perpetual flu-like symptoms, that come and go, but like an uninvited guest, just show up and stay. At times like this, pre-holiday festivities blended with the final weeks Allison was with us in the physical sense, well, there is just no set pattern for maneuvering, I set myself on pilot in many ways, receiving comments and compliments of how good I look, or how I am out shopping again, or may even attend a holiday party this year. Or not. Most likely not. Why? Some ask. Why not? Others ask. Isn't it time? Some will say. Just come for a little while. Many will state. I love them for trying, I really do. But how do I explain what it takes to do all of that, to make the conversation, to look around and see their whole family together, knowing I still have to re figure the table setting, the plate distribution, the meal, the laughter, and now the tears, without her. I need an emergency appointment to get me through.

But who to call? I know full well that we are not the only ones staggering through the season, the final days, and I know full well, also, to count my blessings. God is so good. And I am so thankful. But that does not take away this pain, one minute feeling as though I may vomit, the next, feeling like I need to eat, and in the next, getting all ready to go to the store, only to find myself too exhausted. Emotional exhaustion, that all too consuming and I find myself needing assistance, an emergency appointment. But again, who to call? I can, and do, call my sister. We are one in our spirit, and thank God she is present in my life. But even in that, as she finds her own way in the loss of her husband, how can I expect her to know the right fix for that moment in time? I can call my neighbor, but in reality, I need to be there for her, and I wish to do more to ease her shattered world as she and her husband and daughters learn how to live and move after losing their beloved in a car accident. I can call a woman I often have coffee with, but one of her daughters is going through a cancer battle of her own. I can call a dear friend, but her sister just very unexpectedly passed and I know what this day is like for her. I can call a special friend, but she is waiting with her daughter for her first grandchild to be born. I have a whole host of people to call to make an emergency appointment, but some are getting ready for a wedding this weekend, others are having their own surgery, others are planning holiday parties, others are so strapped for time in their over busy world that my call would only add to their burdens. I can call family and friends, therapists, and healers, I can start at the top of my list, only to find every single person has something to face, work through, deal with, and yes, even celebrate. That is me, too. In my pain, in my suffering, that is known only to me, I truly understand that each one of us carries the whole world on our shoulders at times, and that it can seem monumental just to BE.

I do need an emergency appointment. Truly. And many would really be there if I needed or asked. It's not their fault that they cannot come running. I have learned, and need to remind myself, that at times like this, these days that are so difficult to stay strong through, that my emergency appointment is with myself. It is in the way I can make food for someone else today, bake a loaf of bread, pick up dear Rex from the groomer, deliver milk and eggs to some one's refrigerator that has been rather empty lately, order the Thanksgiving dinner for another family faced by extreme poverty, wrap the gifts for the children's home as MY gift to Allison this year. I have access to many ways of scheduling that emergency appointment. Most of all I have my prayer time, my devotions, the gift of intuition, the gift of time, the gift of being Jennifer mom, Joe's wife, Karen and David's sister, and God's child. I have the memory of being Allison's mother for 21 years on earth, giving me a host of memories. I have means to schedule emergency appointments that can pick myself up and share that part of me that is able to be shared, and while some days it's harder to find the right modality, at my fingertips, and in my soul, there is always reason to keep going.

Much has happened of late, causing me to take a deeper look into the spiritual side of grief. I will admit I have been consumed, gravitating toward the sadness of life, the pain and loss, because it is just everywhere. I allow myself to visit the place of darkness, but just a visit. I have learned not to stay too long, or else the darkness will swallow me, and I won't be able to see the light. I learned early on to work through this MY way, and through the many, many modalities, I work to live, I grieve, and I get swallowed up, just like anyone else. I accept the dark times, and through various healing sessions, I empower myself to do what is necessary to survive. I do what is necessary to live, breathe, and exist. Even on the days when I would prefer to stay in pajamas till noon, and those are many lately, I allow the indulgence, but I rise up and gather what is good to take me out of the pain. Or at least I try to...don't always succeed, often succumb to the suction of grief, but while doing so, all the while, looking for that crack of light.

