Dear Mom, I made it. I don't know how I did it without you, but I did. You said I would love it here in Kentucky, and I do now, but man it was difficult in the beginning. What made it even worse is that I knew you were the only one who would understand what I was going through, and I couldn't call you. I couldn't cry to you about the culture shock – about how much slower life moves down here, how no one is afraid of conversation, how everything will get done ‘when it gets done', about the one-lane hilly holler roads that gave me panic attacks every time I drove them, about the thick accents and phrases I didn't understand. I knew if I could just talk to you, you'd explain everything and make me feel so much better. But I couldn't…I had to get through it on my own. And for a while, I was mad at God for taking you when He did – when I needed you more than I've ever needed you. But then spring came, and oh my gosh – I can't tell you how many times I wanted to send you a picture of a new wildflower I'd never seen before, or a bird – you would have loved the birds down here. And the sunsets. And the gentle rains. And the way the fog settles in between the mountains in the evenings and rises as mist in the early mornings. How was it possible that such a beautiful place existed, and so many people had never experienced it? I spent so many summer evenings on my porch, just admiring nature, and wondering how a place that was so breathtakingly gorgeous could be so poverty-stricken and desperate. I knew that if anyone would understand how I felt, it was you…and I wished I could call you. There have been so many times I've thought about all the times I didn't call you…the weeks and sometimes even months we went without talking because of different issues we were struggling with…and I don't know whether to laugh or cry at the irony of it – because I probably would have called you almost every day, if not multiple times a day, this past year. There were so many struggles, so many weird moments, so many new experiences that warranted a phone call – like how the Walmart here is Black Friday every Friday, and there's such a thing as “Holler Dollar” and “holler dogs,” and the people here eat this cheese on their sandwiches that I think would taste better as a dip, and there's a native fruit call a Paw Paw that tastes like a cross between a kiwi and a banana, and kangaroo jerky is a real thing, and one shot of moonshine goes straight to your head, and almost everyone owns a side-by-side, and there are giant crickets here and five different kinds of hornets and more slugs than I've ever seen in my life, and one inch of snow is enough to shut down the town, and people will get mad if you insult their Double Kwik pizza rolls, and bluegrass music is wonderful, and did you know I turned 40? How weird is that? I'll never forget sitting on your bed, crying, thinking you'd be upset when I told you we were moving to Kentucky. You were sick, and I was terrified to leave you. But you smiled and hugged me and told me it was okay – you told me I was going to love it. And again, when I stopped at the hospital on our way out of town, you held me tight and told me not to cry, and told me again I was going to love it. Well mom, I want you to know – I do. It has by far and away been the craziest, most difficult year of my life, and it probably would have been a little easier if I'd been able to call you, but I made it. I'm grateful for who I've become. It's ironic - I feel closer to you, and more like you than I ever did before. I know your spirit was here cheering me on. Thank you for supporting my move here. I'm excited to see what this next year brings. I love you and miss you. Happy New Year, mom.

EVENT BESAR BESARAN DI HEBATBET AKAN DI ADAKAN DI 17 AGUSTUS INI Promo Merdeka HEBATBET: Main Taktik Bom, Saldo Meledak! Rayakan Hari Kemerdekaan bersama HEBATBET! Ikuti promo Taktik Bom spesial 17 Agustus dan menangkan jutaan rupiah dengan strategi jitu yang bikin saldo meledak.

