Dear Auntie Ellen-
It is hard for me to even fully understand the impact you've had on my life the past eight years. You have loved me so wholly and fully that your absence is crippling and I find it hard to even take a deep breath when I think about never hugging you again.
You have taught me by your actions what it means to be a Godly, faithful, and committed woman. You immediately broke into my heart and wiggled your way in. You instantly cared about me and spent time getting to know who this girl dating your nephew was. You asked a million questions - literally. I remember the smile on your face when you realized that this was it for me and Josh. You instantly accepted me as your very own.
Our engagement was a whirlwind. You planned my shower with the other aunties, finding ways to really make me feel special and to welcome me into the family. You always found ways to compliment me and make me feel safe. You LOVED pouring over my registry with me, commenting on any sort of baking item I picked and suggesting things I might have overlooked. You wanted to help set me up to be a good wife.
And then we got married! You came to our wedding and as always, you were the life of the party. Everyone knew who you were and commented on having met you and having had a conversation with you. That was you...you saw a room full of new people as a mission to connect with people and instantly found common ground with them.
After we got married, you knew the intimate details of mine and Josh's struggles to have a baby. You called all the time. You asked a million questions. If I had a procedure done, you drove up to be with me. You filled my fridge with groceries and baked goods and you sat with me for hours listening to me cry and question. You were very frank with me that your plans for a big family fell apart in a tragic way and that life wasn't always fair in this department, but that being a mom was worth the heartache. I remember you laying on the couch with me drinking coffee as you made sure I knew I wasn't alone in this struggle.
When Josh turned 30, you helped me throw him an awesome party. You opened your home and helped me plan a chili cook off. When there was an issue with the appetizers (like someone forgot to make them...HA!), you grabbed your wallet and keys and ran to the Mexican restaurant down the street and bought guacamole, salsa and homemade chips. You never missed a beat.
Around this time we all found out about the BRCA 2 gene. I remember when you tested positive. You were the first to firmly declare that you would have all of the preventative surgeries, no questions asked. You never hesitated. We were all so thankful you didn't hesitate when they found precancerous cells in your breast tissue. We all felt like you had dodged a bullet.
When we got the craziest phone call of our lives that we would be parents, you dropped everything and drove up with a truck full. A crib, 2 matching dressers, a brand new car seat and stroller, and boxes and boxes of diapers overwhelmed my little condo as we held each other weeping. This was it. Our baby was about to be here and you were there to make sure all the details that weighed me down were taken care of.
Once Hannah was officially here, you would drive up for snuggles and shopping sprees. You would spoil us with expensive candles, frilly dresses, and long lunches at Panera. You always gave Hannah a book or two, and you would drop everything and read to her when she crawled up in your lap. You'd shamelessly bust out every goofy voice you had, not caring at all about how silly you sounded. I loved watching you with Hannah. You loved her like a grandma. You were so proud of her and you delighted and cherished your time with her.
When I was struggling so much with loneliness as a brand new stay at home mommy, you'd come and be my friend. You assured me that I would make friends with other moms and that I was doing the right thing staying home with my new baby. You suggested MOPS- who knew what an impact that suggestion would have on my life. You encouraged me with cards and little gifts here and there, telling me what a good job I was doing and how proud you were of me. You always SAW me Auntie, even when I didn't really know what was going on.
As Josh and I continued to battle down the road of infertility, you held me so close. You cheered me on with my IVF, and even gave me a shot when I couldn't bare the thought of shoving one more needle in my stomach. I think we all knew in our hearts that our family wouldn't happen biologically, but you held me up and supported me knowing that I needed to land on that on my own time.
Once Josh and I decided to go for a second adoption, you were right there with us again. You wrote a check, and bugged everyone else around you to do the same. That was a long 18 months, but you were right there with me. Some days you would pick me up at 9 am and stay with me until Josh was on his way home because I think you knew how hard this was on me. You made it your personal mission to support me, and your love language was coffee, chocolate, and shopping.
And then you got cancer. I hate that word. I can't even type it without a bitter taste popping up in my mouth. Cancer. You, of all people! You always had so much energy and were so full of life. I remember when you told us how scared we all were. But you battled hard and beat it even though it came for you pretty damn hard.
I will never forget as you were going through radiation, Josh and I were having a party at our new house and I called you crying because Josh was stuck at work dealing with a natural disaster, and the driveway was a solid block of ice. I never dreamed that within the hour you would be at my front door, shovel in hand. I had spent HOURS working outside trying to clean the ice off, tears streaming down my face, and there you were ready and willing to put in a few hours with me.
We cleared it together and when we got inside, I made you a k-cup and asked about radiation. You lifted up your shirt to reveal giant blistered burns under your arm. I burst into tears seeing it and knowing how hard you had just worked for me and how much pain you must have been in. You smiled at me and told me about how much God was using you. You told me all about the women you were meeting and talking to as you got your chemo and radiation. You told me about how you were even offering rides to women who you saw taking a taxi for treatment. You even dared to wonder if this is why you had cancer - so you could be a light in that dark hospital.
That was you Auntie - always wanting to make a difference, to leave your mark. You poured yourself out for others always. Once you were truly back on your feet, you had a new lease on life. You volunteered for things that mattered to you and used your gifts to really bless people.