We are all in a losing zone right now. Sometimes I can imagine that no one knows my pain, and I don't know anyone else's. I can get swallowed up in wondering how I am going to keep hearing and accepting the news that each day brings...cancer, death, car accidents, house foreclosure, hunger, growing death by suicide, devastation. I find myself inundated with the tragedies, because now I feel something I may have not felt before, and that is what true grief, right to the core of my being, is like, and I only "wish" it upon no one else. But it comes, and it goes, and we each get a turn.

I have come to realize that all of this is about who we are from a spiritual perspective. It's going to happen. Loss, pain, and all those things that can consume us. We are human beings and we cannot get through life without avoiding it. We are human beings who think about being spiritual, but in reality, we are spiritual beings living in a human world. I know that I have shared a quote of this magnitude in my writing and personal journals, because early on, when I began my quest to live after death, I relied on my own interpretation of it...I believe it was Stephen Covey who said, and I am paraphrasing..."We are not human beings on a spiritual journey, we are spiritual beings on a human journey".

It takes much work and energy healing, thank you dear Helen for being in my life, to understand oneself and where we fit into all this, and how we fulfill our purpose here, that is, while we are here. It takes that deeper understanding that scriptures and affirmations provide, but more importantly, it takes weaving them into my being, not my human BEING, my spiritual BEING. It takes making the choice to still my soul so I can hear, really hear, what God wants from me. Even on my days of angst, crying out, inner turmoil, confusion, fatigue, remembering what I don't want to, and forgetting what I wish I could recall, it is about the spiritual realm, the life that is bigger and better than me.

So much is uncertain, every step. I don't know how to do this. I find myself walking the steps of what Helen helped me term, "countdown energy", those hours, minutes, images, days, season, holiday, memories, that bring me closer and closer to a time that she, Allison, left this earth, left her physical being for her full and beautiful spiritual self, leaving behind a host of loved ones, trying to make sense of what this side of heaven is all about. It takes everything I have in me to move through this time, knowing I am being carried, knowing I am not doing anything special, this is not ME, this is a host of angels, and support from above. It takes every ounce of strength to remove myself from enduring the physical loss, to focus on the bigger and better picture. I am working on it, I am lifting my heart to her, to the light, letting her go, even when I don't want to, letting her go and spread her wings, knowing, she will never be physically mine again, but she will always come back to me, spiritually, fully and lovingly.

Any Given Day

Each new day, any given day, holds so much. I try desperately to look for the blessings, the sweet miracle of the day, the messages, the signs, the beauty, the love. It's all there. By looking for it, I hold myself together. I couldn't show up for LIFE if not for the beauty, the legacy of her life, my life, the lives of those I LOVE. But, still, I feel myself falling, descending, if you will, into some sort of pit. I carry the cloak of grief a little tighter when I desperately want to shed it. It's choking me some minutes, it's wrapping me as though it is a cocoon I cannot crawl out of, the next. It isn't very gentle right now, and I suppose that is because of what each new day represents.

In spite of the beauty of autumn, it is the season of grief. It is when we lost her, but we didn't know it. It is that time of year when there was so much to hear, digest, and respond to, and even before we could do any of it, there was more. There was always more. Always. Each new day held so much meaning. And while I am willing those memories to be part of a very distant past, they are too close. They are in the Halloween preparations, they are in the falling amber leaves, they are in brisk walks with our beloved, Rex, and they are in this house, in the form of chili cooking and sounds of laughter when friends gathered that "last" Halloween to play games. She couldn't sit. She couldn't stand. She was weak with pain moving down her spine and around her body. I was weak, looking at her, as she clutched her abdomen, her weight loss so evident and her skin color changing. It was a devastating time, we barely knew what cancer would come to mean, yet, there we were, facing each new day. Please God, I have begged today, let me remember her as a little girl, dressing up, trick-or-treating, going to church parties, and later, school parties, then teen-aged parties. Let me remember the other days. Let this be like any given day.

I am still pretty amazed at what each new day holds for people. As some of us are in constricting pain, others are going about life as if there is not a care in the world. Other days, we are the ones holding parties, or celebrations, humming tunes, dancing, feeling light hearted, and the others are the ones in hospital rooms, holding hands of their loved ones, or holding funeral services, or waiting for a doctor to call. A baby is being born right now, while loved ones are saying good-bye to someone dear. It's life. It's good. It's hard. Through it all, it is what it is. And, on any given day, it all changes.