Bonus terbaru Winstreak dapat di claim 2x dalam 1 hari dengan winstreak 6x beruntun dalam 1 arena bonus 100%. Bermain dan dapatkan bonus winstreak Bersama agen MuliaBet. Bonus hanya bermain di sabung ayam SV388. 1. BONUS WIN 6X BERUNTUN DALAM 1 ARENA DAN FIGHT BERUNTUN 1,2,3 Menang 6x beruntun tidak ada cancel,draw dan lose dalam 1 arena. Dan menang dalam pertandingan yang berturut contoh Fight 1,2,3 dan seterusnya sampai fight 6, Jika arena tidak sama dan pertandingan tidak beruntun maka tidak sah atau batal untuk mendapatkan bonus win 6X. Minimal betting setiap fight Rp.50.000,. Bonus diberikan sebesar 100% dari total kemenangan anda yang beruntun dan tidak bisa melalukan Doublebet dalam satu pertandingan. Maksimal bonus yang diberikan IDR.1.000.000,. Bonus ini dapat di klaim 2x dalam sehari. Yuk aku buatin akunnya dimuliabet kaka.. https://heylink.me/agenmuliabet/ https://t.me/bomuliabet

Childhood is a mosaic of moments—some vivid, some faded—woven together by laughter, dreams, and the boundless wonder of a world unexplored. In the small and quiet town of Bukhara where cobblestone streets met vast fields of wildflowers, my childhood unfolded like a storybook filled with adventures, friendships, and lessons that would shape my life forever. Hot summer days in bukhara were as a golden. My friends and I were wake up at dawn, eager to embark on our daily quests. The neighborhood became our kingdom, and we were knights, explorers, and superheroes all at once. We built forts from old wooden planks, raced down hills on makeshift carts. We jumped on the bed, feeling like a bird flapping its wings. One summer, we discovered an abandoned treehouse at the edge of the forest. It became our secret sanctuary—a place where stories were shared, secrets were whispered, and dreams took flight. With each passing day, the treehouse bore witness to our growing friendships and the silent promise that childhood would never end. The days were filled with laughter, adventure, and the kind of innocence that only youth can bring. I spent my mornings chasing butterflies in my grandmother's garden, where the scent of jasmine, and rose filled around the neighborhood. The afternoons I was dedicated to climbing trees, pretending as an explorer in an uncharted world. My friends and I were race our bicycles through winding alleys, competing to see who was the fastest, our giggles echoing against the walls of old houses.Despite the simple life, every moment felt magical. My parents worked hard to provide for us, yet they always had time for bedtime stories and homemade meals that filled our home with warmth. The Fall rains were our favorite season—we would dance in the downpour, splashing through puddles, never once worrying about getting drenched. One of my fondest memories was the annual kite festival. I was spend my days designing my kite, carefully choosing colours which reflected my dreams. On the big day, the sky were be a canvas of vibrant shapes, and I was watch my kite flitter feeling as if my hopes and aspirations were rising with it. As the years passed, childhood faded into cherished memories, but those golden days shaped the person I became. They taught me resilience, joy in simple things, and the value of love and family. Even now, whenever I see a kite soaring high, I am reminded of the carefree days of my youth, when the world felt boundless and full of wonder. Life wasn't always about adventure; my childhood remained in my memory like the lessons of innocence.My grandmother, with her kind eyes and silver-streaked hair, was my greatest teacher. She taught me the art of patience as we baked cookies together, the importance of honesty through her bedtime stories, and the value of kindness in the way she cared for stray animals. One autumn evening, I found a wounded bird near our house. I cradled it in my hands, unsure of what to do. My grandmother helped me nurse it back to health, and when it finally spread its wings and took flight, I learned that love often meant letting go. Childhood, though beautiful, is not without its shadows. The day my best friend Milly moved away was the first time I truly understood what loss felt like. We had spent our childhood years side by side, sharing everything—from comic books to whispered dreams about the future. when my friend left, part of my childhood left with him, our dreams were disappeared. But loss, as I later realized, was not just about saying goodbye—it was about carrying the memories forward. Milly's absence taught me that friendships might evolve, but the impact they leave remains indelible. As the years passed, the magic of childhood slowly gave way to the responsibilities of growing up. The treehouse stood empty, our bicycles gathered dust, and our games of make-believe were replaced by schoolwork and future aspirations. Yet, the essence of those years remained within me—a guiding light through the complexities of adulthood. Even now, when I walk through the streets of Bukhara, I can hear the echoes of our laughter, the whispers of old dreams carried by the wind. Childhood may be fleeting, but its lessons, its joys, and its heartbreaks remain etched in our hearts forever. childhood wasn't just about growing up—it was about learning how to dream. Because childhood wasn't just a phase—it was the foundation of who we were meant to become.