For the past 4 years, we have done a Christmas party together where we would invite everyone we could think of to come shop with us (you with your jewelry and me with all my bags). We would have so much fun doing this. It was always a real shit-show, me rolling in at the last minute to set up and you tossing together some "stupid simple" appetizers. Mostly your friends and a few of mine (who I begged to come) would shop and eat, and your home was always filled with laughter. I loved doing those parties with you. You always believed in me and supported me. I know you could have sold way more without me there, but you always included me and turned these parties into fundraisers for our adoptions. I was always impressed by how many people you could get to show up at your parties. Women just loved you and loved being included, and you treated them all so well. My favorite part of those nights was when we would close up shop and plop down at your kitchen table to eat the leftovers and laugh about the night. You'd always buy your guests a bottle of Bath and Body Works hand soap, and you'd let my girls pillage the leftovers and bring home the good smelling soap that mama was too cheap to buy them.
I loved my time with you. I had no idea we were cramming a lifetime of memories into our eight short years.
We were supposed to start our own business together with Sarah throwing extravagant birthday parties complete with bakery quality cakes. I cannot believe the creations you came up with for my kids' parties. I will never be able to order a cake again without my heart breaking in half thinking about my favorite baker being in heaven now.
Every summer, we would empty our crawl spaces of the junk we should have just donated and attempt to have a garage sale at Auntie Kathy's house. I'm pretty sure most summers we barely broke even after Dunkin runs and garage sale expenses were covered, but those two days of sweating our asses off outside were some of my fondest memories. We would haggle with people over our crap and laugh like a bunch of hens. You would make your amazing chicken salad and almond bars and we would fall into bed those nights, having worked hard shoulder to shoulder with each other all day. I would give anything to be doing that with you again this summer.
Last summer, we spent an entire week together on the lake in Minnesota. We spent one last summer as a family packed in a house (this one was big enough to handle us), sharing a boat, and making meals together. You were the queen of the kitchen, but one day we convinced each other that it was our turn on the boat. We had Uncle Rog take us out for a crazy boat ride on the tubes. You were so full of life and SO crazy out there on the tubes. I remember at one point stopping (likely because someone fell off) and saying to you "Can you believe you beat cancer and now here you are tubing with us kids?" You had a twinkle in your eye because you knew every day was a gift.
Right after Gabriel died, you met me for coffee. We were two hearts that just got each other. You told me about your miscarriage and how empty you felt afterwards. You helped me heal while also challenging me that God wasn't done writing my story.
Before Jude was born, your vision started to get blurry. The day before we left to go meet our son, you called me to wish me luck. I was overwhelmed and didn't really have time to talk, but I answered anyway. We talked for 2 hours that day. You asked your usual million questions. I knew the drill and instantly felt calmer telling you all about our trip and what I was nervous and excited for. What I didn't know was that was the last conversation I would have with you where you were yourself.
That blurred vision turned out to be brain cancer. Ugly, nasty, life clenching brain cancer that inevitably spread to your spine and then...all over.
I am so glad I answered the phone that day. Right after Jude was born, they cut into your head. I cannot imagine the pain you were in, but you took it, hoping that this would buy you time - time to watch your son graduate from high school, time to see him off to college, time to still be a wife to Uncle Rog, time to keep living the life you so loved. That time went by way too fast. Five months later, time was up.
I really believed God would heal you. You believed it too. I spent today reading and rereading our text conversations. You trusted God so faithfully. We didn't get the answer we were all hoping for, but I know if you were here now, you would tell me that God had a better plan and that heaven is SO much better for you.
If you were here, you would hug me and tell me it was going to be okay. You would crack some smart-ass joke and make everyone laugh. You would bake up a storm and cook food for everyone and comfort all of us. You would handle every detail with grace and make it all look so easy. That's what you always did. You jumped in and cared for all your people.
Even on your death bed, you had us laughing- yelling out when we talked about making a Starbucks run. I know you were placing your order. I cannot believe we never get to have a coffee date again. I cannot believe that you won't be here this summer to go on a tube ride. I don't know how to live without you Auntie. You've been a mother to me, a grandma to my kids. You've touched my life in such profound ways, and I never once let myself think about what life might be like without you. I am angry and heartbroken. I want you back, not just for one more day, but for forever. I want you to snuggle my babies and read them stories. I want you to pick out their Easter dresses. I want to eat good chocolate with you and laugh good hard belly laughs. You've taught me so much, and yet I am not sure I would ever be ready for the lessons to end.
I love you. Beyond words. I can think of a thousand other instances where you've shown me love and been such an example to me. I hope that during your life, I was clear with you just how much you meant to me. I don't know how Heaven works but if you can read this, I hope you know I have been changed for the better.
This weekend we will celebrate your life together. We are broken, sad, and bewildered. But your life is a celebration of strength, valor, and faith. You took your last breath as the song "It Is Well" played, and I believe deep in my heart, it really was well with your soul. You loved hard, and you finished strong, and while I don't know how to function in a world without you, the legacy you leave behind challenges me to do the same.
"I've heard it said
That people come into our lives for a reason
Bringing something we must learn
And we are led
To those who help us most to grow
If we let them
And we help them in return
Well, I don't know if I believe that's true
But I know I'm who I am today
Because I knew you...
Who can say if I've been changed for the better?
Because I knew you
I have been changed for good"
--Wicked- For Good--
With all the pieces of my broken heart, and until we see each other again in Glory,
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ReplyDeleteI didn't know her, but what an amazing woman she must have been. Your writing is beautiful.
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