I remember so vividly coming home from the hospital after Allison took her last breath. The sun that had illuminated her room with vibrancy at precisely 7:00 a.m. had made way for the grayest of days. My nose pressed to the cold window of the car, I looked in the cars we passed, or who passed us. I saw serious faces, ones singing to the radio, groups of what appeared to be students on their way to high school, or others on the way to work. I remember thinking that not one of them could imagine what we had just come to know. But I wasn't correct about that. They did know. And if they didn't know, someday, they might. It's not that I wished it upon them, it just seemed odd to me, that I was about to go home and plan a memorial service for my daughter, when I should be going about my "normal" day. I should be the one driving to work on that very road, coming home to cook dinner, waiting to touch base with both my daughters. On that given day, my world would change, and I would never know how much.

Each new day brings what it will, what it does, and in some ways, that's what makes each new day so beautiful. There is a lot to enjoy. There is much to be celebrated and honored. The little things seem so monumental now, and the problems seem so trite. I never believed I would be here for so many new days once Allison was gone. I knew I would die of heartache. As much as this "season" is difficult to maneuver through, I am thankful I didn't die as I thought I might. I would miss so much, mostly spending life with Jennifer, Joe, and all those I love. Each new day holds a promise of some sort. I look up and ask God, and Allison, to help me live it in a way that is pleasing, and as the descent comes upon me, and the pain of missing her becomes too unbearable, I don't look back, and I don't look ahead. I stay right where I am, expecting or anticipating nothing, just being where I am supposed to be on this new day. Any day we are "given" brings about so much, from pain, to joy, from love, to sorrow, but worth it? Yes, any given day is all we have, for now.

Cancer...I Have Something to Say to You (posted one day early)

Indeed, I have much to say to you, Cancer. I have much to say EVERYDAY, but this day, the five year "anniversary" of Allison's diagnosis, I believe I have more than ever to say to you. It may not be what you think. It may not be what I would have said five years ago, but I am changed, I am different, I was never to be the same, from that moment, on October 17, 2:15 in the afternoon, that most beautiful of Chicago's autumn days with the sunshine lighting up the room, us passing the time, as we did for four days, waiting, and wondering, hoping and praying. Please God let it NOT be a tumor, cancer, let us not hear the words we knew we might hear, that hundreds, thousands of us before, and since, have heard. But when those two doctors entered the room, one looking at the floor, one looking straight into my eyes, I knew, WE knew. As the doctor approached our girl, his patient, and tenderly caressed her arm, we knew. And the tears sprang. And they have never stopped.

I could use some of the all too common quotes that one sees in relation to cancer, "cancer sucks", "F*&% Cancer", and so on. I could curse and scream, cry and moan. I have, and I probably always will. But I also knew, right from that moment in time, that cancer was NOT going to define this beautiful young lady, on the threshold of her life, and it was NOT going to define us. She wouldn't allow it, therefore, we will not, either. Oh God, yes, we were shocked and saddened but the diagnosis, it had to be wrong, especially since Allison was "too young for lung cancer". We were brought to our knees in a fashion like never before. We were beyond devastated at what she would endure, what the side effects may be, what cancer may take from her. It was so mysterious, how could this beautiful 21 year old daughter of ours hold the lung of a 60 something year old smoker? And how dare people ask us, upon learning of the diagnosis, "did she smoke"? I wanted to scream, and still do at times, upon hearing the question over and over again. But, over time, I learned that, like us, many people are uneducated about lung cancer and the statistics, and maybe it was going to take Allison to help them learn. Sadly, I learned more than I ever imagined, right here in the confines of our loving family, and the education has not stopped.

In seventy-seven days Allison was gone. We could say cancer robbed her of her life, of her future, of ours, of her sister's and all those who faced a harsh reality that their smiling, life of the party friend, was gone. In many ways, we are all just now beginning to grasp this concept, proving, once again, that time has no relevance in matters such as this.