Discover fast and stylish hairstyles perfect for busy moms on the go. From effortless updos to sleek ponytails, these easy hair ideas will keep you looking polished without sacrificing time. https://trendyartideas.com/quick-and-easy-hairstyles-for-busy-moms/

“Surprise, Mrs. Thomas, the test is positive”. “What test?, the young mom begs for an answer. “You're pregnant.” The inspiring peace in his eyes makes you realize you're supposed to be happy about this moment but then you look at your husband. You are both terrified. “Now it's just not a stomach bug, I'm even more sick to my stomach. It's the gut-wrenching realization that you may not live much longer. We had decided four years ago that we couldn't do this again. We barely made it out alive with the first baby. Between being born too early and momma almost dying, it would be too dangerous and selfish to bring another life into this world, but God has another plan. Four months later, everything is going fine, we have a name picked out, bedroom painted pink and a plan to not leave my first baby without a mom. Then karma kicks in and kicks me straight to the ground, literally. While wearing three inch heels in a church parking lot, I loose balance trying to protect one baby from oncoming traffic that I forget, there is a baby in my belly that needs protection too. While I'm on the ground I rip my heel off of my foot and realize that my ankle is obviously broken, deformed and dangling off my leg. I'm rushed to the hospital and doctors have to look at the dusty medical books to see what medication can be given to a pregnant woman. The baby in my belly is still alive but my leg won't be much longer if it's not fixed quickly. The next week is full of terror as I have to make the choice to have a big surgery to save my leg, my lifestyle, my peace. I know it's not good to take pain medication or have x-rays while pregnant but I don't have an option. Either pins, plates and screws, or amputation. I think I make the right decision until the guilt connects the understanding two years later. The baby and I both make it through delivery, learning to walk, learning to eat, learning to pee in the potty but then our world is turned upside down. On a random night, her dad looks at her and asks “why is your nose swollen?” In the few words that she has found over the past two year, she explains; “it's a jewel.” “Like one of these plastic ones?” he asks holding up a shimmery plastic gem. Antibiotics, scans, biopsies and several months later, I get the call no parent can prepare for. “Hi I'm looking for the parents of Birdie?” “Yes I'm her mother”, I say with fear chocking me, stealing my breathe . “Mrs. Thomas, Birdie has cancer” the doctor has tear rearing up in his eyes that you can hear running down his nose through the phone. My mind went blank as soon as I hear the “c-word”, I know he told me more details but I can't hear them. Momma is already in fight mode. I have to fight to save this baby that God gave me when doctors say I couldn't have anymore. I know there is a grand plan for her, but I have to help get her there. “We need to get you in for an immediate PET scan and biopsies,” the oncology team details the treatment plan. A year of chemotherapy, thirty days of radiation and a surgery to remove the entire tumor. Halfway through chemo, it's time to cut the monster out of her face. We know that Rhabdomyosarcoma has little fingers that invade every part of her little face but the doctors are on the same page as us. “We will need to cut it all out, leave a hole in her face and probably take more of her face off until we get clear margins,' the surgeon tells me. “I'm not here to make her look pretty, I'm here to help save her life.” This surgeon is why we chose to get treatment here instead of the world-renowned hospital next door. I know that this is going to be harsh. My little baby has half her face ripped off by a scalpel, in a desperate attempt to save her life. The beeps, lights and constant heart-pounding fear cripples my mind, destroys my faith and paralyzes my understanding. My baby is on life support, I was not prepared for this. I can't protect her from any of this, I'm the one helping the nurses hold her down while she's poked and prodded. The next six months, is a blur. Doctor appointment, infusion day, radiation day and still working a full-time job, somehow doesn't break me. Two years later, my baby is still alive, her face is deformed but the only thing that matter, she does not have cancer anymore. She may not be able to breathe through her nose, may have random aches and pains, my not be able to have adult teeth or a baby of her own, but she's alive. As I try to explain that we're still fighting the effects of the horrific treatment, all of the other kids that started this journey with us, have pass on. “Momma, I'm just lucky” she says through eyes that have seen more than I ever will. “I know baby, everyone has been praying for us” I say with conviction in my heart. We may never know positively if that broken ankle is what did this to her, but I will fight until my dying breath to help her through it. We're paving the way for those that come behind us.

My mom was always my hero. She is everything to me. My mom and I would do everything together. I idolized my older sister, who was out of the house before I was a teenager, but my mom is, well… that's my mama. She helped me through a number of anxiety-ridden moments: I remember the moment when I realized my anxiety was real. I was in First Grade. We were given a color-by-number assignment page. The way my brain saw it was to ignore the numbers (and clearly the directions). All I could see in front of me was a pretty picture for me to color however I wanted. I looked around the classroom and noticed that everyone's assignment was the same. I looked down at my own and started questioning my creativity and the differences between my coloring and theirs. Why was I so different? The “forbidden” color-by-number remained in the very back of my messy desk, looking like abstract origami. I felt like a freak, but why? Turns out, I was just flexing my creative muscles. I got my creativity from my mom and, through her, I eventually learned to build on it. At an early age, she would introduce me to art and books. We would walk to the public library together and sit there for hours and read. Now that I'm writing this all out, I'm realizing that it was probably just as nice for her as it was for me. She could quietly read in the atrium lounge where the only sound made was the buzzing from the lights and an occasional book page fluttering. When I was a pre-teen, Mom started working at a clothing alterations shop where she eventually became part owner. I was so proud of her when she worked there. She invited me to help out some days after school and taught me everything she knew about hemming (it's terrible), embroidery (cool!), jackets (hard to deal with), and little odds and ends that we could make together. She even helped me with design work when I applied to go to the Fashion Institute of Technology (big dreams, yes). My mother suffered from Alpha-1 Antitrypsin Deficiency, a rare, inherited disorder that can cause lung and liver disease. When Covid-19 hit in March of 2020, she was all I could think about. At that point, she was on constant oxygen. But my mom was ever so vigilant when it came to her health and was sure to wear masks, stayed in her assisted living apartment room, and asked for help if she needed it. By April, things had taken a turn for the worse and no one could find any masks to wear. I do what I normally do in stressful, anxiety-ridden situations: I was normal. Stressful situations where a large group of people are involved tend to make me less anxious - everyone is worrying enough for all of us! I got out my trusty Singer sewing machine that my mom gave to me and started sewing my own masks with a pattern I found online. I was being resourceful as Mom taught me. My mom and I talked on the phone a lot more while we sewed; she started making masks as well. She made them for nurses and friends and her church. She even started making more hot bowl holders (hot pads for bowls!) that she used to make all the time. Nothing could keep this woman down. I was tiring out from making tons of masks but here she was, steadily going at it. I knew then that I wanted to be just like her. I wanted to sew her patterns, cook her recipes, and do her Jane Fonda videos. Just like Mom. I mean, how could someone with breathing problems be almost healthy (for her) during this pandemic? She is typically in and out of the hospital all the time. I couldn't wrap my head around it. Her faith stood strong in the face of anything. Who wouldn't want to be her? February 3, 2021, 4:51 PM Voicemail from Mom: “Oh, hi, baby girl. This is Mama. I'm doing well and I miss talking to you, so give me a call and we'll chat.” April 20, 2021 Voicemail from Mom: “Hi, Honey. Call me back when you want to visit. Sorry I didn't get back to you, but call the hospital phone.” Mom was back in the hospital. It was not Covid related, but her lungs and heart were failing her. My mom has fought many battles; we weren't so sure this was one she would fight through. She had told me that she was ready. It didn't make the pain any easier to deal with. My mama, Dorothy Jean Berg, died on April 26, 2021. She lived a long life of happy memories and had a strong will to survive. In the end, she died a happy woman with a full, completed life. She was the queen in life's game of chess. As 2022 arrives, I am thinking about how I want to live my life like her. I want to be better and do better and create happiness around me. We all should want to create a world worth living in and worth making beautiful. By turning our anxieties and fears into tangible art and expression, we can conquer anything. I am now surrounded by many hot bowl holders, masks, and photos of her beautiful, smiling face.