Yes, CANCER, I have a lot to say, many things to say to you. This day is difficult for me, for us. The memories are still as raw and fresh as the day we faced the giant together, surrounded by the love of family and friends. Allison didn't fight alone, we didn't either, and we still do not. It is Allison's warrior image that keeps us fighting, whether it is to just get up, face the day, walk the dog, run the errands, work a job, take vacations, see the world, participate in the Lung Cancer 5K, decorate for holidays, celebrate birthdays, show up for social engagements, or accomplish what once was done with ease. CANCER, you didn't rob us of our daughter, our sister, our grandaughter, niece, cousin, and friend. You may have slowed her body down and eventually took over to the tiniest of crevices, but you didn't take her from us. Instead, what you gave us in return, is an eternal presence, a constant companion, a heart that beats stronger than any before it, for her spirit fills ours, and we are one with her, never to be separated, never to be alone, or never to be forgotten. You have taught us that THIS world is temporal, and as you keep striking, over and over again, with no discrimination at all, and you wear down the bodies, you intensify the spirit. You leave legacies like none before them. You give us the gift of time, the chance to say what most may never have the opportunity to say, and that time becomes our greatest treasure.

CANCER, you don't WIN at all. I would never take back the memories of that strong spirited daughter of mine, fighting with everything she had, to live....to go have dinner with friends, giving them a lasting memory, lying on the bed with her sister watching Ellen every day, laughing and planning for their day, what to eat, what to do, and when the simple things, like playing a game, or watching a movie, became the great accomplishment! I would not take back the friends and family who came to lay with her, eat with her, laugh with her, LIVE with her, even if living held a new definition. I would not take back the image of her older sister rocking her to eternal rest, watching in wonderment as two sisters' souls entwined and became one. I would not take back the talks and plans for eternal life, the questions and the hopes of peace and comfort it held. I would not take back the unseasonably warm November evening when she and I walked her beloved Barkley for the last time. I would not take back any of it, except for it to have never have happened at all.

Allison looked you right in the face, CANCER, and she won. You didn't rob her of the beauty of this world, her beauty, her smile, and you won't rob us. Perhaps it is because of you that our senses have magnified and our travels have broadened. Travels near and far, yes, some days just to the porch or deck to listen to the chimes and speak to a loving God, to "her" pink blooming tree in the yard, to touch a bloom, caress it as though it were her face, or to far off places where she leads us to explore. Does it make sense to you, CANCER, when I tell you that you took nothing from us, yet you took everything?

I know that you will not stop! I know that others will hear your word and fight their own battle, follow their own journey, and make their own way. You are not finished, in fact, you have only begun. If you can strike the healthiest of young woman, "strong as a horse" her doctors would say, with lung cancer of all things, fine one day, heading to college classes and planning to become a teacher...if you can infiltrate and magnify and become relentlessly aggressive, it is clear you will not stop. But guess what? WE will also NOT STOP, for Allison, for Michael, for names way too numerous to mention. I only wish I could honor each and every one right here, right now. But I do, in my heart and in my soul. And whether those special souls are survivors, or soar alongside my daughter in sweet, heavenly peace, I can assure you, CANCER, you have not won.

CANCER, you are part of every day of my life, now. You always were to some extent. You hovered. You visited others, mostly the older ones, and my heart was sad. One day I opened my eyes to see that no one could really escape you at all, you infiltrated children, babies, folks of all ages. Then you attacked my own and brought a true and new understanding of your meaning, and now you have given me a different mission. You have taught me to do what I can, whether it is participate in a walk/run, take a meal to the families, send a card, make a donation, sit and talk, pray alongside the family as their loved one enters final hours, whatever it is that the spirit nudges, you have given me the gift to know. You have grown me up spiritually, to put no God before the Heavenly Father who promises all things to those who believe. You have given me the true and utmost respect for a new day to live and breathe and take nothing for granted. True, it would be easier to focus on what you have taken away. I cannot do that. Allison will not allow it. It is not fair to those who still depend on me and it is not fair to myself.

CANCER, I have something to say to you. You are relentless and cruel, menacing and piercing. You have taken much, taught me every parent's worst nightmare in burying my child, but perhaps it is because of you that I am who I am today. I do not choose it, I do not want it, I didn't opt for this journey. I give in when I must, I grieve every day and in every way. I cry tears from the inside that often make it to the outside, every single day of my life. Yet, at the same time, I smile, I smile because she lived, she didn't die. You didn't win. You didn't take her from me.

As I write today, I grieve for my child and I grieve for all those, including myself, who knew, and loved, a fabulous soul, Felicia Levo Harrington, gone too soon, a short battle with pancreatic cancer...mother, wife, teacher, whose legacy will be everlasting. Here today, gone tomorrow, like so many before her, and so many yet to come, teaching us to seize the day, for this is the day the Lord has made.