How do you mentally prepare for the imminent possibility of your mother's death? How selfish am I to even be consumed with this question? So many people live, find happiness and thrive despite having lost a parent or more. Some much younger than I am now who had a much harder time even understanding the loss they mourn. My mother was one of those. She was a baby only about 10 months old when her father died. She didn't even get to really know him and remember him. Have smells tied to memories of him. Have places, things and people tied to memories of him. In a way that may have made it easier for her. Yet it also gave her a void that could never be filled. It didn't help that her own mother was so caught up in grief that she never shared stories or spoke much of her father. I honestly don't know how to be on this earth without her here. I didn't think I'd have to be worrying about this inevitability for many years to come. Thought I'd be stronger and more prepared for it by then. Ha! As if that's even possible. She was the first person to love me. My first friend. Best friend once I was an adult. She taught me how to cook and bake. She nurtured my creativity and tried not to get too bored or annoyed with my analytical side. She went to every game, concert, play, you name it, that I was in. She was there, in the audience, supporting me, cheering me on. She is always honest with me, even if it hurts. She lets me make my mistakes and won't say “I told you so”. She stands up for me when no one else will. She is my safe place to land. Don't get me wrong as much as we have a loving relationship, she can drive me nuts too. We've both had our “I'm through with you moments”. Only for a couple hours or a day or so later to make up. No matter how bad it got or how much it seemed like we couldn't overcome, we did. That's what love does I suppose. I even told her the other day; I'd rather be in a fight with her right now than have her in the hospital because at least I know how our fight will ultimately end. I know my mother is a fighter. She's fought death more times than I can count. In fact, she wasn't supposed to live past the age of 2 because of a congenital heart defect. Every time she comes into the ER, they think she's not going to make it (to be fair she has flatlined several times before) yet she pulls through. If you're going to bet money on a long shot that has a good chance of coming through, it would be her. I just worry, when does that resolve give out? When does she hit her 9th life? All I know how to do is hope and pray. Try to keep my spirits up around her (thank you drama class) so she might believe and fight that much harder. I hate feeling helpless and fearful but perhaps that is my lesson. Not sure I'm in the mood to learn. I guess we never really are for those things though. As my great grandmother would say I'm going to “hope for the best but prepare for the worst.” Still don't know how to fully prepare though, if that's even possible. Update: This was written 16 days before my mom eventually succumbed to her health issues last October. Those 16 days were a roller coaster of good days, where we believed she was on the mend and making progress, proving all the doctors wrong (as usual), and then the horrible days like the one where we had that heart wrenching conversation with the palliative care doctor. I've not been able to overcome the grief of her death. So, I'm sorry I can't relay any lesson I've learned. All I know is every day when I wake up and remember she's gone my heart sinks and my eyes water. I still don't know how to be in this world without her. How can I, when she took such a huge piece of my heart with her when she left?

I ll never forget the face of that woman. She was sitting at an ideal place, at the fish tavern with her partner. She was enjoying a good fish platter with her husband or partner. She was next to the sea, she had the luck to enjoy the sea breeze and sun in a beautiful island. But did she look happy? Was she happy? You can guess the answer... And the answer is no, she looked deeply miserable. And unhappy. Miserable and unhappy together can be a deadly combination. You wander. Why people have sometimes everything they have asked for but still do not enjoy it? Why do we make life complicated? Why can't we live in the moment? Someone said that if you are too anxious about the future you are not present. You don't live the moment. Is it so hard to achieve that ? I' ll never forget the face of that woman who just gave me a day lesson. "Remember to smile. You never know who will fall in love with your smile".

Wait for the End! I'm sorry, Momo, it reads on the back of the faded postcard he holds. It's not safe here. Go home. I'll catch you later. There's no signature, not that Momo needs one. Not when he can find that familiar lopsided scrawl etched onto the left side of his soul. Not when he already knows he's late. I'm sorry, Momo. It isn't the first time he's been left behind to deal with the aftermath of those words. They replay over and over in his mind, like a song that's stuck in his head, one that he accidentally learned all the lyrics to. It's not safe here. He wants to unlearn these words. In a moment of flickering frustration, Momo rips up the postcard into quarters and lets them go into the clutches of the wind. He watches as the pieces of ‘Greetings from Kil-where!' flutter away until they become only dark spots against the red sky. He wishes the Drift could let go of Colin that easily. (“There's no sun in Kil-where,” Colin had once told him. They had been lying on the back deck at their house in Anchorage, watching as the day slowly faded into night. It'd been the summer before high school before Colin's already-sharp edges pierced the sky. “No moon there, either. Completely uninhibited.” “Must be pretty lonely there,” Momo had muttered sleepily, barely keeping his eyes open. “It is. It really is, Momo.”) Go home. The purple sands of Kil-where shift beneath Momo. He crumples to the desert ground and does another count of the number of times he's let himself get caught in this moment between two trapezes. Catch you later. Six times. That's how many times Colin's promised to catch Momo, and how many times he's pulled his hand away from him at the very last moment. Six different worlds. Six different skies. Six different failures. He's never seen a sky this red before; at least that's new to him. Momo lies down in the surprisingly cool sand and lets his own tears of anger fall. He stares up at the empty red sky of Kil-where and waits for this world to end, too. ☉ “I'm sorry, Momo.” It's not the first time Colin's speaking these words, and it won't be the last. It's the night before Colin leaves for those six different skies. They're both eighteen-years-old, and Colin's leaned up against the kitchen sink, looking like the kind of boy people write tragedies about. His shaved head matches the light of the moon peeking through the windows, and his nose is broken in three places now instead of two. It's the first time Momo's seen him all day, and the rumor of the fight at school finally comes full circle. “Just...don't go. Please.” These words mark Momo as another character in a tragedy, too. Just a different kind. Colin smiles sadly, but he doesn't take Momo's hand. “I'll catch you later, Momo.” The Drift reaches for him and doesn't let go. Momo reaches for him, too, and misses. ☉ Question: What is the Drift? a) a dance move that originated from the 1980s. You know, the one with the leg and the hip thrust. Yeah, that one. b) a secret plane of existence in the universe that selects people without rhyme or reason, thus giving them the ability to travel between worlds and different dimensions. c) a horrible, horrible thing that needs to learn how to let go. d) all of the above. ☉ The first time Momo meets Colin, he tries to evict him from their house. “He shouldn't be wearing my clothes,” he's trying to explain to his mothers, Rosalie and Manon. Colin sits out of earshot at the kitchen table, scarfing down lasagna like he hasn't eaten in three months, which, knowing the Drift, is probably true. “I don't care if he's from the Drift. He should get his own clothes.” It's basic ten-year-old logic. He should have known better; Rosalie's from the Drift, too, and Manon has a soft spot for wandering souls. Colin doesn't know anymore better than Momo. His mothers think he's ten-years-old, too, like Momo, but unlike Momo, he smiles too much and he looks as if he's made out of the sharp pieces of glass you find in an alleyway that you could cut yourself with if you aren't careful. He's too easily impressed by the microwave; he doesn't even know who Spider-Man is, which, to Momo, is more than enough of a reason to not trust him. He doesn't know about the Drift, either, even though it's the closest thing he's ever had to a home. Then again, not a lot of people do. (He later learns the reason behind Colin's sharpness; the Drift hadn't been kind to him, and in turn, he'd somehow misplaced the coordinates that would have shown him how to be a normal boy, a boy who hadn't been chosen by the Drift. He lost that part of himself among the stars and the moons, and the Drift never gave it back to him). “The Drift.” The words fall from Colin's lips like yellow ribbons as he sits at their kitchen table, wearing a dazed expression and Momo's clothes that don't fit him right; Momo's wearing his pajamas and a seething glare sent towards the direction of Colin.