What We Learn

What we learn from the deceased is what makes us go on, I know this to be true. If we are able, and open to it, we learn so much. It doesn't matter who it is, even those we didn't personally know in this lifetime, it is upon their "death" that we often come to know them more deeply, intimately, and their lives make a difference. Whether it is the sad passing this week of Steve Jobs, the recent passage of two daughters in political families, former presidents, the many friends who have joined our circle of loss, those burying their children before them, it just doesn't matter. Loss is loss and the impact is astounding. Death takes their bodies, but their souls and spirits are left to teach us more. I know this because I cannot look at a snowflake without remembering Phil, a piece of artwork without knowing more about Jessica, a beautiful August day without understanding baby Faith's presence. I cannot look at little Jasmine's picture on my refrigerator without smiling inside, thanking her and her family for paving the way and embracing my own family, some years later, when it was "our turn" to face death. I cannot look at little Cowen's pictures without seeing his sister, Lily. I feel and know Michael is with me in all aspects of my day, guiding and inspiring, and reassuring me in ways he would not be able to do if still here. I will always associate the beauty of a winter day and a life well lived with Chrissy, a sister, wife, but most importantly, young mother who left us way too soon. The hummingbirds that rest on our feeder and who provide such beauty and mystery will always represent Jim, not his battle, but his life. I am connected to Mary, whose own Erin has passed on and each time I see a sunflower, I feel as though I know her, and my heart feels joy. Then there are the connections of CJ and his family, a circle we both travelled well, yet paths never crossed, until Allison and CJ were our heavenly children. I still draw strength and resilience from Elizabeth Edwards, a political wife, who in spite of all the tragedies in her life, her own cancer and spousal betrayal, till her death contended that the loss of her son to a tragic accident was the most devastating part of her life. I have come to know and learn from each death along the way. Whether it is the wife and mother across the street, and now the young man, Steven, also a family member from across the street, it is what we learn that now sustains us and gives us strength. We cannot possibly know everyone in this lifetime, but the beauty of death is that we come to know so much more, and it is what we learn that keeps us going.

Obviously, I cannot look and see, very deeply, the signs of autumn, in all its beauty and splendor without knowing that this season was to be Allison's last. There is no escaping the memories, the triggers, the flashbacks, even when I don't want to. The sleepless nights have begun and the memories are strong, showing me that time doesn't make a difference, what is in our soul, the deepest crevices of our hearts, remains. It's how I choose to deal with them that matters, after all. So, I choose to learn. I study, I reflect, I pray, I listen to music, I read, I take every opportunity to learn from the deaths before me, long ago, and recent. It is important to me to honor each life in the way I can, especially Allison's. And I must admit, on any given day, that is going to look different. I may spend it in solitude, scrapbooking, cooking, baking, reading, relaxing with head phones, sleeping, socializing, whatever it takes to get through that moment. Not that day, not even that hour, sometimes, it's still, just that moment.

What we learn from death becomes important. That's how I feel, cope and maneuver this loss. What I have learned from Allison and her passage could fill volumes. I have learned to smile, savor, slow down, sip, enjoy, smell the roses, so to speak. I have learned that life is so fragile, a concept I wish every one of us could grasp, but we don't, until it's our time to do so. I have learned that there is nothing worth complaining about. There is no doubt the way in which she faced her diagnosis and ultimate death left us a legacy of hope, faith and love. I can do anything now, and will gladly do so, face the challenges, and come out stronger. I am weak but I am strong, that is what I have learned.

I so wish to touch her, to hold her, to feel her. The ache of physical desire takes me to my knees at times. I allow that grief to pour over me, infiltrate and I rise, taking on the challenge of suffering once more. I cling to the promise that I will see her again one day, that THIS world is temporary, and that in death, her death, and the death of so many, I have much to learn. That is her legacy, their legacies, to us. God grant me the serenity to accept what I cannot change and learn what is intended, so that when it is my turn to take that first breath in heaven, God will know the true intentions of my heart, and He will consider me a good and faithful servant.

I will keep learning, trying, and put perseverance to the test. What LOOKS easy is not. Nothing comes by second nature any longer. It's a new day with much to see and do, and learn. With God as their Father, Allison, and all the others, are great teachers.