Good Day, Wow wee has time just flown by. This summer I spent my time re-writing my manuscript for the editors. My book Viktor, Into the Light will be out sometime in the summer of 2020 and I am delighted to share this exciting moment in my life with you. I am just thrilled that my dream is on the precipice of coming true! Publishing one of my books and having it made into a real book is so exciting for me.I have waited 40 years for this moment in my life and now it is finally happening for me! This is just wonderful! The whole experience of writing Viktor has been quite magical and inspirational. Since 2014 I have written 5 books, with Viktor being my first for publication. I hope you all have something exciting going on in your lives that just brings you pure joy! Have a wonderful time dancing through life. Look for my book; it will make a great gift for someone you love. Thank you for your time! God Bless, Julie Ann

(This article may be triggering: caution) Nothing hurts more than a lost parent who is still physically here. In my eyes either feared or loved. I hated you but loved the idea of you. You were abusive and a helpless narcisisst. I never understood as a child how much pain you really brought until the flashbacks kicked in. Suicide attempts leaked in my mind at the age of 6. As a kid, i wanted to believe the person you were when you built me forts was who you truly were. That's the part of you that you lost, it was barely there when i was a kid, and as i grew, it faded more and more. It faded until it drifted into an abyss. It's going further and further deeper into the abyss. Mom, me and my brothers left you, I am sorry, but I wish you were sorry you led us to that. I could'nt bring myself to contact you in any way for years. Finally one day I wrote you a letter saying if you would get help i would want to see you again. I said you could only make me happy if you were happy. I know you have a troubled past, though the pain hurt, I didn't want you to feel that hurt. You refused and justified your actions, blaming me or saying my mother intoxicated my brain. Where did you go? I need the real you back, throw a rope into the abyss and save yourself please.. before its too late. I love you and need you on earth to get better. I need you back. You refused. I tried to text you again. Same thing, wanting you to apoligize of at least get help. Refused.. again. I miss you. I miss the idea of a father. Not a father figure, a father, my father. You are lost, and you dont want to save yourself. Having a father with no empathy, sympathy, nothing.. but narcissism. Please, Dad, Come back to yourself and see me again. I need you, the real you back.

She was beautiful with her long, gently curled, brown hair hanging down softly just below her shoulders. Yet, her pale blue eyes always seemed to hold a hint of sadness and fatigue. I remember the few times when I peeked in her room and found her crying. As a child, I never understood why. Her hair, cut a bit shorter, reached just below her delicate earlobes. She still wore no jewelry but for the wedding band she received from her husband, my father, so many years ago. Some of the sadness has gone and her eyes seem a bit more alive than in years past. As a teen, I never understood why, nor did I care. She wore her hair in a shorter crop, just midway down her ears and it had begun to turn gray at the temples. In addition to her wedding band, she wore a small locket around her neck – another gift from her beloved husband for their 25th wedding anniversary. At times she seemed happy but beneath that glimmer, if you looked closely, you saw the unmistakable hint of wear, worry and fatigue. I didn't understand as I was a fairly new wife and mother, I was too busy to notice. Her hair now has turned white and she wears it as short as possible. Her pale blue eyes emit more sadness than imaginable. So sad. Such a faraway stare. No longer able to see, but for the memories in her mind. Her jewelry, throughout the years has never changed but with one exception, one new addition – a larger gold band that she wore on the middle finger of her left hand – right next to her own. As an adult, I understand. I finally understand!

I find myself losing patience Whenever I hear the phone ring Mom's voice is on the other end. But, it's always the same old thing. “Hello, dear, I'm just checking in; Wanted to make sure you're ok.” More than once, I'm tempted to scream: “Mom, I'm the same as I was yesterday!” I'm not as young as I used to be Where patience was there to spare. And too, Mom is older, she needs to hear That her daughter will always still care. I answer her many questions That she's asked many times before, I hold the phone tightly and fight back a tear And tell her I love her much more. I knew a day would come to pass When Mom would awaken no more; Each day, I saw she grew weaker, I knew she was near Heaven's door. The day arrived with an angel Who took hold of my mom's hand, Eased her soul from her body And took her to God's precious land. Mom's now with dad up in Heaven And the angels rejoice and sing. Yet, my heart is broken for I never again Will lose patience when I hear the phone ring.

I don't think I ever felt so strong while feeling so incredibly vulnerable. I tried to hold back the tears behind a forced smile. I couldn't allow myself to break down. I had to be strong for him. He needed me. They needed me. I needed to be their rock. Being away from my oldest son tore at my heart, but I knew I was where I needed to be. I knew he was safe with my parents. Seeing my youngest in an incubator cage hooked up to wires and tubes made me sick. I did everything I could to keep him safe. I was supposed to provide him with a warm and safe place to grow without worries for 9 months, but my body wouldn't let me. My body failed me and it almost failed him. I honestly try not to think about it. Whenever I picture it, I get nauseous and start to cry. It took me days before I could really talk about it. The pain. The blood. The lights. Watching the nurses rush to prep themselves and me for surgery. Being strapped down. Doctors and nurses calling out directions in loud and rushed tones. The pain. Wishing they would just put me under. Wishing it was over. Then came the reassurance from a nurse's comforting hand and I was out. The pain was gone. Or, at least I thought it was. Suddenly, I felt everything again. The cold table underneath me. The straps on my arms and legs. The doctor pushing on my stomach. The gas mask against my face. I could hear those rushed conversations and the beeping of the alarms. I could hear and feel everything but I couldn't move. I couldn't talk. They were about to cut me open and I could feel everything and I couldn't let them know. I was told I stayed pretty calm as I told the nurse it was time. I don't remember calm. I remember panic and pain. I could see the fear in my husband's eyes. The worry that he may never see his wife again or meet his son. I could hear the hesitation in his voice when he was clarifying my wish of “baby comes first. If it comes down to it, save the baby first.” I said this during our first pregnancy as well, and he agreed, but being in the situation where he might actually need to make that decision was a different story, one he was having a difficult time wrapping his head around. He tried to stay calm and not let me see him worry. He went through the checklist. “You want to be cremated, right?” “Yes, and the baby comes first.” “And allow family and friends to say goodbye first?” “Yes, and the baby comes first.” “And then planted with a tree?” “Yes, and Milo comes first.” He looked at me in a way I could never put words to. It was as if by agreeing to my request out loud he was damning me to death, that he was closing the book to my life himself. He eyes screamed while his voice calmly agreed, “and Milo comes first.” His green eyes sparkling from the tears he was trying to hold back. Swollen and red around the edges. Stinging. With a sudden jerk, I hear the words “here we go” as the nurses roll my bed out of the room. He walked with me until he was told he couldn't go any further and our hands pulled apart as I was wheeled in for surgery. The meds had seemed to be helping but part of me knew it wouldn't last. “What if as soon as these meds are done, it starts again?” The nurse reassured me that shouldn't be the case, but it was. Within a few hours after that last drop of magnesium, the pain started again in full force. Then came the blood. A lot of blood. The nurses seemed to stay calm, at least in front of us. But I knew. I knew there was no stopping it. I knew it was time. I needed to call my mom.